A silent apocalypse story

The stories of the Yazidi children, women, and elderly who experienced the apocalypse still break our hearts. One of these stories is that of an unnamed and unattended child whose life ended in Shengal. This experience is like a cry rising to the sky on the day of the apocalypse. This child’s story is a silent apocalypse story.

On one side, the brutality of ISIS; on the other, tens of thousands of people searching for a way to escape. Mothers, despite holding their children’s hands tightly, were separated by the wind of the genocide, which blew them away. Children were being torn away from their mothers! In such an environment, there was a child wandering alone, but he did not know what he was looking for or where he was going. His face was covered in dust and smoke, and his eyes were dry from crying. With his fragile heart, he did not know which way to go. On one side, he was searching for his mother; on the other, for a drop of water to cool his heart; and for a shoulder to rest his head on. He had children’s games in his mind, but this genocide was no game, and no heroes had come to rescue him. Now, alone and lost, he was slowly fading away, and the world was slowly growing dark.

For three days, in the scorching summer heat, he searched for his mother in the valleys of Mount Shengal, filled with hope. But there were no tears left in his eyes; he was speechless. Those dark eyes had dried up, and he could no longer see out of either eye. That innocent child was nameless and alone. Some people who managed to escape from Shengal in screams took him to a hospital in the city of Dêrik in Rojava so he could receive treatment. But neither the doctors nor the medicine could alleviate his deep pain. The next day, he took his last breath and bid farewell to life…

That small and fragile body was buried in the Diyarê Felekê cemetery of the Yazidis in the city of Tirbespiyê in Rojava. To this day, his identity, who his parents were, and where he came from remain unknown. He was buried in an unmarked grave, abandoned and forgotten. This is just one of thousands of untold stories. This story is not merely the story of a child; it is the story of humanity. His loneliness is the loneliness of memory and faith. His blindness is the blindness of humanity’s conscience. This child was not motherless, homeless, or rootless. He lies in his grave, waiting for those who have not yet lost humanity’s values to visit him. This is a call to humanity’s conscience: let no one remain silent in the face of this apocalypse.