🕌 🎙️ The Mosque Had Cradles, But Their Podcast Had Comments. 🕋 🍼 👦🏿 👧🏿 👦🏾 👧🏾
🪦 🎛️ As they streamed their Talking Points, the Adhan simply echoed. 📡 🕯️
Ahnaf Ibn Qais watches as the descendants of Crusaders chase microphones instead of meaning, their pixels aging faster than their bloodlines. The mosque, meanwhile, fills with tiny footsteps & whispered ayat… neither streamed nor saved, yet destined to remain.
☕ 🧕🏿 1. Cafés, Cradles & 7-Elevens. 🧳 👴🏼
Where the espresso is burnt, the dreams are reheated, & the only fresh thing is the irony.
“Two sugars?” the barista asked,
Nudging the cup toward the Polish man with tired, shaven arms.
“Yes, thank you,” he said in German, before muttering,
“Before, nobody needed two sugars.”
The old German man in the corner grunted.
Not at the sugar, but the volume of a passing stroller.
The café was warm but cheap. Plastic wood panels;
A Qur’an verse in Arabic over the espresso machine.
The Eritrean barista wiped milk foam off the counter,
Nodding absently to the Turkish remix playing.
“Nice music,” the blogger said, unsure if he meant it.
“Is that… local?” he ventured politely.
“No,” the barista smiled.
“It’s from my cousin’s wedding. They dance with rifles there. Like yours, yes?”
The German retiree laughed, phlegmy & harsh.
“Our rifles don’t dance anymore. They rust in museums.”
The barista blinked, puzzled.
He didn’t get the joke, but wiped the counter again anyway.
“Too many cradles,” the blogger whispered to himself,
Opening Telegram on his cracked phone.
The barista poured another cappuccino.
“Too many complaints,” he replied softly, not looking up.
Outside, a mother, headscarfed, tired, triumphant,
Wrangled twins into a stroller while juggling groceries.
The stroller wheel squeaked like a broken metronome,
Pacing the collapse beat by beat.
The German sighed. “Used to be girls in skirts out there. Now it’s all… You know.”
“I know,” said the blogger.
“But it’s not too late. My channel’s growing. People are waking up.”
The barista slid a latte across the counter. “Waking up to what? You all talk in your sleep.”
A Silence followed. Not awkward, just worn out.
The café light buzzed like a dying bee.
The blogger checked his notifications. No new comments.
The German checked his watch. No appointments.
The barista looked out the window.
A muezzin’s call filtered in from someone’s car stereo.
“Why are you here?” the blogger finally asked, eyes narrowed.
“To work,” the barista shrugged. “To live. To stay quiet & see what happens.”
“& your people?”
“My people are tired like yours. But we still marry. Still have children. Still pray.”
The German scoffed. “Pray for what?”
“For mercy. For patience. For heating bills to stay under a hundred euros.”
The café trembled slightly from a tram outside.
The cups rattled like old bones in a tomb.
“Do you think we can fix it?” the blogger asked. “Germany, I mean.”
The barista didn’t answer. He just pointed at the espresso machine.
“Machine’s older than all of us. Nobody knows how to clean it properly. Still works.”
The retiree stood slowly. “I miss when the country made sense.”
The barista handed him a free croissant. “You mean when it was silent?”
“No,” the old man muttered, “when the future was smaller than the past.”
They all sat in that line a while... past & future, burnt milk & sugar, melting together.
🩺 👩🏾🍼 2. Civilization's Wait Room. 🪑 📉
Where Time is rationed, tempers are patient, & the future screams in strollers.
A sign blinked “Bitte warten.”
The speaker crackled, then fell silent, as if it gave up midway.
Number 46 had been called twice already. No One moved.
Number 47 sat with swollen knees.
A child wailed. A toy clattered to the ground.
The old man shifted & sighed through his teeth.
The Somali mother juggled a baby, a toddler,
& a paper with four barcodes & no explanation.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked,
Without glancing from her chipped red nails.
“She said emergency for the boy,” the mother replied,
In German shaped like prayer & apology.
“He has a rash,” she added. “Since last week. We waited three hours on Tuesday.”
“Everyone waits,” the old Austrian grunted.
“Even people who paid into the system fifty years.”
She nodded, gently rocking her baby. “I pay now. Every week. Cleaning job. Two buildings.”
The speaker screeched & died again. Everyone winced. No One moved.
