Letter from the Trenches of the Soul

Letter from the Trenches of the Soul

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

They threw dirt on me, not knowing I was a seed.

They fired words like bullets, not knowing I was

armored in prayer.

The same fire meant to destroy me became the flame that revealed who I really am.

Ancestral Proverb,

Preface to the Letter

There are battles we fight that never make the headlines. Wars that rage in the quiet corners of our lives against betrayal, slander, gossip, and the silent sabotage that seeks to assassinate not our bodies, but our souls. This letter is not just written from a battlefield. It is written from within the trenches of my spirit. It is a message sent from the frontlines of a war that many endure but few can name.

It is a war I have lived through not just once, but over and over. Each time they laughed at me, each time they lied, each time they tried to bury me in shame, I found myself in a new skirmish. But I never came back empty. I returned from each fire refined.

I returned from each attack more grounded, more certain, more aligned with the divine pulse that beats in my chest.

I write this in honor of every person who has walked through the fire of defamation, the storm of sabotage, and the hell of being misunderstood.

I write this with the memory of my grandmother Celestine and my mother Marva etched in my soul two women who knew how to fight spiritual wars with the calm strength of sacred wisdom. Their prayers wrapped around me like armor. Their faith marched before me like a flame in the darkness.

This letter is for those who have felt alone in the war. For those who wanted to give up but didn’t. For those who’ve been lied on, laughed at, mistreated, and still dared to love. Still dared to rise. Still dared to laugh. Still dared to live.

Read this as a witness. As a weapon. As a warning to the darkness that we are still standing. And we are not afraid.

The Letter

Dear Beloved,

I don’t know if this letter will make it to you or be lost beneath the rubble of another battle but I write it anyway. I need you to know that I’m still breathing. Still believing. Still holding on to the thin, sacred thread of hope woven by the hands of my ancestors.

Out here, the ground trembles with the sounds of gunfire, but it is not the bullets that have wounded me most. It’s the laughter behind my back, the whispers that turn into weapons, the lies spoken so often they begin to sound like truth to those who never knew me. That’s the real war the one where your character is the target, and silence can be as loud as a bomb.

I have seen soldiers fall. Not from enemy fire, but from friendly betrayal. They walked into rooms thinking they were safe, only to be crucified by smiles. I buried one yesterday his heart still warm with love for people who never meant him well. He kept showing grace until the weight of it broke him. I dug the grave myself, whispered prayers into the smoke, and promised him I’d keep fighting.

Each day is a new battlefield. The terrain is familiar gossip laced like landmines, pettiness packed in shells, slander flying like mortar rounds. I’ve learned to keep my spirit armored in silence, my feet planted in peace, my eyes locked on the horizon where I know the Creator waits with open arms.

Sometimes I march through spiritual ruins. I see what’s left of joy after defamation burns through it. I see love bleeding out from wounds caused by people who swore they cared. And yet I rise from it. Not because I’m unscarred, but because I’ve learned that scars are proof of survival. I wear them like medals.

You remember Celestine’s stories, don’t you? She used to say that when Pharaoh fears your freedom, he sends armies to chain your character. And my Mama Marva taught me that the loudest liars are often the most afraid of truth. I hear their voices now the voices of those two warrior women. They echo louder than the lies. They tell me, “Keep going. You're not fighting alone.”

Out here, the night doesn’t just fall it descends like judgment. I’ve had to sleep beside betrayal, eat meals prepared by hypocrisy, and dodge bullets shaped like compliments. But even in the chaos, I’ve seen the hand of the Divine. I’ve felt the breath of grace. I’ve danced in the ashes of what was meant to destroy me.

And, beloved sometimes I laugh.

Not out of madness. But out of defiance. Out of revelation. Because I’ve learned that joy in the fire confuses the enemy. I laugh because every attack reminds me that I matter. That I carry something too powerful to be ignored. You don't shoot at shadows you shoot at light.

I’ve traveled across minefields of misunderstanding.

Climbed hills of humiliation. Crossed rivers of rejection. And every time I thought I couldn’t make it, something holy rose inside me and whispered, “You’re more than what they say.”

The bombs haven’t stopped. The bullets still fly. But I walk differently now. My steps are heavier, yes but they’re guided. My head is bloodied but unbowed. I walk not with bitterness, but with authority. I no longer ask why me I ask, why not me, if this is what refinement feels like?

Tell them back home that I’m not fighting for vengeance I’m fighting for vision. I’m building bridges out of broken things. I’m carrying the names of those who didn’t survive, and I’m making sure the fire doesn’t win. Not this time.

The war has changed me but not into someone hard. It has made me holy. More tender with the wounded. More fierce in love. More silent in storms.

And more sure of this: the Creator is not just watching. The Creator is with me. Marching beside me. Shielding me. Speaking through me.

So if you ever doubt what’s possible, read this letter again. Know that I made it through not untouched, but undefeated. Tell every liar, every mocker, every backstabber that their weapons failed. Tell them I didn’t just survive. I rose.

And I’m still rising.

With heaven in my lungs and fire in my bones,

Your warrior in truth,

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar