No one was left to tell us your name, but I know you had one. We’ve never met, but I’ve cried many times, thinking of you. I march and boycott and engage politically and nothing comes of it. Wealthy and untouchable politicians in my country pretend not a word has been said by me, nor my peers. They ignore the weight of my vote, and voice, which is easy to do, as neither weigh very much in their balance. They claim your life was nothing more than the inevitable cost of doing business — the business being their brand of politics, which cares only for power and profit and is devoid of care for those they have othered — but I know the cost of your life was not inevitable, only intentional. Intentional on the part of colonisers and capitalists. They don’t care how precious you were. I tried to lift up your voice with my voice, hoping I could carry your words further, because my voice is in the richest place on earth, buoyed by wealth stolen from everywhere else. Instead I learned the breadth of my powerlessness. I’m sorry to say that I’ve achieved, in all likelihood, nothing. I’m sorry I did not manage to protect you. I carry the weight of your death. I continue advocating for a future where all of us are valued, deemed precious and worthy, and fear that day won’t come. I fear that I’m not loud enough, and not effectual. For you, I will keep trying. I hope when I die a life was spared, and still being lived to the fullest, because I kept trying.
Minho