“He’s got eczema,” the man muttered. “Send him home. That’s not an emergency.”
The mother met his gaze without blinking. “To you, it is nothing. To me, it is sleep.”
One of her daughters offered him a sticky cookie. He waved it away with a grumble.
“They should have stayed home,” he mumbled to the woman beside him.
She looked away.
“The children?” she asked.
“No. The whole damn parade.”
The mother’s eyes fluttered closed for a second.
Her son’s head drooped onto her shoulder.
“My home burned,” she said quietly. “Then the second home. The third was a boat.”
The Austrian adjusted his compression sock. “That’s not my problem.”
“No. But now we share the hallway.”
Behind the counter, a nurse whispered to a clerk about a cancelled MRI machine.
“They said next month,” the nurse sighed. “But we don’t even have gauze.”
The clerk nodded. “The printer’s broken again. Bring your own toner next Time.”
Another child started crying.
A man coughed twice, then three times. Everyone stiffened.
“Used to be, you went to a doctor,” the pensioner said. “Now it’s a waiting game.”
“Used to be, you had grandsons,” the mother replied. “Now it’s just YouTube & pills.”
He looked at her sharply. But the sting faded before it formed.
“You’re not wrong,” he muttered. “But this isn’t how we fix it.”
“This isn’t fixing,” she answered. “This is floating.”
The toddler dropped a pacifier. It bounced near the old man’s feet. He picked it up.
She smiled faintly. “Danke.”
He handed it back with shaking fingers. “Don’t mention it. Just keep him quiet.”
She laughed gently. “That is not possible.”
Someone’s name was called from the hallway. No One stood. Everyone waited.
📄 🧕🏿 3. Bureaucracy Ad Infinitum. 🧑🏼💼 🇸🇾
Where job titles vanish, hopes are filed, & everyone lies through state-funded smiles.
The projector hummed like a tired insect.
The PowerPoint froze on Slide 2: “Integration Goals.”
Fluorescent lights buzzed above a horseshoe of plastic chairs…
Filled with twenty silent strangers.
A Syrian man adjusted his collar. A Kosovar teen tapped his foot.
The German moderator smiled.
“Let’s begin with introductions,” she chirped.
“Name, age, skillset, & what you hope to contribute.”
A thick Silence followed. Then, like reluctant dominoes, they began.
“Abdelrahman. Thirty-seven. I was a civil engineer in Aleppo. I now sort packages at DHL.”
“Sofia. Nineteen. Kosovo. I did nails. Now I watch TikTok & think about moving to Paris.”
“Karl. Fifty-two. German. I used to run a print shop. I’m here because my wife left me.”
The room blinked. The translator coughed. The moderator nodded too quickly.
“Wonderful honesty,” she said. “That’s the first step to shared futures.”
“What does this have to do with a job?” someone asked from the back.
“This is dialogue,” she replied. “We’re building bridges.”
“There’s no river,” Karl muttered. “Only mud.”
A woman in a hijab raised her hand. “When do we learn about the forms?”
“After the icebreaker,” the moderator said. “First, we must see each other as people.”
A man snorted. “My electricity was cut off yesterday. I already feel like a person.”
The slide changed: “Empathy Through Shared Experience.”
Another voice: “In Syria, we built real bridges. They got bombed. Now we sit here.”
A teenager whispered to his friend, “In Bosnia, we don’t even build. We just leave.”
The moderator clapped. “Now, let’s pair off. One native with One newcomer.”
Eyes darted. Chairs scraped. Pairs were formed like bad marriages.
Karl found himself across from Abdelrahman. “You speak good German.”
“You speak fast,” the Syrian replied. “Like a train leaving no One behind.”
“I’m not racist,” Karl said, unprompted.
“No One said you were.”
They stared at the worksheet between them. “List Three Shared Values.”
Abdelrahman scratched his head. “Coffee?”
Karl nodded. “& traffic.”
“& taxes,” the Syrian added. “We both hate taxes.”
In the next group, Sofia sat across from Amina, the woman in the hijab.
“What do you do for fun?” Amina asked.
“Delete dating apps,” Sofia said. “& look for rich husbands with bad teeth.”
Amina laughed. “We call that sabr.”
“Patience?”
“No. Suffering while scrolling.”
The moderator paced like a shepherd with a silent flock.
“You see?” she beamed. “Connection!”
Karl leaned toward Abdelrahman. “Do you feel connected?”
