I. Konzo
a paralytic scream of protein-deprived flesh.
Undocumented graves
Cradle the frail bodies of children,
singing a lonely lullaby for the starved,
broken. Bodies.
There’s no funeral for the one
Born in the night,
without health care, or light.
their only gift: life —
Stripped bare by neglect and
II. Forgotten
They were fed what the earth gave:
Roots that grew in drought-cracked soil
and rinsed in river dust.
Hobbling on twisted legs,
a mother searched barren ground.
Finding only
a cursed cassava root,
she took the chance, dancing with death
for the hope of just one more day. One more for the
faint, tiny heartbeat that still beat inside her.
But food turned to poison.
Konzo killed them both.
Feeding, then bleeding them — inside out.
Hiding cyanide, it twisted through their insides
like a rusted blade.
Their prayer for life
answered with death.
III. Apathy
No care or compassion for the
Tortured, lost, and abused. None for Mamadou,
his teeth missing, his fingers gone. His
body swallowed by the earth,
now lying in the dirt.
We don’t give them a second glance.
Because they had nothing to give.
They ask, “Do we have blue blood
and do others have red?”
Is it the color of their blood? Or
The colour of their skin.
No livestream.
No hashtags.
No outcry.
No aid.
Contained in their own hell, it’s
Their problem. Never ours.
Only when they cross our borders,
do we notice. do we act.
Altruism doesn’t move us.
Self-interest, does.
IV. Blame
The U.N. kills the data.
The minister shoots the messenger.
The world blames the rebels and
the rebels the world.
The dead don’t blame.
And so, we go on
arguing about ethics
as they starve.
Debating protocol
as they die in silence.
Writing poetry,
as if verses could resurrect the dead.
In the margins
of a report that no one reads,
the names are never written.
their graves are never marked.
V. Ignorance
How many?
are ghosts behind graphs,
drowned by the disputes and
strung between world powers.
How many?
are running from a burning
home no one tries to save.
Scattered like ashes,
5.6 percent — disappeared.
6 percent — dead.
1.4 million — driven away
in a country whose name we do not recognize.
They are only numbers. Never lives.
So tell me —
How many bodies make a tragedy?
How many more until we notice?
That our ignorance
Kills them, too.
Turning away from the world’s deadliest
humanitarian crisis, we smile — blindfolds
over our eyes.
One day, we’ll return,
our fists raised and our flags ready,
but won’t find anyone here.
About the Author
Jane Helen Lee is a Korean-American writer currently based in Seoul, South Korea. She has been recognized by YoungArts and the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards for her work across screenwriting, poetry, and fiction and is an alum of the Kenyon Young Writers’ Workshop. She also serves as Editor-in-Chief of Unseen, the academic journal of the Korean Youth Honor Society, and finds joy in writing, debating, and volunteering at her local rehabilitation center.
