The desert was no longer filled with cheers or whistles. The crowd, once on fire with curiosity and disbelief, now stood frozen. Not in fear—but in reflection. MRD's words didn't echo like a politician's promise or a ruler's speech. They cut deep, like a scalpel slicing into a wound humanity had ignored for too long.
He stood still. No theatrics. No gestures.
Just truth.
MRD raised his voice—not in anger, but with the weight of a father speaking to his lost children.
"So my brothers and sisters, one more question to all of you—before I reveal the next vision. A vision not from my mind—but from the reality we buried for too long."
He looked directly at the crowd, his eyes scanning billions around the world. He spoke with sorrow—and rage hidden behind calm.
"Of the estimated 2.2 billion children in this world, about a billion of them—every second child—lives in poverty."
A wave of silence passed.
"Three hundred and thirty-three million children are living in extreme poverty, struggling to survive on less than $2.15 a day. Every. Single. Day."
His voice cracked—not from weakness, but from weight.
"1.2 billion children… are suffering in poverty. And we? We still argue about status, about worth, about borders and power and flags. While children die."
His tone changed—this time, lower… deeper.
"Nearly three billion people—half the world—live on less than $2.50 a day. One in every five children lives in extreme poverty. And every day, more than twenty thousand children… die. Because of poverty."
The crowd couldn't move. Some gasped. Others covered their faces. Many… cried.
MRD continued.
"Why?" he asked. "For what? What did they do? Be born?"
He stepped forward. "We give them birth. Even when we know we have nothing to offer them. No future. No safety. No promise. We birth them into suffering… and then blame life."
His breath deepened.
"If a child is born into poverty—everything stands against them. Education. Opportunity. Health. Hope. The system is rigged before they open their eyes."
He paused, letting the silence swallow his words.
"And we? We waste food at restaurants. We throw away what others are begging for. While a child somewhere… is digging through trash for half a sandwich."
Murmurs in the crowd turned to sobs.
"I didn't come here just to build heaven. I came to show you hell. Because unless we accept the truth—we can never create the light."
Then his voice changed again.
"We fight over religion. Over color. Over class. But let me tell you—when we die, there is no religion that will save us from the shame of what we did to each other. God gave us a heart, not a sword. He gave us blood—red, not rich."
A long silence followed.
"Every one of us… has the same blood. Same organs. Same breath. The only difference is our thought. Our greed. Our pride."
He took one last breath.
"So I ask all of you—please. Change. For our children. For the ones who are still dreaming… while starving."
He turned from the mic and looked at the horizon.
The world was not cheering anymore.
They were listening.
Truly listening.
Because truth—real truth—doesn't need fireworks.
It only needs a voice.
And MRD had become that voice.
The voice of the forgotten.
The voice of the change.
The voice of humanity.