"The Sound of Silence"

In the green hills of Lower Dir, where the mountains cast long shadows over narrow valleys and rivers whispered ancient songs, there was a village known for its noise. Vendors called out in the mornings, children ran through the narrow paths laughing and shouting, and elders gathered in the square to argue politics over tea. Life moved in rhythm with sound.

Among the villagers was a boy named Zayan, different from the rest in one unmistakable way—he never spoke.

At the age of seven, Zayan had lost his younger sister, Areeba, in a flash flood. They had been playing near the river, just moments before the water rose. Zayan survived. Areeba didn’t. Since that day, Zayan had not said a single word. Not because he couldn’t—but because something within him had gone silent.

Many believed he was traumatized. Others said he was strange. Some whispered he was cursed. But his mother, Maryam, knew better. “He hears everything,” she would say quietly, “but his heart no longer trusts words.”

Zayan’s silence became a constant companion. At school, he never spoke but always listened. He completed every assignment, helped others when needed, and had an uncanny way of noticing things that others missed. His teachers admired his intelligence, but many still pitied him. “Such a bright child,” they’d sigh. “If only he would speak.”

Despite his silence, Zayan was not isolated. Children respected him, even if they didn’t always understand him. He often sat by the river where Areeba was lost, sketching in a worn notebook. His drawings told stories: birds soaring through valleys, people helping one another, and often, a small girl with laughter in her eyes.

Then came the conflict.

Two families—both respected, both powerful—laid claim to a piece of land near the village spring. It had remained unclaimed for years, but with time and growing needs, both families now insisted it belonged to them. The arguments began quietly but soon turned bitter. Meetings were held. Elders argued. People chose sides. What once was a peaceful village began to divide.

One hot afternoon, tempers boiled over in the village square. Men from both families shouted, pushing and accusing each other of theft and betrayal. Children cried. Women tried to intervene, but their voices were drowned in anger.

In the middle of the chaos, Zayan stepped forward.

No one noticed him at first. He was barefoot, holding only his notebook and a stick. Quietly, he walked between the shouting men and knelt in the dirt road. The noise slowly faded as people turned, surprised by his boldness.

He didn’t look afraid. In fact, he looked peaceful.

With careful hands, Zayan began to draw in the dirt. He sketched the village: the mosque, the school, the fields, the spring. Everyone watched. Then he drew a line between the two pieces of disputed land. And in between them, he shaded a small circle—the land that neither had claimed. Neutral ground.

Zayan looked up and pointed to the circle. His eyes moved from one group to the other. Then he did something unexpected—he placed his hand on his heart and looked around at the villagers, as if asking, Is this not better? Can we not share what is meant for all?

Silence fell—not the uneasy kind, but the kind that settles deep, like calm after a storm.

The village elder, Baba Rehmat, who had once dismissed Zayan as a poor, broken boy, stepped forward. He looked at the drawing, then at Zayan.

“He hasn’t said a word,” the old man muttered, “but he’s told us more than all our shouting ever could.”

Another elder nodded. “This boy sees what we do not—truth, fairness, and peace.”

In the days that followed, the two families came to an agreement. The land would be shared and used for the benefit of the whole village—a community garden and a place for the children to play. The fighting stopped. The village began to heal.

Zayan remained silent. He didn’t ask for praise. He didn’t need recognition. But something had changed. People began to greet him with respect. Children came to sit beside him at the river, watching him draw. He became a quiet leader, someone the village turned to in moments of confusion and crisis.

His silence no longer seemed strange. It became powerful.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the mountains, Zayan sat with his mother under the apricot tree.

“You said nothing, and yet they heard you,” she said gently.

Zayan looked at her and smiled.

Then, for the first time in years, he spoke—his voice soft, like the wind that rustled the leaves.

“Sometimes,” he said, “the heart speaks louder than the tongue.”

Tears filled Maryam’s eyes, but she did not speak. She only took his hand and held it tightly, knowing that silence had not broken him. It had built him.

And so, the boy who once carried a storm in silence became the calm after it. Not with noise, but with understanding. Not with words, but with meaning.

Moral:

Sometimes, the loudest voice is the one that says nothing at all. In a world full of noise, there is strength—and wisdom—in silence.