Silence Between Two

Hate is a deeply intense and enduring emotion, rooted in profound dislike or resentment. Mariami understood that every Georgian who had the misfortune of encountering Russian soldiers knew this emotion all too well. Their cold, frigid eyes would scrutinize her people’s earthy features–hair as black as soil, coarse and unyielding–as if they were searching for a fault to justify their disdain.

She had never spoken of him–of the soldier whose tear-streaked face plagued her
memories. That night had been cold, the kind that bled into your skin and made the world feel unbearably numb. Mariami clutched the delicate cross draped around her neck, her lips softly muttering a broken prayer.

“Let the violence end,” she whispered, her words swallowed by the smoky, ash-laden air. “Let this be the last home burned in Abkhazia.”

Her knees throbbed against the cold stone floor of the church. The faint scent of incense curled through the air, quelling the chaos beyond the walls. The creak of the door shattered the heavy stillness, and a shadow staggered inside.

He dragged his leg, half-stumbling into the dim light of the church. His identity was unmistakable: a Russian soldier, battered and broken by the same violence he inflicted. Blood seeped from the jagged wound on his leg. His face was pale, eyes hollow with unease. Upon looking at his face, a grim realization washed over Mariami’s conscience. He was a boy–no older than she was. Once untainted by the horrors of war, he had been sent to carry out its brutality. She couldn’t help but pity him, his injured, limping body mirroring that of a Georgian’s.

“Water,” he croaked, his voice raw, his eyes pleading. “Please, I’m not here to harm you.”

Mariami hesitated before stepping forward. Her fingers brushed against the cool water jug. Pouring the water gradually, she watched it trickle into his cracked, bloodied hands.

“Thank you.” His voice was barely audible as he drank deeply, closing his eyes in relief. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The silence stretched on, broken only by his labored breathing.

“Why are you here?” Mariami questioned.

“Conscription,” He answered, his admission frank.

Instinctively reaching to the satchel at her waist, Mariami gathered herbal remedies and textiles. As her trembling fingers bound his wound, the weight of hatred and destruction between them settled on her chest. In the silence, with the boy’s fingers brushing against hers, something came into focus: that hate, so deeply rooted, was never meant to last. It was born of war, of fear,
of loss–but not of the person in front of her.

The soldier’s gratitude hung in the air, his whispered thanks lingering long after he spoke. When Mariami stepped outside, the world still felt heavy. The flames of war raged on in the distance. Yet for a brief moment, the space between them was different. It was quiet. And in that quiet, Mariami understood that some lines, drawn in anger, could be erased in the silence between two people.