I have been a coward.
Not in the way most people think of cowardice—not in the face of war, not in the presence of danger, but in something just as profound: silence. I have watched my country unravel, its people groaning under the weight of economic collapse, unemployment, insecurity, and endless cycles of suffering. I have seen the headlines, the mourning, the protests, the fleeting outrage. And yet, I have written nothing.
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Is it cowardice or resignation? Perhaps I have hidden behind the popular notion that "Blacks don’t read." Would my words have changed anything? Or would they have joined the countless voices before mine, echoing into the void, unheard and unimplemented?
Or maybe, just maybe, I fear the consequences of writing at all. After all, in a place where citizens are expected to be seen and not heard, words are dangerous. They stir minds. They challenge authority. They expose the truth. And in some places, truth is the greatest crime of all.
Still, despite my thoughts, my internal debates, my guilt—I have chosen not to write.
Because what difference would it make? Because fear still grips my pen.
Yet, even as I sit in this silence, one question lingers: Am I truly protecting myself, or have I already surrendered?
Jean-Paul Sartre once said, “Once you hear the details of victory, it is hard to distinguish it from a defeat.” Perhaps this is my own kind of defeat—one where I win nothing, except the comfort of staying unheard.
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