Through a frosted windowpane in my mind, You are doing the dishes, And I am dancing to the scrub of soap Against remnants of dried pasta love; There are friendly faces in my floorboards; The house smells of carrot-cake and coffee; I live in an infinite bubble;
Outside my window are children with guns in their hands, Starving in front of women dressed in meat, Men stomping their feet on grapes and tomatoes; But I don’t have to think about that right now. I am happy and free. It’s not my responsibility. Besides, what can I do? Someone like me? Not like it’ll happen to me.
Yet the screams of the night slowly seep into my Spotify, Intermittently interrupted by commercials of useless things, In a sequence carefully curated by an algorithm. I float around in spirals, But the comforting scrapes of sponge against plate Bring me back.
–Samiha Kabir
It feels surreal that I get to sip on hot tea in a comforting, safe space without having to worry about bombsinterrupting my tea time, while in another part of the world, there is no semblance of safety.
Not for women; not for children; not even for newborns.
With each day there is less and less hopeof things getting any better.
What is the point of our species’ survival if we have evolved only to cause unimaginable suffering through ‘inhuman’ atrocities?
Why is being ‘human’ still synonymous with being good, kind, and compassionate?
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