The Price of Silence: Reflecting on Childhood Cruelty

When I think about my school years, blurry images come to mind, like an old film where everything’s going wrong. I’m ten years old, standing on the sidelines, watching. I wasn’t the one who started all the crap, but I was there when the bullying happened. I just stood there, like I was invisible, and every time I stayed silent, it was like adding fuel to the fire. Time has blurred the faces and words, but that gross feeling is still there — a sticky sense of shame that doesn’t fade, no matter how many years pass.

I remember one kid. Tall, quiet, like he didn’t belong in this world. That was all it took to make him a target. There was another one too — he had this spring in his step, stood out too much against the gray walls of our school. They didn’t let him off the hook either. And me? I just stood there, watching, like it was no big deal. They laughed, and I... just kept quiet, like an idiot.

Now, looking back, I see myself running with those guys, like it was normal. Like that was just childhood. But it wasn’t — it was blindness. Back then, I didn’t realize that words could hit harder than fists, and silence could be even worse. I wasn’t just a bystander — I was part of it.

Sometimes I think about finding that tall kid. I want to tell him, “I’m sorry for being such a jerk. Sorry I didn’t stop it.” But he’s gone. It’s like he disappeared, along with whatever dignity he had left, wiped away by all the insults.

The bullies probably don’t even remember it. They’ve moved on, guilt-free. But I carry this shame like an old, worn-out sweater — it doesn’t keep me warm, but it doesn’t let me forget. It’s a reminder that kids can be cruel for no reason. And I was one of them. I carry that shadow with me, like a weight I can’t put down.