The Tears of a Palestinian Mother: Oceans That Drown the Soul

There are cries that pierce the sky. Cries that angels cannot bear to hear. Cries that, if the mountains could feel, would cause them to crumble. These are the cries of a Palestinian mother—whose arms are empty, whose lap is cold, whose child lies beneath rubble, a name etched into the dust, a memory swallowed by war.

She doesn’t speak much anymore. Her voice has gone hoarse from screaming names that will never answer. Her hands tremble, reaching for children who aren’t coming home. Her heart? It beats only to remember.

And from her eyes fall tears—not drops, not streams, but oceans.

They are enough to fill all the oceans of the world.

Pacific, Atlantic, Indian—useless names next to what pours from her broken soul. Her grief could swallow continents. You could sail for years in her sorrow and never see land. Every mother in Gaza, in Nablus, in Rafah, has cried such seas—each one deeper than the last.

If her tears were rain, the entire earth would drown.

Cities would vanish under skies of weeping. Deserts would turn to floodplains. Streets would become rivers. Nations would build dams, but none could hold back this deluge of despair. Every drop falls with the weight of a child lost, a lullaby silenced, a life torn from her womb too soon.

Her tears would end every drought in every barren land.

No farmer would beg the sky. No child would go thirsty. No land would crack beneath the sun. From the Sahel to Sindh, every dry field would bloom—if only the world could harvest her sorrow instead of ignoring it.

They are enough to irrigate the world’s vast vegetation.

You could grow forests in the Sahara. You could raise orchards in the dust of death. Every fig tree, every olive branch, every vine would flourish if watered with her weeping. Her pain could feed the world.

And her tears could power the world’s hydroelectric needs.

With the anguish she spills each night, we could light every city. From Cairo to Cape Town, from Jakarta to Istanbul—no home would know darkness. But it’s not light the world seeks. It’s silence. And silence is what they give her.

For her tears—oceans, rains, rivers—are not enough to move the hearts of Muslim rulers and their Generals.

Not enough to stir even a mustard seed of pain.

They sit in palaces, they sign treaties, they sell silence dressed as diplomacy. While she clutches a blood-soaked blanket. While she rocks back and forth, whispering the Qur’an over the shattered bones of her child. Her cries rise to the heavens. But not a single General moves. Not a single border opens. Not a single jet flies—not for her.

She has nothing left to give. Just tears. Endless, sacred tears.

And one day, those tears will rise like a flood on the Day of Judgement, and they will speak. Loudly. Relentlessly. Each one a witness.

And on that day, the Rulers and their Generals will drown—not in water, but in shame.