Maa-e-Zameen (Mother Earth)
Lahore, Pakistan
2025, Junior, Creative Writing
Dear Maa-e-Zameen (Mother Earth),
How do I write a letter to you when my words feel so small against the vastness of your wounds? You—who have held me longer than any other, cradled my ancestors in your arms, whispered secrets in the wind, and painted skies with stars every night. How do I say goodbye when I am not ready to let go?
I have been searching inside myself for the right words, the right feelings, the right hope. I have gone outside, to the places where your breath still lingers—though more faintly now—the forests, the rivers, the oceans, the deserts that once roared with life. I remember when I was a child how your wild places filled me with awe. How the scent of pine and earth could soothe my restless heart. How the ocean waves sang lullabies that chased my fears away. Those memories are treasures, glowing softly in the darkness of what’s left.
Back home, I think of the narrow alleys where the morning sun filters through faded clotheslines, where elders sit beneath cracked walls, telling stories not written down but passed from lips to ears like precious jewels. They never learned the luxury of books or schools, yet they knew the language of the soil and sky—how the monsoon rains would either bless or betray us, how the sun’s fury could wilt even the strongest crops. Their hands, rough and worn, carried prayers for rain and protection, for children to grow strong in a world that often turned harsh.
But now, the air is thick with smoke from burning trash piles in the neighborhood. The river that once cradled fishermen’s boats carries plastic and poison, choking the life out of it like a slow, silent war. The trees that shaded our homes are fewer each year, their leaves rustling with sorrow. The bright laughter of children who once played barefoot in mud fields is quieter now, lost under the noise of machines and endless construction.
How do I tell you that even in this struggle, we still love you? That even when the sky darkens with smoke, my heart aches to see you heal? I think of mothers who cannot read the health pamphlets handed out at clinics, but who know instinctively how to soothe a feverish child with cool water and whispered prayers. I think of farmers, faces cracked by sun and toil, holding hope in their calloused palms, praying for the earth to forgive us.
I want to believe there is still time for us to listen, to change, to mend the fractures we have caused. But the fear lingers—fear that the next generation will know only stories of your beauty, never your breath, never your song. The grief of watching the jasmine flowers wither, the mango trees stop bearing fruit, and the stars dim behind a veil of dust feels like losing a piece of my own soul.
So here I am, writing this letter not just for you, but for myself—so I remember what it means to care, to fight, and to hope. If my words are small, may they be a seed, fragile yet determined, that someday grows into a forest strong enough to shelter us again.
I stand at the edge of a fading horizon, where the last light of your beauty flickers like a candle struggling against an unforgiving wind. And in that trembling glow, I see the faces of those who came before me—silent witnesses of your generosity and your pain. Their stories are etched into every grain of earth, every droplet of rain, every breath of wind that once carried the scent of blooming mustard fields and rich harvests.
The weight of our neglect presses heavy on my chest, a relentless shadow that threatens to suffocate the fragile hope I clutch. But even as despair threatens to drown me, I find a stubborn flicker—a defiant
ember deep within my soul that refuses to let the darkness win. It whispers that redemption is possible, that the wounds may yet heal, that the dying song of your forests and rivers can rise again in a chorus of renewal.
If love is a language, then let my heart be its loudest voice—singing a requiem for all we have lost, but also a prayer for all that might still be saved. Let us be the hands that mend the broken tapestry of your being, stitch by stitch, until your scars become symbols of survival rather than surrender.
Please, Earth, do not give up on us. Even as your breath grows faint and your skies grow dim, know that there are still hearts beating with fierce loyalty—fierce enough to endure, to protect, to restore. I promise to listen when you speak in the rustling leaves and the crackling fire, to honor you with every step I take upon your soil, and to carry your story forward like a sacred flame passed from one generation to the next.
For without you, we are nothing but whispers lost in an empty void—shadows wandering in a world stripped of color, meaning, and memory. And so I beg you, do not let your light fade into silence. Fight for us as we strive to fight for you.
Because in this fragile, broken love between us, lies the last hope of tomorrow.
And when the weight of silence becomes unbearable, when the wounds seem too deep for healing, I will call upon your oldest name— Maa-e-Zameen. You who bore my forefathers in your sacred soil, you who whispered lullabies through the monsoon rains, you who carried the prayers of mothers and the dreams of children like precious jewels.
Your strength is in our blood; your pain, etched into our hearts. In your quiet suffering, we find the loudest call to awaken and rise. Let this letter be more than a farewell—let it be a vow. A vow to heal, to protect, and to honor you until every jasmine blooms again, every river runs clear, and every star reclaims its place in the night sky.
For as long as I live, as long as the people of my land breathe, Maa-e-Zameen, you will never be forgotten.
Please, Maa-e-Zameen, do not give up on us. Even as your breath grows faint and your skies grow dim, know that there are still hearts beating with fierce loyalty—fierce enough to endure, to protect, to restore. I promise to listen when you speak in the rustling leaves and the crackling fire, to honor you with every step I take upon your soil, and to carry your story forward like a sacred flame passed from one generation to the next.
Because in this fragile, broken love between us, in the heartbeats shared beneath your skies and within your soil, lies the last, trembling hope of tomorrow—
the hope that Maa-e-Zameen will breathe again,
alive with the promise of life, love,
and endless beginnings.
With love, always,
A Child of Your Soil
Reflection
The idea for my piece was born from the urgent, growing grief I feel witnessing the climate crisis unfold in real time—melting glaciers, rising sea levels, poisoned rivers, and suffocating skies. I chose to write a farewell letter to "Maa-e-Zameen" (Mother Earth) to personalize this collective tragedy, transforming abstract environmental statistics into a deeply human expression of sorrow, guilt, and enduring love. The piece draws from memories of cleaner childhood days, the wisdom of elders who once lived in rhythm with the seasons, and the stark contrast with today’s realities: plastic-choked waterways, heatwaves breaking records, and vulnerable communities suffering most despite contributing the least. Through this contest’s theme—Connections to Nature: Looking Inside, Going Outside—I’ve come to realize that reconnection begins with accountability. True healing requires us to confront not just the external collapse, but the internal detachment that allowed it. My message is simple but urgent: we are not separate from nature, and unless we reclaim that bond through action, awareness, and justice, we risk not only losing our planet—but ourselves.