Only Mothers Cry Their Lost Souls Even When Wars End

“The Sons of Peace and War”

By Hawraa Ghandour

In the quiet dawn, Layla held her newborn son against her chest. His breath was soft, his fists tiny and closed, as if holding the promise of the world. She whispered a prayer into his ear — a promise of peace, of a childhood filled with laughter, of a home untouched by fire or fear.

Years passed. Her son, Karim, grew under the olive trees that his grandfather had planted. He chased the sun, learned to write his name, and dreamed of building bridges and schools. Layla often watched him from the window, her heart swelling with both pride and dread. She had seen this story before — how peace was a lullaby that politicians sang only between their wars.

Then one morning, the sirens returned. The men in suits spoke of “duty” and “honor,” and boys like Karim were swept into uniforms, their dreams folded neatly inside their pockets. Layla watched him go — a soldier now — and felt her soul split in two.

When he returned, his eyes were not the same. He had fought for a cause he no longer believed in, for men who shook hands over the graves of their sons. He no longer laughed under the olive trees; he spoke the language of wounds and loss.

Layla wept silently. She had given birth to life, and the world had taught him death. She had raised a child to love, and the war had taught him to destroy. The mothers gathered again — women of different tongues but the same broken heart — asking why their wombs were the battlegrounds of men’s pride.

And as the politicians signed another “peace,” smiling before the cameras, Layla sat alone, whispering to the stars:

“They fight, they reconcile, and we — the mothers — bury both peace and sons.”