Silent Shadows: The Torment of the Missing and the Pain of Those Left Behind

 How many times have we turned a blind eye simply because the hurt hasn’t hit close to home? When it’s someone else’s son who’s missing, someone else’s grief that fills the air, how quickly do we look away?

It’s hard times in the mill, my son. Hard times in the mill!
Hustling, grinding, struggling just to make ends meet. The mill turns, and each day I’ve ignored so much—ignored the cries of those who lost sons and brothers, thinking, “Not my family.” I thought I understood pain. But when did I begin to forget the pain that belongs to others?

When the Gen Z revolution died down, the culprits stood up and said, “We concede.” And the country rejoiced. We cheered as if the mere admission meant an end to our suffering—as if it erased the missing faces.

But it’s hard times in the mill, my son. Painful times. Painful times in the mill! And while we celebrated, mothers, fathers, and families waited in a silence heavier than grief. Sons gone, vanished into the darkness, leaving behind only questions.

How often do we ignore another person’s suffering because it doesn’t cut into our own skin? Because our sons are still home, or we’ve convinced ourselves it couldn’t happen to us? Boys are still missing, yet we turn away, claiming, “We are a country united!” United in what? In silence? In willful blindness?

It is painful! If you have a heart that feels, imagine not knowing where your child has gone. Imagine mothers begging for even a corpse, just to be able to see him one last time, to know he’s been laid to rest. Imagine their pain—their unimaginable agony of waiting. This is not simply hard times in the mill; it’s painful times in the mill.

The king stands naked, and so do all those around him! Too distracted by their own fortunes to see the pain they leave in their wake, too focused on what they can take to care about what they’ve lost. And we—the people, the families, the silent onlookers—have we not failed, too?

I have failed. I have failed the mothers who cry. I am a man with sons of my own. And what kind of father am I if I stay silent while someone else’s son disappears into the unknown? What kind of man am I if I ignore the pleas and grief of a parent simply because it hasn’t come for me?

It’s not enough to raise a finger in curiosity. I refuse to look away any longer. For every son who’s gone, every family left in the dark, every soul who bears this pain in silence: I am silent no more.

As Chávez once said, “Once you educate the people, you cannot make them unlearn.” We have seen the future, and the future is ours. They think we don’t see. But we are faceless, and yet, we see.

gods of Taita Taveta, let’s make it in our own image. Next Thursday, stay tuned for our next episode. We are now on Facebook @Alve Mwaregha.

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