“To the chair, yes.”
A phone rang. No One moved to Silence it.
The clock ticked. The slide froze again.
“Lunch in five,” the moderator announced. “Then we roleplay job interviews.”
Someone groaned. Someone clapped ironically.
Someone whispered, “They should just give us cash.”
“Shhh,” another replied. “They might.”
They rose. They shuffled. They moved toward coffee & crustless bread.
Integration continued... One bland sandwich at a Time.
🎙️ 📱 4. The Debate That Wasn’t. 📸 📚
The lawn had been booked on short notice...
Technically for “community dialogue,” informally for clout.
Two collapsible tables. Five phones on tripods.
One German flag, One Qur’an… One drone overhead.
The sky was bright. The microphones were charged….
The moderators were already exhausted.
“This isn’t about hate,” said Sven, a remigration YouTuber, holding a mic like a chalice.
“It’s about return. About roots. About preserving something before it dies.”
Fatima adjusted her hijab. “We’re not the ones killing it. We just live here… Calmly.”
“We had Goethe,” Sven declared.
“We read him too,” said Ali, flipping open Faust. “In the original. During Ramadan.”
“Germany isn’t a dumping ground,” muttered Lukas,
Livestreaming with a filter & poor reception.
“You’re not a demigod,” Amina replied. “You work at Saturn & misquote Evola.”
Lukas blinked. His chat lit up with frog emojis & anons yelling Heil Ratio.
A professor tried to mediate. “Let’s stick to ideas.”
“We are,” said Fatima. “They just have memes instead of metaphysics.”
“We have traditions,” Sven retorted. “Runes. Forests. Soil.”
“Can’t eat soil,” said someone in the back. “Can barely afford bread.”
“Europe is dying,” another YouTuber shouted.
Ali raised his eyebrows. “Then pray.”
“Pray to who?”
“To Whom,” corrected Fatima.
Someone played a sound effect. Laughter, maybe. Or applause…
The drone dipped lower.
“They’re not even German,” One of the YouTubers hissed.
“Neither are you,” whispered Amina. “You live online.”
A child wandered across the lawn, chewing a crust & looking for his mother.
A cameraman yelled. The drone tilted. The livestream glitched.
“We demand dignity,” Sven yelled.
“You mean likes,” Ali replied.
“Tradition is dying!”
“So is your Wi-Fi,” Fatima noted.
A siren in the distance. A gust of wind. Flyers scattered...
Some in Fraktur, some in Arabic.
“Debate is dead,” sighed the professor.
“It was never alive,” said Amina.
Goethe remained unread. Telegram pinged. The tripods tilted.
The flags sagged. The Qur’an remained unopened.
The crowd had begun to thin, replaced by bored students, pigeons,
& two older Turks playing chess.
A nearby speaker crackled,
Repeating the phrase “Toleranz ist keine Schwäche” every 6 minutes.
Behind the trees,
A group of anarchists were spray-painting slogans in all caps & poor grammar.
One of the YouTubers was still arguing with a comment thread…
In a hybrid of all-caps German & English.
Amina turned to Ali. “Do you think any of this matters?”
He shrugged. “It’s just Thursday.”
“Should we go?”
“There’s prayer in an hour.”
Everyone began packing at once. No One had won.
But all of them had posted.
A girl in a black hoodie scrawled “DECOLONIZE DÜSSELDORF”…
On the back of a park bench.
A nationalist tried to interrupt,
Then tripped over a folded tripod & fell into a patch of daisies.
The anarchists filmed him. The YouTubers posted it.
The algorithm loved it.
& in the echo, a single question looped:
“What do you want?”
Silence.
Then a final answer, from neither side:
“A refund.”
& beneath it all, the faint adhan from a distant speaker, swallowed by traffic & wind.
🛍️ 📸 🧕🏿 5. The Mall of Babel. 🎮 📵 🕌
The mall was sick. Not dying, not dead. Just sick...
Humid air, broken tiles, & fake leather chairs.
A nail salon played trap remixes.
A halal shawarma kiosk blasted Quranic recitations on Bluetooth.
The escalator groaned like an old smoker.
An ad for crypto jobs flickered in Cyrillic & German.
The air smelled of popcorn grease, off-brand perfume, & yesterday’s ambition.
“Where are the others?”
“Which others?”
“The Germans.”
“There are a few in the vape shop.”
Amir wore his Air Max like a uniform. Farah had drawn eyeliner thick, like a shield.
