The headlines are gone; the pain remains,
The light of dawn merely reveals our ruined gains.
The cameras are gone, but they didn’t leave with the rubble,
The media moved on, but left behind is the future trouble.
Suffering only began when the ground stopped to shake,
Because the loss of everything was the real quake.
We lost possessions and homes and lives when the ground was shaking,
But we lost identity when only spoken about under the term “breaking”.
Then the headlines moved on,
But our suffering wasn’t gone.
We’re the nameless faces,
Impacted by many cases,
Whether I’m a Syrian child of war,
Whom for a time cameras did adore,
Or under the sun in Pakistan, I’ve drowned in an endless flood,
Where the ink on the newspaper is more expensive than my blood,
Or I’ve given the ultimate sacrifice while fighting for my rights,
Forgotten because something else has drawn the focus of camera lights
Or I’m someone whose never had a headline,
Silent not out of choice; by fate’s design.
Headlines defined us and our countries, spoke and then left us -a formality –
But the real disaster is how all of this is framed as normality.
That we suffered under a quake is a tragedy,
But we’re still crushed under the rubble of apathy.
The shaking ceased, the news crews left,
Stories post their feast; we remain bereft.
The headlines are gone; the pain remains,
The light of dawn merely reveals our ruined gains.
By Zachary Abbas
