I watch those siblings crying over their brother’s body for my white supermacist freedom not to be disturbed.
But I’m not truly free.
I’ve got blood on my hands and in my mouth. I’ve killed those kids in Aleppo, in Damascus, in Nigeria- all over the world, even if I’m doing nothing. My smartphone is the mask the government gives me to stay blind. It feels like watching a horror movie and I’m locked in the theater. I’m handcuffed on the red velvet chair I sit on; Trying to strangle myself to escape from the torture of watching and remaining silent, but I can’t even reach my throat.
I try to scream, so that I get someone to help me. The cries of the children overpass my voice and those that handed me the phone keep my eyes shut. Where is the damn freedom you said I had? How dare you talk about freedom when I hear those voices and I cannot move from this blood coloured prison you’ve built for me?
Fuck your elitist freedom. Gimme some peace with kids going to school, fearless lovers and colour blind people.
That’s what my freedom looks like.
Poem by MareRubrum