Life begins with a scream.
In a hospital delivery room, silence is deeply terrifying. Doctors and nurses anxiously wait for that piercing wail because it is proof of vitality, signaling that a newborn is strong enough to survive outside the womb, ready to draw oxygen from the surrounding air rather than relying on a tethered cord. That initial scream is a biological declaration of independence. It is the raw, unfiltered sound of life aggressively announcing its own arrival.
Biologically, we are taught that this sudden burst of noise is simply the sound of a newborn’s lungs inflating for the very first time — a mechanical, physiological necessity of the respiratory system.
But there is a much deeper, more ancient interpretation found within Sufi philosophy. In that tradition, a baby’s first cry is seen as the soul’s profound reaction to leaving its true home. It is a sudden displacement, a jarring realization that we have suddenly become vulnerable “guests” in a foreign, unfamiliar world. Philosophers often call this moment the dawn of existential questioning — “Why am I here and how will I survive?”
However, I view that first cry through a much simpler, more practical lens. A baby screams to ensure they are immediately perceived, held and comforted. It is a brilliant, instinctual demand for safety and nourishment. A baby knows, on a primal, unspoken level, that if they do not make a sound, they will not be fed. They understand that to survive in a vast space, they must first make themselves impossible to ignore.
Yet, as we grow older and navigate the hypercompetitive, deeply stressful corridors of a university like Binghamton University, we somehow unlearn this vital instinct. We forget that a modern campus functions much like that delivery room, where those who choose to remain perfectly silent often become perfectly invisible.
Over time, we are taught that being low-maintenance, accommodating and quietly hardworking is the most honorable path to success. We convince ourselves that if we just put our heads down and do the work, the universe will naturally reward us.
It is a deeply comforting illusion. We imagine that our silent, late-night hours spent studying on the fourth floor of Glenn G. Bartle Library will somehow radiate a visible glow. We assume that if our essays are meticulously researched or our code is flawlessly written, the results will simply speak for themselves.
We treat our university experience as if it were a perfectly objective scale, precisely weighing our silent efforts and dispensing recognition accordingly.
The reality, however, shatters this illusion every single day. I experienced this silent tragedy myself during one of my first history lectures at the University. The professor asked a complex question about regional diplomacy — a topic I had spent years studying. I knew the answer and had a unique perspective that could have elevated the discussion.
But as a dual-diploma international student still trying to find my footing, fear and a misplaced desire to not “take up too much space” kept my hand firmly anchored to my desk. I waited, hoping my knowledge would be organically “discovered” by a professor who was already overwhelmed by managing hundreds of other faces. The moment passed and my voice remained unheard.
In this silent bargain, students rely on a romanticized fantasy of academia — the hope that a professor will somehow sense their unspoken potential simply by looking at them. But a university is not a movie and professors are not mind readers. They are overwhelmed professionals juggling research, administration and massive grading rosters.
When a student chooses not to raise their hand, they are not being polite or humble. They are making it mathematically impossible for the educator to know they exist beyond a mere student ID number. Since that student chose silence, that spark of intellect remains entirely unrecorded. A potential mentorship is lost, a future recommendation letter vanishes and their unique voice is erased from the academic environment.
We see this exact same dynamic play out in dining halls, in student organizations and during exhausting group projects. There is always that one student who refuses to advocate for themselves. They take on the extra research, format the final presentation and stay up until 3 a.m. fixing their peers’ mistakes, all without uttering a single complaint. We have been socially conditioned to view this kind of silent suffering as noble.
It’s believed that vocalizing our needs, asking for help or demanding our rightful credit is a form of selfishness or arrogance — but it is not.
Advocating for yourself is a fundamental reflex of human existence. Rational self-interest is not about greed or stepping on others to get ahead. It is about the basic human requirement to be accounted for.
There is an old, universally understood saying: “The squeaky wheel gets the grease” or, as it relates to our first instinct, “the crying baby gets the milk.” In the modern academic and professional world, this is an incredibly hard truth to swallow. If you do not knock on the door, the door remains closed. If you do not articulate your worth and demand your seat at the table, the world will comfortably assume you are content with being left behind.
To be perpetually silent is, in many ways, to consent to your own erasure.
Choosing to be “loud” does not mean being obnoxious or inconsiderate. It means finding the courage to speak up in a daunting meeting, challenging an unfair grade during office hours or simply looking a recruiter in the eye and saying, “I am the right person for this role.” It is not an act of ego. It is a necessary return to that very first, honest instinct we all possessed at the moment of our birth. It is a firm recognition that our presence in this world requires active, continuous participation.
Life requires that we boldly occupy space and make our individual voices heard above the deafening collective noise of a university campus. Sometimes, a “scream” — a bold request, a firmly drawn boundary or a loud, unapologetic declaration of your own presence — is the only guaranteed way to ensure that your needs are met.
So, the next time you find yourself shrinking into the back row of a lecture hall or quietly absorbing the unfair burden of a group project, remember your very first breath. Remember that you did not arrive in this world in silence. You arrived demanding to be held, demanding to be fed and demanding to survive. Reclaim that primitive audacity.
A university, much like life itself, will only make room for you if you are willing to make a little noise.
Omer Mungan is a sophomore double-majoring in history and philosophy, politics and law.
Views expressed in the opinions pages represent the opinions of the columnists. The only piece that represents the view of the Pipe Dream Editorial Board is the staff editorial.