Children are not soft things
meant to be broken by history.
They are not collateral,
not footnotes in war reports,
not the silence after gunfire
when adults argue about borders.
A child is a country still learning its name.
They arrive holding light in their palms,
asking only for room to grow
but we hand them hunger,
teach them the grammar of fear,
enroll them early in survival.
Some learn the alphabet from bullets.
Others spell home with ash.
Look closely
the child carrying water is carrying a future.
The child hawking oranges
is negotiating with destiny.
The child sleeping under bridges
is dreaming in a language the world refuses to translate.
We say they are resilient
as if resilience were a gift,
not a wound stitched daily with courage.
A child should know lullabies,
not sirens.
Should inherit toys,
not trauma.
Should grow into questions,
not graves.
Yet still
they laugh.
Still
they imagine tomorrow with stubborn hope.
Still
they believe the world can be kinder
than the hands that raised it.
This is their quiet rebellion.
Do not tell me children are weak.
Tell me why the world is afraid
of what they might become
if allowed to live whole.
©️ Dibang Mary
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 10:58 PM UTC
Children are not soft things
meant to be broken by history.
They are not collateral,
not footnotes in war reports,
not the silence after gunfire
when adults argue about borders.
A child is a country still learning its name.
They arrive holding light in their palms,
asking only for room to grow
but we hand them hunger,
teach them the grammar of fear,
enroll them early in survival.
Some learn the alphabet from bullets.
Others spell home with ash.
Look closely
the child carrying water is carrying a future.
The child hawking oranges
is negotiating with destiny.
The child sleeping under bridges
is dreaming in a language the world refuses to translate.
We say they are resilient
as if resilience were a gift,
not a wound stitched daily with courage.
A child should know lullabies,
not sirens.
Should inherit toys,
not trauma.
Should grow into questions,
not graves.
Yet still
they laugh.
Still
they imagine tomorrow with stubborn hope.
Still
they believe the world can be kinder
than the hands that raised it.
This is their quiet rebellion.
Do not tell me children are weak.
Tell me why the world is afraid
of what they might become
if allowed to live whole.
©️ Dibang Mary