They walk, shout, scream for freedom, for equality, for justice, for an end to dictatorship, brutality.
I walk, with a pen in my hand, wondering how 11 years of life with them changed me.
They run for their lives. They run to be heard, to be given the right to speak, to vote.
I run, for dreams that I am still trying to define.
They vote, hoping for change and are cheated in return.
I vote and there is hope; there is change.
They are torn, burnt, broken and fatigued from decades of hardship and injustice.
I am torn in my thoughts, as I write, as I try to grasp what is happening to them, what is happening to us.
I am with them, in heart, in mind. I am broken, unable to raise my hand, unable to yell and fight with them.
I voted because it was my only weapon, my only way of giving them hope.
As we read the news and await an unknown future, they continue to scream.
I hope freedom comes. I hope that someone hears them. I hope we give them the hope, support and strength that they need. We are together with them, with their hardships.
But I have no power,
even my pen is dying as I have forgotten what it’s like to write from the heart.