In the silence between school bells and bedtime lullabies, a war brews—not with guns, but with whispered prejudices and generational wounds. A war where innocence is the first casualty.
This is not a poem.
This is not a plea.
This is a scream muffled in every child's throat.
The Unseen Partition
India, you once bore the cradle of civilizations, now you carry the weight of divided gods and wounded hearts.
Look closer.
Two children, born minutes apart in the same hospital ward, grow up with the same hunger, same laughter, same dreams. But somewhere between the morning news and the dinner table, their minds are split—not by choice, but by inheritance.
One learns to look at the other with fear.
The other learns to look at himself with shame.
What have we done?
We do not teach them ABCs anymore—we teach them acronyms of rage.
We do not sing lullabies—we recite stories stained in blood.
We do not raise children—we raise armies.
And no one hears the weeping under their smiles.
Scars We Ink Into Small Souls
The child who doesn’t understand why his skull cap draws ridicule.
The child mocked for praying differently during the morning assembly.
The girl too dark to be 'beautiful', too low to be 'equal'.
The boy told not to sit next to a 'lower caste' classmate.
The silent shame when Eid sweets are refused.
The quiet panic when someone says, "Go back to your country"—even though it is theirs.
These are not headlines.
These are hearts.
Tiny, trembling hearts made to carry the weight of centuries they never lived.
You Cannot Build a Nation With Broken Children
No temple, mosque, or parliament will stand on the corpses of harmony.
We must unlearn hate.
We must go back to the blackboard—not to teach division, but to teach unity.
Not mathematics of revenge, but poetry of peace.
Not language of conquest, but literature of compassion.
The Revolution Begins With One Voice—Yours
- Raise your child to question hate, not carry it.
- Break bread across every faith and colour.
- Celebrate differences. Not as threats, but as treasures.
- Stop forwarding bigotry disguised as patriotism.
- Challenge your elders with kindness and your peers with truth.
- Make art that heals. Speak words that restore.
Let This Be the Last Generation That Learns to Hate
Don’t wait for policy.
This is a heart war. And hearts don’t change by law—they change by love.
And if we are to survive as one India, it must begin not in the streets, not in the elections, but in how a child sees another child and says, without fear,
"You are my friend. Not my enemy."
Moolai Abdur Rahman
Author of Scars Written in Light
Poet of pain. Voice of silence. Child of India.