To All the Mothers Who Sit in Silence

I wrote a poem yesterday.

Illustration by Pope Art

I wrote a poem yesterday about mothers who do not blink an eye at the sight of children, starved, shattered, mauled, and bombed by design.

I wrote a poem about all the mothers who sit in silence, undisturbed by the most televised genocide in history, because it's complicated, because it’s nuanced, because it’s far away.

I wrote a poem yesterday about mothers who feed their children at night; scroll past images of the unfed, dried lips, ash-covered limbs, someone else’s children thirsting for mercy; then slip beneath warm sheets, plotting tomorrow’s plate, undisturbed.

I wrote a poem about mothers who are bold when it’s trendy, vocal when it’s safe, and who believe that motherhood worth praising belongs to a passport, a race, a nation, a faith.

I wrote a poem yesterday about mothers who juice and meditate each day, whose well-being excludes the well-being of others, blind to their privilege, cowardly in spirit.

I wrote a poem about mothers who hold their children tight at night, yet feel no tremor in their bones for mothers who’ve lost every child, who don't shiver at the words: "Wounded child, no surviving family."

I wrote a poem yesterday about mothers who sit in silence, turning away from the worst atrocity humanity inflicts, convincing themselves that guarding their inner peace is an act of love, not complicity.

“Hey, I would love to connect”—a woman, a mother, commented below my poem, sending me a link to her Substack where she talks about signals and frequencies, traumas and unresolved fear; she never talked about Gaza, not once, not one article was devoted to children being blown to bits, daily, on our phones. But she talked about her problems that led to her “digging and release of trauma.”

Her silence doesn’t offend me anymore. Mothers I know and love have already broken my heart into a thousand pieces with their casual disregard for ash-covered limbs, small, grey, motionless.

But it was her choice of that particular poem under which to promote her writing that sent me into a tailspin—a poem about women like her, mothers who remain silent while small bodies thirst for mercy, just moments before another precision strike blows them into another building or splits them in two.

She read those lines, about women and mothers being silent, and she, a silent woman and a mother chose that instance to share reflections on motherhood and trauma, skipping the part where outrage was due—children being mutilated because those in power decided an entire people must be erased for another to take their place.

I called her out; comments are below, in the comment section. I left it there, as a reminder, an alarm to what this world has become, and for you to read it.

She responded that my poem was beautifully written. That she didn’t take it as a bash against women like her who have had a chronic disease and s stroke, which has led to doing the digging and release of trauma. She didn’t realize that was so trivial, but she thanked me for my perspective and education. She said she took my poem as an invitation to open the conversation up and shed light on the importance of celebrating all of humanity on Mother’s Day, and also noted I have a very unkind approach to someone reaching out to me.

Why are women who are not mothers mothering the whole world?

Why is it my duty to tell a mother her trauma means nothing in the eyes of the livestreamed holocaust happening in our lifetime?

Why does it fall on me to teach a woman, a mother, that her writings about expressing deep love, undeniable connection, personal growth, and unwavering commitment despite distance and challenges mean absolutely nothing if she’s unwilling to gift her talent of words to those suffering an immeasurable pain?

Why am I expected to be kind to a woman so self-absorbed she can’t recognize that enduring hardship in a safe, well-fed home is a form of privilege many are denied?

Why is kindness demanded of me in the face of women and mothers whose silence is a form of complicity, while they deny that my anger stems from their role in sustaining war crimes?

I wrote a poem yesterday, about all the mothers who sit in silence at the worst atrocity, livestreamed, daily, for nineteen months, and all she could muster is this.

Rache Brand:

“You have an incredible approach, creating another war on the inside of this platform instead of instilling tenderness and ushering information in a way that meaningfully shifts conversation. I want to connect to your frequency and learn from you.

Why are you so angry at me? I can feel seething tension which is exactly why wars begin in the first place.

You are right, I am a white woman who grew up privileged. I can’t help my beginning. What I can do is be willing to learn and be more aware / open to inclusion and conversation. I would like to learn from you and grow.”

A woman and a mother who never once spoke out about a live genocide unfolding in our lifetime told me that my rage at her complicity is exactly why wars begin. What could be more offensive than those who enable genocide through silence, who uphold the status quo to preserve their own comfort, and then blame our anger, not their apathy, for the dehumanization of an entire people?

You don’t get to learn from me and grow.

You don’t get to use my emotional labor; the information, images, videos, and statistics of mass extermination are all around you — if you cared to see.

You don’t get to be open to the conversation.

There is no conversation to be had, no debate to be made—only you: a woman and a mother, unaware, unmoved, and undisturbed by the pain, destruction, and suffering of small, innocent bodies born on the wrong side of the world.

I wrote a poem yesterday.

To all mothers 
who do not blink an eye
at the sight of children—
starved, shattered, and bombed by design.

To mothers who sit in silence,
undisturbed by the most televised
genocide in history,
because "it's complicated,"
because "it’s nuanced,"
because "it’s far away."

To mothers who feed their children at night,
scroll past images of unfed, dried lips, 
ash-covered limbs,
someone else's children thirsting for mercy,
then slip beneath warm sheets—
plotting for tomorrow's plate,
undisturbed.

To mothers who are always loud for
right kind of mothers,
right kind of children,
lighter in skin—
bold only when it's trendy,
vocal when it's safe.

To mothers who believe
motherhood wears a passport,
belongs to a race,
a nation,
a faith.

To mothers who drink all the juice,
practice yoga, meditate each day,
whose well-being excludes the well-being of others—
blind to their privilege,
cowardly in spirit.

To mothers who hold their children 
tight at night,
yet feel no tremor in their bones
for mothers who’ve lost every child—
who don't shiver at the words:
"Wounded child, no surviving family."

To mothers who sit in silence, 
turning away  from the worst atrocities 
humanity inflicts,
convincing themselves that 
guarding their inner peace is an act of love, 
not complicity.

Happy Mother's Day.