They loitered with purpose. Not stealing, nor buying….
Just existing between decay & discomfort.
A teacher had asked them to stay after class. So they skipped class instead.
They weren’t rebels. They were echoes...
Reflected off shuttered stores & CCTV blind spots.
Then came the stranger. Hoodie, camera rig, clipboard, calm.
“Documentary?” asked Farah, squinting.
He nodded. “About integration. About youth.”
Amir laughed. “About clicks.”
“You guys come here often?”
“Do you go to cemeteries often?”
“No need to be rude.”
“No need to pretend this helps.”
The man adjusted his gimbal. “Just want to hear your story.”
“We’re not Netflix. We don’t do arcs.”
“Where are you from?”
“From here.”
“Originally?”
“Still here.”
“Do you feel German?”
“Do you feel sane?”
He chuckled nervously.
Farah pointed. “That camera’s not gonna fix you, uncle.”
A ringtone played Nasheed Lofi 24/7.
Amir’s cousin sent a meme: Remigration Simulator 2045.
The journalist tried again. “Do you feel welcomed?”
“Do you feel employed?”
He blinked. “I’m freelance.”
“Exactly.”
Someone spat off the second-floor balcony;
It landed on a discount bin full of German flags.
“We know your game,” said Farah. “You film. They comment. We disappear.”
“It’s for awareness.”
“It’s for engagement.”
“You’re angry.”
“No. We’re bored.”
She opened Snapchat & applied a filter to the man’s face…
Now he looked like a sad anime fox.
“You know,” said Amir, “my uncle came here with a visa & left with a grave.”
The documentarian blinked. “That’s… powerful.”
“No,” said Farah. “It’s just true.”
He filmed anyway. Then nodded, satisfied, & left without goodbyes.
Later, on the tram, he uploaded the clip with the caption:
‘Unfiltered Voices of the Next Germany.’
His followers replied with hearts, swastikas, frogs, & hashtags.
He told himself he was helping.
Meanwhile, Amir stayed behind.
He wandered past the shuttered bookstore…
Past the discount store. Past the fake plants.
Up the stairwell, where the mall security rarely checked.
He took off his shoes. Opened his phone. Found the qibla. Faced the wall.
He prayed quietly, between a vending machine & a broken fire extinguisher.
Above him, graffiti read: “NO GODS. NO ORDERS. NO RETURNS.”
But he whispered the Fatiha anyway, slow & steady, as if God was still listening.
Downstairs, Farah laughed with friends over bubble tea & TikTok.
Upstairs, the call to prayer buzzed faintly from his cracked phone speaker.
No minaret. No dome. Just a stairwell echoing with breath.
Somewhere below, someone was vaping behind the lockers.
The journalist was already at another mall, filming another Silence.
& above it all, the flickering neon sign still read:
Welcome. Willkommen. مرحباً. Добро пожаловать. Bienvenue…
Refunds available at Gate 4.
👰♀️ 🧕🏿 6. TradWives & Halal Wives. 🧸 🍼
The flyers had said Family Futures...
With cursive fonts, baby pink borders, & smiling clipart toddlers.
The church basement smelled of incense, sugar cookies, & hand sanitizer.
It was half full.
A poster near the entrance read Reclaim the Hearth.
Beneath it: A woman holding a Bible & no child.
Plastic chairs scraped linoleum. A pastor murmured about love. No One clapped.
A table offered pamphlets on chastity, bone broth,
& how to pray like your great-grandmother.
Next to it, a booth labelled Wholesome Wifehood sold homemade soap…
In the shape of saints.
Two blonde women sat behind it, arranging crochet kits & herbal teas.
Their strollers were empty.
Then came the sound of footsteps... dozens, fast, soft, loud.
A Somali mother entered with five children. Then a Pakistani One with six.
Then a veiled teen pushing twins.
They moved in clusters, hijabs like sails, babies strapped in slings or tugging at skirts.
The air shifted. So did the mood.
“Oh,” said a tradwife, adjusting her hair ribbon.
“They’re here again,” whispered another,
Folding a leaflet about sacramental homemaking.
“Welcome,” said the pastor, voice forced. “So lovely to see such… vibrant families.”
One child knocked over a jar of beeswax candles. Another began crying.
A toddler slapped a life-sized cardboard cutout of Pope Benedict XVI.
The blonde women flinched.
“Do you homeschool?” One asked politely.
