A Thousand Silent Screams

I was born into a world that didn’t make room for softness. There’s a certain kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful. It feels suffocating. It doesn’t come from calm or choice—it comes from being unheard, unseen, unwanted in the moments you needed most to matter. I think I learned that before I even knew how to spell my name. My earliest memories are blurred, like fogged glass—still there, just hard to touch. I remember my mother’s voice, not sweet and humming lullabies, but tired, hurried, and always occupied with something more important. Dishes. Dinner. Chores. Visitors. My father’s silence was louder than hers, though. He didn’t speak much, and when he did, it was never to ask how I was or what I dreamed about. His words were short. Final. Like closing doors. I didn’t cry a lot as a baby. Or so I was told. They used to joke about it—"She’s so quiet, like a doll!" Like it was something to be proud of. I think I internalized that too early. The idea that being silent made me easier to love. Or at least, easier to manage. I became a shadow in my own story before I knew I was supposed to be the main character. I never liked loud things. Not because I didn’t enjoy them—but because they made me feel like I didn’t belong. Family gatherings were the worst. All the women in colorful clothes talking over each other, children screaming and chasing each other through narrow hallways, uncles giving opinions like they were truth carved into stone. I always sat in the corner, legs folded, hands in my lap, pretending to be busy on a phone that had no internet. No one noticed. Not once. I remember one Eid, I wore a pale blue dress I had begged my mom for. It had little silver beads on the sleeves, and I loved how it shimmered in the sun. I had even curled my hair for the first time and added a soft pink lip balm I wasn’t allowed to use. I stepped into the living room, heart racing, hoping someone would say I looked beautiful. No one did. Not even a glance. I spent the rest of that day in the kitchen helping the aunties—where I could blend in, be useful, and stay unseen. It’s funny how those small moments leave the biggest bruises. At school, it wasn’t much different. I was the girl teachers liked—not because I was brilliant, but because I never caused trouble. Always submitted assignments on time. Never spoke out of turn. My presence was easy, unremarkable. And in classrooms full of laughter and gossip, I sat alone at lunch more often than not. Friendships didn’t come easily to me. I didn’t know how to insert myself into conversations. I didn’t know how to be loud enough to be heard over the chaos. So I waited—for someone to notice me. For someone to ask if they could sit next to me. That rarely happened. Instead, I poured myself into books. I loved stories where girls like me found magic, where lonely kids became heroes, where the invisible became impossible to ignore. For those few hours of reading, I wasn’t Ilsa anymore. I was brave. Loved. Extraordinary. I started writing too. Stories at first, then journal entries. When I was nine, I wrote my first diary page with a green pen. It said: > “I think I’m sad, but I don’t know why. Maybe because I don’t know how to say what I feel.” I never showed anyone. I feared they’d laugh. Or worse, they’d ignore it like they ignored everything else I said. By twelve, I had stopped raising my hand in class. I knew the answers, but something inside me would whisper, Don’t. What if you're wrong? What if they laugh? What if they just don’t care? And I’d stay quiet. Every single time. Every decision I made felt like a negotiation between my fear of being seen and my desperation not to disappear entirely. My parents weren’t cruel people. They clothed me, fed me, made sure I was educated. But they never asked about the things that mattered to me. Never once sat on my bed and asked how my day was. Never asked if I was okay when I got quieter than usual. They assumed I was fine, because I didn’t scream. Because I didn’t throw tantrums. But I was always screaming. Just not loud enough for the world to hear. By thirteen, I had already tasted depression without knowing its name. It clung to me like an invisible second skin. I didn’t know why I cried after everyone went to bed, or why I stared at the ceiling wondering if I was even real to anyone. My favorite place became the rooftop. I would go there at dusk, just before the call to prayer, and sit under the sky. That was the only place I didn’t feel small. The sky didn’t care if I spoke or stayed silent. The stars didn’t flinch when I cried. Up there, I could pretend I mattered to something. I would often imagine a different life. One where I was bold. Brave. Laughing freely. Surrounded by people who asked me what I wanted, what I feared, what I loved. But that was just a dream. Downstairs, I was still the quiet girl in the background. The one who was never invited to speak, only to serve tea when guests arrived. The one whose voice stayed in her throat like a secret. And yet, even then, a small flicker of hope burned inside me. Maybe one day, I thought, someone will really see me. Maybe I’ll do something that makes the world look twice. Maybe I’ll stop being a shadow. But for now—I stayed quiet. And that silence would become the foundation of everything that came after.