It’s been some time now that I have had feelings and emotional responses (that are hard to put into words) pushing and seeking a way to make their way out, I feel like a pressure cooker that is reaching its limits, and still I do not find a way to let the steam out. Because that’s all the words that follow are, steam, air, nothing.
I am sickened by the privilege that I have. A privilege that is a result of random encounter between two individuals who decided to get married. Two individuals who were also privileged. And my marriage to my privileged husband will one day produce children born with privilege. We did nothing to deserve this privilege. In fact, this privilege exists by feeding on the systemic injustice of the world around it.
Every day there are stories about a black or latino youth being shot in the US, their crime: the color of their skin. Every day there are stories of a new attack in a crowded city center, in a remote village, in Pakistan, Iraq, Syria, crimes fed on religious fanaticism and greed. Every day there are stories of girls in Nigeria being used as bombs and human shields. Every day another woman is killed, abused, raped by her husband, father, brother, or passerby; her crime: having a vagina.
These are not stories, these are lives. That woman, that child, that villager, that latina, that african american boy, could have been me. That could have been you. But we are a result of a probabilistic outcome, it means that we are the lucky ones and someone else suffers.
I am not sure if I will be alive to see how we stick it to probability and we unite as a human race to defend the marginalized, to demand justice, to fight for the rights of our neighbors.
Until then, all of us are an accomplice to religious extremism, to police brutality, to misogyny and sexism, to racists and to the injustice that surrounds us.