Author: Syed Suhail Ahmad
January 4, 2025
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In a small, sunlit village nestled beneath rolling hills, laughter once echoed through the air like a symphony. Children chased one another through golden fields, their joy as boundless as the sky above. Among them was Ayan, a boy of seven, with a heart full of dreams and a world painted in innocence. His favorite pastime was flying kites, each a canvas of vibrant colors dancing against the heavens.
But one day, the sky betrayed him.
Beneath the heavens’ sorrowed gaze,
A child’s laughter fades in blaze.
The sky, once vast and blue, now bleeds,
As nations plant their violent seeds.
The war began like a distant storm—murmurs of unrest growing into thunderous declarations of righteousness. Leaders far removed from the fields of innocence spoke of justice, of striking terror from the earth. Their voices carried words of resolve, but the sky Ayan had loved so dearly bore witness to a different truth.
One morning, as Ayan prepared to launch his newest kite—a gift from his mother crafted with care—an unfamiliar roar filled the air. Shadows passed overhead, followed by an earth-shattering sound. The village, once a cradle of peace, was consumed by chaos.
They call it war, they name it just,
But truth lies buried in the dust.
A strike for peace, they solemnly claim,
Yet ash and cries bear another name.
Ayan’s kite, caught in the shockwave, soared high and then faltered, spiraling into the dust. The boy stood frozen, his small hands trembling as the world he knew unraveled before his eyes.
When the dust settled, silence replaced the symphony of life. His mother’s voice, once his lullaby, was absent. His father’s strong arms that lifted him high were gone. Ayan, his kite crumpled at his feet, was left with the weight of questions no child should bear.
Far away, in a room adorned with maps and monitors, leaders debated the success of the strike. Their words were clinical, devoid of faces or names. To them, it was a step toward peace—a calculated move in a larger game.
Terror is their enemy, they say,
But innocence is swept away.
Tiny hands that once held dreams,
Now silenced by the sky’s dark schemes.
Yet amidst their deliberations, the image of Ayan’s broken kite appeared on a screen—a fragment of footage from the village now reduced to rubble. A single kite, tattered and torn, flapping weakly in the wind.
One of the leaders, a woman named Selene, paused. She had once been a mother, her own child lost in a different war. The image of the kite stirred something buried deep within her—a memory of bedtime stories, whispered dreams, and a promise to protect.
That night, Selene walked alone beneath the stars. Her heart ached with the weight of what the world had become. She thought of Ayan, though she did not know his name, and wondered what kind of justice could justify the loss of a child’s laughter.
Who weighs the cost of war’s decree?
What worth a child’s lost symphony?
The cradle’s song replaced with screams,
While leaders argue righteous schemes.
Meanwhile, Ayan wandered the ruins of his village, clutching the remnants of his kite. He found other survivors—women and children huddled together, their faces etched with grief. They shared stories of loss, but also of resilience.
One elder, seeing the boy’s broken kite, whispered words of hope. “The sky can change, my child. Just as it brings storms, it can bring rain to nourish the earth. We must teach the world to mend what it has broken.”
Inspired, Ayan began to rebuild his kite, using scraps of fabric and thread. Other children joined him, crafting their own kites as symbols of defiance and hope. Together, they released them into the sky—a vibrant protest against the darkness.
In the halls of power, Selene proposed a radical idea: a global ceasefire to rebuild what had been destroyed. She spoke not of strategies or victories, but of children and their kites. Her words resonated with those weary of endless conflict.
In this battle of might and pride,
Who tends to the tears that cannot hide?
Who mends the hearts shattered in fear,
As bombs fall far, yet echo near?
The ceasefire was agreed upon, and aid poured into Ayan’s village and countless others like it. The leaders visited these places, walking among the ruins, meeting the children whose laughter they had silenced.
When Selene met Ayan, she knelt before him and handed him a new spool of thread. “The world owes you a sky full of color,” she said, her voice trembling.
Ayan smiled, not with the naivety of a child but with the wisdom of one who had seen the worst of humanity and chosen hope. “No child is born an enemy,” he replied. “Maybe the sky can learn too.”
The story spread, becoming a rallying cry for peace. Kites soared in skies once blackened by smoke, carrying messages of unity. The world, though scarred, began to heal.
Oh, sky, once home to soaring wings,
Now bearer of destruction’s stings.
Return, restore your gentle hue,
And cleanse the grief you never knew.
For peace is not in iron’s flight,
Nor justice found in endless night.
Let nations learn what wisdom sees—
No child is born an enemy.
And beneath the heavens, no longer sorrowed, children’s laughter returned—a testament to the resilience of the human spirit and the truth that peace begins not in iron’s flight, but in the hearts of those willing to see no child as an enemy.