Dear You,
A warrior in an ongoing battle, a spectator watching a struggle, or a veteran of one, does the battle ever stop? Ooh, if only we’d write about the ongoing wars. The clanking of ideas, beliefs, and experiences is so loud that it’s ironic how it is the most silent battle. Does it feel like watching a movie on mute with subtitles? When someone can be right there but cannot follow unless they sit down and pay close attention, then the captions get louder. How silent are they when my neighbor next door is also down with it, and so is the food vendor across the street? If it were an infection, it’d be the biggest epidemic, or maybe it is. Only, it is not treated with the urgency it muffled screams for, and that could be because while it does drop bodies like the others, it is not death at that instance but the tight embrace of a constrictor, slowly suffocating the life out of its victims.
Some warriors fight tooth and nail to slither out of the grip, vets those, and a key group I would like to begin by appreciating for putting in the work and doing what had to be done to win their battles. Like all survivors of fighting, your incredible war stories could be what navigates a naïve captain in stormy waters, and it could be the band-aid that patches up this private who believes he is alone and cannot make it back up. It is your word that brings this back life into this shadowy human. The fact that you won this battle, regardless of whatever, for each battle is custom, means that it is indeed beatable, rekindles hope, and delivers that igniting spark. I implore you to be one more of those people you wished you had when you were in need, to this soldier who needs one now. Getting back on your feet is a testament to resilience. Your courage in slaying these unseen dragons inspires hope and solidarity. Your stories, if told, will illuminate paths through adversity like a beacon of understanding and reassurance.
Slaughtered by ‘Umndeni’ – A Creative Non-Fiction by Lukholo Mazibuko – South Africa
To those active in battle, your struggles are validated and understood. To you, I send a piece of my heart. With you, I plead that help can only come when you call for backup, speak out, and reach out. Dragon slayers could be meters away, and they are willing to lend a hand, ear, or shoulder to lean on; you have to send the flare. Silence could be another reason it is called silent, for it only exists when you want to face it “like a man.” I do not underestimate your capabilities, officer, and you could be the finest soldier to grace these battlefields but remember the scene from Blacklist when Reddington and Dembe were pinned down by a hit squad, getting overpowered? They sent out an SOS, hoping to find help; meanwhile, gun in hand, the mighty Red even armed himself with a duck whistle. It may not have helped, but it is better safe. Take our days on the equator, where we get 12 hours of sun daily and the moon in equal measure. So should life be, it can’t be sunny all day, else, the beauty of the night sky wouldn’t be seen, a highs and lows kind of balance.
We humanly love the sunny part of our days and frown during the latter, the prime setting for a silent battle. So many moons are out there, not pleased that they aren’t bright like the sun or warm enough. Has the sun or moon ever changed because someone did not like it? Don’t you improvise at night to see and walk with umbrellas on scorching sunny days? Dear moon with phases that gradually change, one time, the luminous full moon, another, the almost invisible new moon, the phase you are showing is just a mere reflection of where you are from the sun. This battle you are in, soldier, has been won by several vets, and so can you. That little missing piece of the puzzle could have skirted beside your neighbor’s shoe, and if you ask him to help you find it, he will move his feet, and there it’ll be. For most veterans, help came from a nearby ally or even a perceived foe who did not seem like they would have understood the turmoil inside those heads. To each of those straws, grasp for from under there; you wouldn’t distinguish the differences, and one of them may just be what you need.
The Visit – A Creative Non-Fiction by Jessica Ireju – Nigeria
Unfortunately, in most battles, there are KIAs, the fallen ones. For energy cannot be destroyed, I watch my continuing shows with subtitles so you can follow every blunt stub to the earth for you and those who went before you. I particularly resonate with this group, for growing up, I watched as two of my uncles, T and G, so full of life yet oblivious to us, were on the verge of losing some battles. Their stories, textbook definitions of silent battles for even after their demise, and people tied piecing together the puzzles, all they could come up with were mere speculations as to what may have been happening all this time: Uncle T, a cheerful spirit who taught me how to milk and scale trees. In my great grandparents’ home, there existed a live fence, a ring of fruit trees under which he would put a wheelbarrow as a collection basin, and into it came loquat, jamun, mangoes, and avocadoes, and we were a happy lot. He smoked his pipe until one day, he lost a battle we were oblivious to, and that is when the unmute button was hit. So was Uncle G, a happy scientist so clever he taught high school science without ever carrying a textbook to class. Despite being a strict disciplinarian, he was very generous. He looooved his liquor as well. Also, fish drunk, his most marine-like friend, Fish, always brought him home.
One day, though, whatever he was drinking to keep at bay caught up with him and became the liquor; neighbors found him days later. The human body was too intoxicated to keep his spirit, and silently, he left. I could not help but wonder whatever it was, but again, I was still a decade from knowing that in every human mind, a battle of its kind takes place, each in its setting, with characters and angles. They are part of a statistic, the ones we lost, those whose stories are rarely talked about, just like the battles they succumbed to were never talked about.
To everyone, your empathy and humanity could be the lifeline a drowning man clutches onto. Be kind, listen, and do not judge. I hope for a day when mental wellness will not only be a worldwide conversation but also when resources, infrastructure, and personnel will be accessible to the general population without costing an arm and leg and the entire treatment process less traumatic.
A hug for you all.
Warmest regards,
Herman Owuor.
