Ryaan's PoV

Today I saw something worse than rubble.

Worse than a broken home.

Worse than a body in the street.

I saw a man become a monster.

And he didn’t wear a uniform.

He didn’t drop a missile.

He was just one of us.

---

It happened in the afternoon.

I was looking for scraps, moving quietly behind a broken wall near one of the old aid trucks.

That’s when I heard it.

A sound. Not the usual.

Not crying.

Not screaming from above.

This was different.

Struggling.

I peeked through a crack in the concrete, and I saw them:

A man — older — grabbing a young woman.

Her scarf half torn. Her hands pushing him. Her voice sharp, but tired.

She begged.

She begged.

And he—

He kept whispering, like it was her fault.

Like she owed him something just for surviving.

---

My stomach twisted.

My chest burned.

I wanted to run. To fight. To scream.

But I froze.

Because what do you do when the enemy isn’t miles away in a plane…

but inches from someone’s soul?

---

I picked up a rock.

Not big. But sharp.

And I threw it.

Hard.

It hit him in the back.

He turned, furious.

I didn’t run. I stood still.

Heart pounding so loud I thought it would give me away.

But just then, someone else came.

An older woman with a stick.

She screamed. Others started coming.

The man ran.

Like the coward he was.

The girl collapsed.

Not from wounds on her body — but the kind that no bandage fixes.

---

I walked back in silence.

My hands shaking.

Not because I was scared.

Because I was disgusted.

---

Is war not enough?

Do the bombs not do enough damage —

that we now devour each other?

What kind of man thinks that because the world is falling apart, he gets to steal someone’s dignity too?

It made me sick.

It made me want to scream at every person who says “humanity will survive.”

Because today, I wasn’t sure it deserved to.

---

That girl…

She reminded me of Maryam.

Older, yes.

But still someone’s sister.

Someone’s daughter.

What if it had been Maryam?

That thought nearly tore me in half.

---

And that’s when I realized something even darker.

The war doesn’t just kill with bombs.

It kills with what it turns people into.

It rips out rules, shame, kindness — and replaces it with hunger and power and rot.

I’ve seen buildings fall.

But today, I saw a soul get shattered.

---

But not mine.

Not Maryam’s.

Not hers.

Because we stopped him.

Because someone stood up.

And others joined.

Even in a place like this —

someone still said no.

That matters.

Even if the world is burning.

Saying “no” still matters.

---

I held Maryam tighter tonight.

I told her never to leave the shelter alone.

She asked why.

I couldn’t tell her.

She’s still too little to know that sometimes,

the worst evil doesn’t come from the sky…

but from the people who look just like us.

This morning, Ameen found me early.

He didn’t say much. Just handed me a boiled egg, still warm.

“Found it from a guy who owed me,” he said, smirking.

I broke it in half.

Gave the bigger piece to Maryam.

Gave the other half to the boy with no name.

Ameen watched me.

Then nodded.

“Good,” he said. “You’re learning how to lead.”

I don’t know about leading.

But I do know this: we can’t survive alone.

---

I told Ameen what I saw yesterday — the girl, the man, the rock, the stick.

I didn’t want to.

I didn’t want to remember it.

But he listened.

And his face didn’t show surprise. Only pain.

Like he’s seen it before.

Then he said:

“It’s happening more. That’s why we need each other.”

He wasn’t wrong.

---

So today, we started something.

Not official. Not big.

But real.

We gathered a few others — four boys, two women.

Each one had seen enough to understand why we needed this.

We didn’t call it anything.

But in our hearts, we knew:

We are the ones who protect.

---

The oldest woman — they call her Teta amma

She’s like everyone’s grandmother now.

She carries a wooden cane and a voice that still commands silence when she speaks.

She said,

“If the world forgot how to be human, then we will remind it — right here, in this place.”

So we divided little roles.

One boy stands near the water tank.

Another near the broken entrance.

We don’t have weapons.

But we have eyes.

And voices.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

---

It’s not perfect.

We’re still scared.

Still tired.

Still hungry.

But now…

we’re not alone in it.

That girl from yesterday — her name is Hiba — she sat with Maryam today.

Helped her braid her hair.

Told her a story about flowers that bloom even after fire.

It didn’t erase the horror.

But it reminded me:

There is still softness left.

Still safety to create.

Still people who fight — not with bullets, but with kindness.

---

Tonight, I looked around the room.

Teta Amma humming.

Ameen sharpening sticks into something that feels like protection.

Maryam asleep, her head on Hiba’s lap.

The silent boy watching the shadows, like a guard.

And I thought…

This is a kind of resistance.

This — choosing to care when it would be easier to stop.

To feel when it would be safer to shut down.

To build when everything is built to break.

---

I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.

Maybe another siren.

Maybe another loss.

But I know this:

If the world wants to raise monsters,

we’ll raise shields of love.

If war teaches people to destroy,

we’ll teach each other to protect.

We are not soldiers.

But we are survivors.

And we protect each other now.