“No Time,” said the Somali mother. “We just live.”
“Are they all yours?”
“Who else’s?”
A Catholic influencer approached with a selfie stick. “Can I film you for my channel?”
“Why?” asked the veiled teen.
“To show our shared fight for femininity.”
“We’re not fighting,” she replied. “We’re birthing.”
Someone tried to organize a hymn. The children screamed louder.
One boy climbed under the ‘Modest Skirts for Modest Girls’ table & disappeared.
A handout floated by: ‘Fourteen Ways to Signal Ovulation with Modesty & Grace.’
A tradwife leaned in. “We admire you, you know.”
“For what?”
“For keeping tradition alive.”
The Pakistani mother smiled faintly. “We’re not keeping it. We just never let it go.”
Another whisper passed: “They’re having more babies than us.”
A reply: “They always were.”
The pastor cleared his throat. “Let us pray for strong families.”
The Muslim women bowed their heads. The others stared sideways.
A child ran up & handed the pastor a half-eaten date. He took it. Said nothing.
At the back, an older woman knitted silently, mouthing prayers in Latin.
Her hands were fast. Her eyes were tired. Her stroller was empty.
One Muslim toddler hugged a statue of Mary. His mother laughed.
A tradwife’s eyes welled up. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered.
Another muttered, “It’s not fair.”
A third bit her lip, staring at her unused baby sling.
The veiled teen caught her gaze. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” said the woman.
“You can say it.”
“I waited too long.”
The church bell rang. Noon. The Muslims packed up & left for Jummah prayer.
The pews emptied. The booths stood still.
Only the knitting woman remained, surrounded by her yarn, her Silence,
& a century collapsing.
She whispered again, as if to the floor: “It was supposed to be us.”
Outside, the strollers rolled away... full.
Inside, the church sighed.
& the incense faded into dust.
🌅 🕌 7. Dawn Prayers, Dead Roads. 🚶 📱
The city was still asleep.
Trash skittered in the gutters. Streetlights flickered, & the Silence felt posthumous.
A fog hung low, smeared in nicotine yellow & LED white.
Kareem adjusted his hoodie & tightened the scarf around his neck.
The mosque minaret loomed ahead... small, unlit, quiet as a gravestone.
Behind him, footsteps approached. Steady & Filmed.
“Yo,” said a voice. “You mind being in frame?”
Kareem turned. The man was maybe thirty, pale, gaunt,
Carrying a selfie stick like a staff. A phone blinked red… A livestream already running.
“What for?”
“Remigration Truthcast. Episode 214. Just some thoughts & Real talk... Street level.”
Kareem raised an eyebrow. “At five in the morning?”
“Yeah,” said the man. “While they sleep.”
Kareem kept walking, & The camera followed.
“I’ve seen you before,” said the vlogger. “You’re that imam’s kid, right?”
Kareem didn’t answer.
“You know,” the man continued, “you’re not like the others. Quiet & Polite; Not a threat.”
“Cool,” said Kareem. “Still not talking.”
The camera zoomed…
The vlogger muttered stats about assimilation, fertility, & bloodlines.
“No One’s watching,” he admitted. “The algorithm’s shadowbanning me.”
Kareem nodded toward the mosque. “Maybe God’s not.”
They passed shuttered stores...
One boarded bakery, One busted kebab shop, & a vandalized bank machine.
Graffiti read ‘GET OUT!’ beside another tag: ‘We Are Already Here.’
“You believe in all that?” the vlogger asked.
“In what?”
“Faith. Destiny. Prayers.”
Kareem shrugged. “They’ve outlasted everything else.”
The man paused his stream. “Look, I’m not your enemy.”
Kareem smiled faintly. “You’re not my anything.”
“You’re smart. You could help fix things… This place… The West.”
“I’m going to Fajr,” Kareem said. “You’re going viral.”
The door of the mosque clicked open, & Warm light spilled out.
Kareem stepped inside. The air smelled of socks, soap, & centuries.
Behind him, the vlogger whispered into his phone: “They’re always awake.”
He restarted the stream. Title: ‘They’re Winning While You Sleep.’
No viewers joined.
He tilted the lens, framing the mosque dome against the lightening sky.
His fingers trembled.
A garbage truck passed, indifferent. A pigeon cooed from a broken sign.
He whispered again. “This isn’t hate. It’s truth.”
The screen glitched. His reflection stared back, pale & blinking.
