Ironwind

A Diary from the Broken Streets, Stories Left Behind in Silence.

Mar 03, 2026

Note: These pages are written as diary entries through a passage of time from childhood to teenage perspective. The story explores unfortunate events, but it is handled with care and respect. If anything in this story feels offensive or disrespectful, I sincerely apologize. My intention is only to honor courage and resilience of people even through the horror’s of this world.

I thought when something breaks, the person who broke it feels bad. That’s how it always worked in my world. If I dropped a cup or snapped a doll’s arm off by accident, I cried harder than anyone else, even when my mother tried her best to shush me. The guilt would eat me up and make me desperate to make it right.

I would try to fix it. I would say sorry over and over, even if it couldn’t be put back together. So when the world broke something in me, I waited for that same kind of sorrow to show up on those unfamiliar faces.

I waited for their hands to reach out like mine used to, desperate to repair what they had ruined, to sew me up again like I used to do when I accidentally broke something of my doll. But they didn’t look like someone who had broken anything at all. I don’t understand how they can hold the pieces of me and not even feel the weight of them.

It was a strange feeling to be left in ruin while I cried out with every ounce of breath in me, and the whole world just stood there, tall on their steady feet, looking down. They didn’t move. They didn’t bend. They only stared with that same expression I used to see when my friends didn’t want me in their games, that quiet, careful distance, like I was something inconvenient.

I remember the sting behind my eyes back then, the way tears would threaten but never fall. I don’t cry, I would tell myself. I’m a big girl after all. That’s what my mother used to say, with a smile bright as the sun.

But she didn’t say the same thing to the other children on the playground, which I never quite understood. They are like me too, aren’t they? We have the same hands, the same scraped knees, the same favorite games. We run the same races and laugh at the same silly things. So why was I the only one told to be brave? Why was I the only one taken care of?

Even now, I don’t understand the difference between me and their children. There are so many adults here, so many tall figures to look up to, to reach for. My hands are open. My voice is loud enough. But they do not answer me. They answer only their own. They cry only for their own.

No one takes my hand to guide me through these ruins. No one bends down to see if I am frightened too. I keep looking for my mama or baba in the crowd, but I can’t seem to find them anywhere. It’s fine though. I have my doll with me. I’ll help her find the way out. And maybe, while I’m helping her, I’ll find mine too.

My stomach is grumbling. A kind lady had offered me some bread yesterday, but I can’t find her anywhere today. She had told me to stay behind this wall and wait for her, but she didn’t come. I guess she must have forgotten her way. I understand though. It’s getting difficult to find your way these days.

The streets are broken, and there are houses everywhere. Well, parts of houses are broken, just like my doll’s house. That makes me sad too. It’s hard to walk through the rubble, hard to find the corners that feel safe, and I still haven’t found my mama yet. She’s gotten really good at hiding, I must say.

We’ve been playing hide-and-seek for at least a week now, and I still haven’t found her. But I’m getting bored of the game, and I’m getting pretty tired too. My legs hurt, and no one is helping me look for her. Baba went to look for her once, but I think he’s started hiding from me too.

There’s been a lot of shouting adults around me lately, and they all seem scared and tired. I don’t think they really sleep, not like I do. It’s really loud outside these days, and then, of course, there are those sudden buildings falling down. I tried asking some people what was happening or if they had seen my parents, but they just start crying and hug me so tight. Or they say they’ve gone for some work and will be back soon and tell me not to cry.

I don’t understand. How can they be so scared and tired and still expect me not to cry? I just want someone to tell me when my mama and baba will come back home. I’m really angry at them. When they do come back, I won’t talk to them at all, not until they get me a new toy, or at least just come back soon.

I’m really scared. I’m trying to act like a big, strong girl, just like my mama, but everything is so frightening. I’m so hungry, and I don’t know where to go or who to ask for help. My legs hurt so much, and I can’t pretend anymore that I don’t see how everyone is as helpless as I am. And then there’s so much blood everywhere, so much crying, and I don’t think my parents are really coming back. I think everyone is lying to me, just like they lie to my friends.

They all keep telling us not to worry, that help is coming soon, that this will all be over soon, that it’s just a test and we will soon get a great prize for it. They keep saying that our people around the world will help us, even with tears in their eyes, blood on their clothes, hunger for peace, trembling in their voices. But the people they keep calling never seem to answer. Some did come. They brought food, a lot of it, but it was sadly not enough to feed everyone. Most of the adults didn’t eat much, or not at all. They said they weren’t that hungry, but I know that’s a lie. I’ve gotten really good at catching it when they are lying.

It’s been a long time since I saw my mama and baba. Longer still since anyone stayed long enough to remember my name. Faces come and go like smoke, too quick to hold, too quiet to follow. They used to say this was just a test. That help would come. That if we waited patiently, we’d be safe again. But I think I stopped believing that when the ground started swallowing the buildings whole.

I found mama and baba eventually. Or maybe they found me. They were still holding hands under the broken stone, like they didn’t want to leave each other behind. Her smile was still there, somehow. I think it’s the only thing that didn’t get buried. I didn’t cry. I think a part of me stayed down there with them. The part that used to laugh with a full stomach. The part that used to chase after the sun.

My people still whisper about hope. They still make promises they can’t keep. They say help is coming, as if saying it will make it true. Maybe it will. Maybe that’s what keeps us standing. That, and the way we all pretend not to notice the red on our hands.

I smile now too. Not because I’m happy, but because it keeps people from asking if I’m okay. It helps them forget I’m still waiting for someone to take my hand. I don’t wait as loudly as I used to. I’ve learned how to be quiet. But I still remember how it felt to break something and want to fix it. I wonder if anyone else remembers that too, if the world watching us through a mere lens remembers that we are one of them.

But I wonder how cowardly, how small, a person must be to close their eyes the moment it’s not their own.

Sometimes, when the streets are quiet and the sky is pink like the bruises I try not to remember, I pretend someone is reaching for me. I pretend that if I stretch my hand far enough, I can feel it clasped by someone who still knows how to care. I hold onto that thought for a long while, even if no one ever really comes. It’s not much, but it keeps me moving forward, keeps my hands from shaking, keeps my eyes open, keeps the pieces of me from scattering completely.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough to remind me that I am still here, and that even in all this, I can still remember how to reach out, even when the world has forgotten how to cradle something falling into ruins, every passing second.