Syrians have no real hope while remnants of war remain
My name is Sila, I'm 17 years old, from Idlib, Syria. I am one of thousands who have lived through the war in all its details — a generation that never knew what safety meant, only smoke, shelling, displacement and fear.
But honestly, I didn't come here today to talk about the war itself. I came to talk about its consequences — about my story with war, about the pain that remains even after the guns fall silent, about a small hope in my heart that there is a better future, God willing.
The first moment I remember, I was around three years old. I suddenly woke up to the sound of an explosion, shattered glass on the ground and my parents shouting, 'Hurry up.'
From that day on, our home became a travel bag and our path became one of displacement. Every time we got used to a place, we left it under shelling.
Every time we made a friend, we had to say goodbye and continue our way.
My childhood was filled with fear, anxiety and people I was deprived of — people I shared the best days of my life with. Imagine going to school while hearing the sound of a warplane above your head, not knowing whether you will return home or not.
The danger continues after the war — landmines, unexploded shells and lives turned into death traps
Sila
Imagine sitting in class, your body present, but your mind wondering whether the next missile will hit your school, your house … or maybe someone you love.
I heard the sound of bombing and lived through every kind of fear. I lost people I loved deeply and, from that moment on, nothing felt normal in my life. I developed a phobia of any sound that resembles a plane … of the dark … and even of silence.
My cousin went out once to get us bread. I was standing with his sister, watching him from the window. Soon, we heard the sound of fighter jets and an explosion, smoke filled the air, people running in the streets — and my cousin … we never saw him again. It was an extremely difficult moment, and I still haven't forgotten it.
Another time, my aunt's house was bombed. We ran to her, but they wouldn't let us get close to the house. At that very moment, our own house was also bombed. The result was that I lost both my aunt and my home — and we continued our journey of displacement. It felt like the bombing was chasing us from house to house.
There are so many moments that are engraved in my memory, like the time I was holding my younger brother's hand, walking down the street, when suddenly a nearby explosion threw us apart. For a moment, I thought I had lost my brother. Those were some of the longest moments of my life. When I found him, I ran to him and hugged him. Even though I was injured, I didn't feel it — all I cared about was that he was safe, not me.
The war doesn't end just because the shelling stops. The danger continues after the war — landmines, unexploded shells and lives turned into death traps. A child might see something shiny and run toward it, not knowing it is a landmine. People walking through their land, unaware that death lies beneath their feet. Many lost limbs, or even lives, without ever being part of any battle.
Our neighbor's son, 18 years old, returned to check on their house after displacement. A mine exploded and he lost his hand. Today, I'm here to talk to you about this issue, and I'm not just speaking about it — I'm actively working on it. In the past period, I took training courses with a humanitarian organization and I am currently volunteering as part of an awareness team. We work on awareness campaigns about the risks of war remnants — especially for children.
The war must end — not only on maps, but in our streets, in our memories and in our children's toys
Sila
I am trying to be a voice in this field and to deliver the message to as many people as possible. Without removing these remnants of war, there will be no real hope, no real return, no future for us.
Now is our time to speak up, to raise our voices and to educate others. I did not come today as a victim. I came as a witness. I came to deliver a message. To speak on behalf of every child who was promised a normal life but couldn't live it. On behalf of every mother who buried her son and every home that lost its warmth.
I'm standing in front of you today to deliver just one message: the war must end — not only on maps, but in our streets, in our memories and in our children's toys. God willing, we will be the last generation to live this pain. The last generation to fall asleep to the sound of missiles and wake up to fear.
Thankfully, today, there is a little more safety. Now we can dream, work on ourselves. I can continue my education, achieve my ambitions and support my community and my family. But to make those dreams possible, we need many things — and most importantly, we need opportunity … and we need decisions. We still need your support.
My final message: I am from a generation that survived physically, but our hearts still live in fear. Help us replace the word 'displacement' with 'return,' the word 'rubble' with 'home,' and the word 'war' with 'life.'
Thank you so much for listening. And I hope that the decisions you make today will mean safety tomorrow for every Syrian child dreaming of walking to school without fear.
This article is based on a speech Sila gave to the UN Security Council last month as part of the Annual Open Debate on Children and Armed Conflict.
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My name is Sila, I'm 17 years old, from Idlib, Syria. I am one of thousands who have lived through the war in all its details — a generation that never knew what safety meant, only smoke, shelling, displacement and fear. But honestly, I didn't come here today to talk about the war itself. I came to talk about its consequences — about my story with war, about the pain that remains even after the guns fall silent, about a small hope in my heart that there is a better future, God willing. The first moment I remember, I was around three years old. I suddenly woke up to the sound of an explosion, shattered glass on the ground and my parents shouting, 'Hurry up.' From that day on, our home became a travel bag and our path became one of displacement. Every time we got used to a place, we left it under shelling. Every time we made a friend, we had to say goodbye and continue our way. 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Soon, we heard the sound of fighter jets and an explosion, smoke filled the air, people running in the streets — and my cousin … we never saw him again. It was an extremely difficult moment, and I still haven't forgotten it. Another time, my aunt's house was bombed. We ran to her, but they wouldn't let us get close to the house. At that very moment, our own house was also bombed. The result was that I lost both my aunt and my home — and we continued our journey of displacement. It felt like the bombing was chasing us from house to house. There are so many moments that are engraved in my memory, like the time I was holding my younger brother's hand, walking down the street, when suddenly a nearby explosion threw us apart. For a moment, I thought I had lost my brother. Those were some of the longest moments of my life. When I found him, I ran to him and hugged him. Even though I was injured, I didn't feel it — all I cared about was that he was safe, not me. The war doesn't end just because the shelling stops. The danger continues after the war — landmines, unexploded shells and lives turned into death traps. A child might see something shiny and run toward it, not knowing it is a landmine. People walking through their land, unaware that death lies beneath their feet. Many lost limbs, or even lives, without ever being part of any battle. Our neighbor's son, 18 years old, returned to check on their house after displacement. A mine exploded and he lost his hand. Today, I'm here to talk to you about this issue, and I'm not just speaking about it — I'm actively working on it. In the past period, I took training courses with a humanitarian organization and I am currently volunteering as part of an awareness team. We work on awareness campaigns about the risks of war remnants — especially for children. The war must end — not only on maps, but in our streets, in our memories and in our children's toys Sila I am trying to be a voice in this field and to deliver the message to as many people as possible. Without removing these remnants of war, there will be no real hope, no real return, no future for us. Now is our time to speak up, to raise our voices and to educate others. I did not come today as a victim. I came as a witness. I came to deliver a message. To speak on behalf of every child who was promised a normal life but couldn't live it. On behalf of every mother who buried her son and every home that lost its warmth. I'm standing in front of you today to deliver just one message: the war must end — not only on maps, but in our streets, in our memories and in our children's toys. God willing, we will be the last generation to live this pain. The last generation to fall asleep to the sound of missiles and wake up to fear. Thankfully, today, there is a little more safety. Now we can dream, work on ourselves. I can continue my education, achieve my ambitions and support my community and my family. But to make those dreams possible, we need many things — and most importantly, we need opportunity … and we need decisions. We still need your support. My final message: I am from a generation that survived physically, but our hearts still live in fear. Help us replace the word 'displacement' with 'return,' the word 'rubble' with 'home,' and the word 'war' with 'life.' Thank you so much for listening. And I hope that the decisions you make today will mean safety tomorrow for every Syrian child dreaming of walking to school without fear. This article is based on a speech Sila gave to the UN Security Council last month as part of the Annual Open Debate on Children and Armed Conflict.
