Dear Child,
Yes you, the one in the pink frilly dress they pulled out, still clutching Barbie with frozen fingers. Bare feet. You child, who will never see another sunset, who will never feel your mother’s lips graze your cheek, never again be hugged, or scolded. You child, who will never get to read and write, learn your times tables, eat ice-cream, learn to dance, or watch cartoons. You child who will never grow old, work or marry or have children.
You child, and all your brothers and sisters, can you forgive us, for not doing more to help you. I say a prayer so that you may know peace in the arms of our maker. For you child, innocent child, you live on in our hearts and will never be forgotten.
In loving memory,
Ismat Ara Mahmoud
Ismat Ara Mahmoud says: “A recovering dentist, I am also a wife, a mother, and a writer. Born in Bangladesh, I came to London as child and have straddled two cultures ever since. Studying the Bengal famines and post-partition genocide, I cannot help feeling guilt at having been spared the collective suffering of my people, parents, and grandparents. This letter is my small contribution to acknowledge all those caught up in conflict and the collective generational guilt that endures.”