Tanzeel Javid Mir
A night that will never be forgotten
Today, I witnessed something that will haunt me forever. I wish I could erase the memory, pretend I never saw what I did, but I can’t. No one who was there can.
It was late evening, just after Iftari. The streets were calm, the air still carried the faint aroma of food, and people were returning to their homes after offering prayers at the Masjid. It was supposed to be a time of peace, a time when hearts were supposed to be at rest.
But in one home, there was no peace.
A boy, just 15 years old, came back from the masjid. He had just finished his prayers, his heart perhaps filled with the serenity of worship. But as soon as he stepped inside, that peace shattered like glass beneath his feet. His parents were fighting.
Maybe this was routine for them. Maybe they didn’t even notice him standing there, watching, his breath catching in his throat, his hands trembling. Maybe they had done this so many times that they no longer cared who was listening, who was breaking inside. But he noticed.
Something inside him snapped. Maybe it was the weight of years of silent suffering, of listening to their voices rise and fall like a never-ending storm. Maybe it was the unbearable feeling of being trapped in a home that never felt like home. Maybe it was the thought that no matter how much he prayed, no matter how much he hoped, things would never change.
And so, he left.
Not a word. Not a cry. Just silence.
He walked out of the house, into the darkness, and never came back.
Somewhere in that lonely night, in a corner where no one could hear him, he ended it all.
He hanged himself.
The time that should never have come
By the time people found him, it was too late. His small, fragile body, which had once carried so many dreams, was lifeless. His hands, which had been lifted in prayer just moments ago, were now cold.
And then, the screams began.
His mother collapsed to the ground, her wails piercing the air like the call of a wounded animal. She held his lifeless body, shaking him, begging him to wake up, to open his eyes, to tell her that this was just a nightmare.
But he didn’t. He never would.
His father stood there, frozen. Maybe in that moment, he remembered every fight, every harsh word, every slammed door. Maybe he wished he could take it all back. Maybe he wished he had hugged his son instead of letting him drown in the chaos.
Neighbors came, some from far, drawn by the cries that carried through the streets. And they wept. Men, women, elders—everyone cried. Even those who didn’t know him personally stood there, shaking their heads, their eyes wet with grief.
Because this was not just the death of a child.
This was the death of innocence.
This was the death of hope.
Do you think children don’t feel pain?
When parents fight, they believe their anger is only between them. But they don’t realize that their words are like knives cutting into their child’s heart.
Every insult, every shout, every slammed door is a wound.
And some wounds never heal.
A child may not say it out loud, but they feel it. They hear it. They carry it inside them like a secret burden.
They go to sleep at night wondering, “Why is my home not like others?”
They wake up each morning thinking, “Maybe today will be different,” only to be disappointed again.
They sit in silence, pretending not to hear, pretending not to care. But inside, their world is collapsing.
And one day, they can’t take it anymore.
A child should never have to choose between life and pain
This boy didn’t die because of one fight.
He died because of a lifetime of them.
He died because the home that should have protected him became the very thing that destroyed him.
He died because the people who should have been his safe space made him feel like he had nowhere left to go.
And now, all that remains is regret.
His parents will live with this guilt forever.
His mother, who once scolded him for coming home late, will now sit in silence, wishing he would walk through that door again.
His father, who once raised his voice in anger, will now sit in darkness, wishing for just one moment to tell his son he was loved.
But no amount of regret will bring him back.
No amount of tears will erase what happened.
Before you fight, remember this
If you are a parent, let me ask you this: Is your anger worth your child’s life?
Is your pride, your frustration, your inability to compromise more important than the fragile heart of the child who watches you with pleading eyes?
Your child is not deaf. Your child is not blind. Your child is not made of stone.
They hear everything.
They feel everything.
And if you keep tearing each other apart, don’t be surprised when one day, you look around and realize you’ve lost them too.
It’s not too late—but one day, it will be
This tragedy should never have happened.
But it did.
And if we don’t change, it will happen again. Somewhere, another child will come home to a house filled with shouting and decide that life is no longer worth living. Somewhere, another mother will wake up to find her child gone, and she will cry just like this mother did.
And by then, it will be too late.
So before that happens, pause.
Before you raise your voice, think.
Before you let your anger take control, remember the little eyes that are watching you, the little heart that is depending on you.
Because no child should ever feel that their only escape from their own home is death.
May this boy’s silence scream louder than our voices.
And may his death not be in vain.
(The author is 3rd Year BA. LLB student at Department of Law Central University of Kashmir and can be reached at [email protected])
