On the lower platform, a faint inscription, as if written in ancient ink, read: They severed me from my body, yet my silence became the world’s. The woman’s face was still, yet not lifeless as if a single blink could return the head to her body to make that sentence visible or might rewrite history.

The eyes, closed in deep silence, seem to retreat from the world and into an unknown inner realm. “YOU ARE MY BAMYAN” is engraved on the base, quietly, like an ancient secret whispering from the cold stone, echoing a forgotten past.

What if history is nothing but silent wounds, each crack a border between being and oblivion? The stone does not speak; it merely exists. I run my fingers over her face — cold, lifeless-yet something stirs within. Perhaps this is history: not what you see, but what moves through you, unseen.

Soldatkvinnans ögon var tomma – inte av frid, utan av krig. Allt fanns där, dåtid och nutid, inhugget i sten. Kanske bar hon kriget inom sig. Eller kanske började kriget med henne, ännu ofullbordat i stenens sprickor.

The face is pale and slender, carved from marble, as if it belongs to another world. A red handprint lingers on its surface. Is it real? The stone says nothing. The same silence that lingers after a first kiss, or when you stand by a window, staring out at nothing in particular.

I read the poem. The words felt as though the earth itself were speaking: “Your blood returned to the soil, but your name, is eternal.” War had taken him, but not entirely. He remained—not in flesh, but in stone, in the carved lines that bore his name, in the eyes of those who paused to read.

At the center, a woman sits in a lotus pose, eyes closed, her face calm. She neither speaks nor stays silent—she simply is. Beside her rests a white wolf, still and quiet, a reflection of her essence. The scene is what it is; any explanation takes away from it.

Darkness imprisoned every experience, even sight. Rudabeh, a silent specter, circled the corpse in the palace’s dark hall, her presence casting me into a world of war and ruin—no longer the calm girl, but a statue from the era of collapse.

In Los Caprichos, Goya casts witches adrift in a starry abyss, blind and broomless—an allegory of ignorance soaring unchecked. The dense sky, etched with aquatint’s spectral touch, whispers of a master unbound, critiquing society’s dark truths in the language of shadow and light.

She was once separate, now a presence in my vision. To separate the eye from her is meaningless. They are one. Either she exists in my eye, or my eye has become her.

An extremely rare Mughal painting from Humayun’s reign (1530–1556), blending Bukhara school influences with Persian-Central Asian styles. The Taj-i Izzat turban identifies the figure as part of Humayun’s court. Cary Welch called it ‘eloquent’ in the 1985 India: Art and Culture exhibition.

Dictatorships are, by nature, unsustainable. Syria teeters on the brink of collapse, yet the true tragedy is this: from its ruins, democracy cannot emerge.The authoritarian structure, with all its characteristics, replicates itself in the form of fragmented and fractured dictatorships.

The shadow remains silent, as it always has. It neither speaks nor listens to our words. Have you ever heard a shadow utter a sound? This is the truth we must grasp: an ever-present, silent enigma, withdrawn from all forms of verbal communication.

”Först kommer stora drömmar, sedan en känsla av lättja, och slutligen en kvick eller smart ursäkt för att stanna kvar i sängen.”
― Søren Kierkegaard.

The rise of political conflict and war in our world indicates that we have entered an immoral age. The past is tainted, and the future is barren. Perhaps returning to Enlightenment ideals and Kantian universal ethics can help us reassess this harsh reality.

Grief is a room without walls. It is dark and empty. Words are buried in silence, as if each letter is trapped in a chain of night. The sorrowful soul seeks eternal silence, a peaceful emptiness that would free him forever from the words and thoughts that buzz incessantly within his skull.

Plato's Divided Line Analogy
Stages of Plato's divided line.