Home

There’s a strange kind of silence that wraps itself around you —

not the peaceful kind, but the kind that forgets to ask,

“Are you sleeping at all these days?”

“Is your homeland still burning?”

It’s the silence of daily life continuing as if the world has not shifted,

as if grief doesn’t live quietly next door.

Sometimes, kindness visits for sugar or milk,

but not for sorrow.

I’ve heard it said: “It’s cultural.”

“People here don’t like to talk about war.”

“It’s complicated — especially with history.”

And yes, maybe it is.

But before we are shaped by culture,

we are human.

And humanity, at its core, calls us to be kind —

to reach out, even awkwardly,

to ask gently,

to see each other fully, even across language, borders, or fear.

I don’t want to lower my expectations of kindness.

Why should I?

The more empathy we share, the more alive we are.

And even if no one owes kindness,

its absence still echoes.

People are free to stay silent.

Free to keep to themselves.

I understand that.

But still —

I believe in asking.

I believe in knocking.

I believe in the kind of presence

that doesn’t borrow only sugar,

but also carries a little light

into another’s shadowed hour.