He lowered the phone. Looked around. No One there.
Only the sound of someone coughing inside the mosque.
Kareem prostrated behind a row of elders, half-asleep but still breathing surahs.
Outside, the vlogger stood alone beneath the sodium lamp.
He checked his feed. Still zero viewers. One bot comment: ‘BUY FOLLOWERS NOW.’
The dawn cracked open like an old wound.
Light spilled over shuttered suburbs & silent streets.
The mosque door closed gently behind Kareem.
The vlogger muttered something into his mic. It sounded like Amen… Or Algorithm.
He kept walking. Past a burned-out pharmacy. Past a cracked billboard.
His shadow grew longer… Then vanished.
Inside the mosque, the muezzin’s voice rose, curling through tiles & throats.
Outside, the world yawned.
A single crow landed on the mosque roof, shook itself, & let out a hoarse cry.
The vlogger looked up. “Omen or optics?” he whispered. No One answered.
He panned his camera across the empty road... no cars, no flags, no flashpoints.
Only dust. & dawn.
A siren wailed faintly in the distance... ambulance or hallucination.
He didn’t care.
He muttered once more. “This isn’t hate.”
Paused.
“It’s longing.”
Paused again.
“It’s loss.”
He hit ‘End Stream.’
The screen turned black. His face glowed ghostlike in the glass.
🪦 🧕 8. Only the Cradles Remain… 🐣 🕯️
The last slogans are whispered, & The last forums glitch.
The last vlog goes live… But the babies remain.
The century ended in Silence. Not a bang, not a war...
Just absence spread across the map.
What was once loud became dust.
Signs peeled, Benches cracked… Slogans faded under sleet.
The mall was shuttered. The school playground was rusted…
Cribs sold faster than books.
Everything stayed open a little too long, like a party where everyone forgot to leave.
In the old square, a remigration banner still fluttered, torn in half by wind & Time.
A lone man filmed with a cracked phone.
“Episode One-Thousand-Six,” he whispered to no One.
His livestream said 0 viewers & his battery ticked red…
His gloves had holes at the thumb.
“We told them,” he mumbled. “We warned them.”
The mic picked up nothing but cold breath.
A young girl approached, maybe eight, scarf tied like her grandmother’s,
Shoes far too big.
She pointed at his phone. “Are you filming TikToks?”
He didn’t answer. Just stared.
“My mom says you used to yell about us,” she added. “But now you just mumble.”
He blinked. “You were supposed to go back.”
She smiled. “We’re going forward instead.”
At the edge of the plaza,
Four mothers pushed strollers across black ice, laughing softly.
One waved at him. Another handed him tea. The third whispered, “You look hungry.”
He took the cup. His hands shook. The steam fogged his lens.
He muttered, “This is defeat.”
“No,” said the fourth mother. “This is birth.”
The strollers squeaked as they rolled past.
Inside a nearby mosque, rows of coats hung low...
Tiny arms, tiny boots, sippy cups in cubbies.
The kids sang the Quran like lullabies.
The imam wiped a smudge from a wooden bookshelf.
One boy peeked outside & saw the man filming.
“He’s still here,” he whispered. “Still cold.”
“Give him a date,” said the teacher. “& a smile.” The child obeyed, barefoot on tile.
The man took the date. “Why?” he asked.
“Because Baba says even ghosts deserve sweetness.”
Elsewhere, the last remigration forum glitched into a dead link.
The last Telegram chatroom was invaded by bot accounts selling crypto.
No One reposted the old vlogs, & no One made new ones…
The microphones were pawned.
Even the microphones had forgotten what they were meant to record.
The only sound now was prayer, & the murmur of babies waking for milk.
No anthem played. No final message appeared. No statue was torn down.
The slogan on the wall read:
“The Future Belongs to Those Who Feed It.”
The mosque lights dimmed.
The baby room filled with soft murmurs of Arabic, Turkish, & German.
No subtitles & No livestreams…
Just breath & lullabies passed from hand to hand.
In One alley, an old flag lay trampled in snow. A child used it to wrap a doll.
“Red means warm,” she told her little brother. “White means snow. Black means the past.”
No One corrected her. No One filmed it. No One translated it.
& in that absence, a birth.
Not a war. Not a victory. Just a birth.
One cradle. Then another. Then another…
& a language no One would ever fully translate.
🕯️ 📴 The DOOM Cometh…! 🧷 👶🏿
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