Silent Night of Terror: On that night, the sky was not as we knew it. It wasn’t black, nor was the moon shining as we were accustomed to. Silence had settled, not the kind that precedes a storm, but the kind that follows it. It was as if a curse had descended from the heavens.
The faces of the people were bewildered, bearing the marks of terror, their eyes wide open, staring into an unseen void, as if asking the sky: “Why?” But the sky did not answer. A suffocating gas seeped into the air, invisible but laden with death. It made no sound, and neither did its victims, but the internal screams were louder than any noise.
The small bedrooms, which were once a refuge from the horrors of war, turned into tombs. The children who were sleeping did not know that their sleep would be their last. They breathed deeply, but their breaths gradually faded with each inhale. The suffocating gas seeped into their chests, slowly stealing their souls.
And when the sun rose over Eastern Ghouta on that fateful morning, there was no life as it had been before. The children’s laughter and games had disappeared. The sky was clear, as if the entire universe had closed its eyes to the crime that had been committed.
The massacre left behind only silence and images; images of bodies wrapped in white cloth with numbers on them. 1,400 innocent souls were extinguished that night. But they are not just numbers in news reports; they were people with dreams and hopes, lives that were cut short before they could continue their journey.
We are not talking about numbers, but about stories that were never completed. About laughter that was never heard, dreams that were killed in their infancy, and eyes that closed forever while looking at the sky, silently asking: Why?
As for the children who survived, they will grow up carrying in their hearts the memory of those who were not spared. They will carry the torch of hope and walk toward a future in search of the peace they were denied.
