The Perils of Indifference
"...And, therefore, indifference is always the friend of the enemy, for it benefits the aggressor—never his victim, whose pain is magnified when he or she feels forgotten. ..."
This is a quote from Elie Wiesel's speech The Perils of Indifference from 1999. In it, he speaks on the horrors of the Holocaust that came with the indifference of the world and that as they welcomed the new millennium, the world should learn. That we should act should this happen again. He spoke optimistically that we would be less insensitive to the plight of victims.
And how I wish I could say he was right. Unfortunately, it isn't the case. Not completely. There are people helping. There are people speaking out. But the world lets it continue.
So have we learned?
So have we gotten better?
I don't know. I don't think anyone does.
But we need to try. Indifference has let this happen, and if we want to make progress, we need to kill indifference. There is no neutrality in this. Neutrality in a situation like this says: "We are complicit. We do not care." But we should care. If genocide happens to them, what will keep it from happening to us?
Remember that when you claim "indifference."
Hatred does not stop.
End the genocide.
A Person Is Not a War Criminal
A person is not a war criminal for going to school
A person is not a war criminal for wanting food
A person is not a war criminal for wanting to eat
A person is not a war criminal for trying to sleep
A person is not a war criminal for their face or religion
For their ethnicity, or other recognition
A person is not a war criminal for inane reasons you give
A person is not a war criminal for wanting to live
Free Palestine
Free Congo
Free Sudan
Free everyone under persecution
The Mirror
I avoid the mirror
I need to.
It's the only way to hide.
I can see her. Every time I look in the mirror, she's standing there beside me.
"What have you done to me?" Her eyes bore in the me, gnawing into my soul as we reflect in the glass.
I can not respond. There is nothing that could explain this.
She is me, but I am not her.
Years went by, and we seemed to be split.
One innocent and wide eye. The other bitter, panicked, and clinging onto a thread of hope.
I have become a Benedict Arnold to myself.
Ideas, words, and thoughts lost to time all for my own gain, which I never managed to earn.
Running to glory but falling to a void where I lost myself along the way.
The glass kept it all. It shows it all back to me.
It will never let me free.
I avoid the mirror
And the thoughts that scream at me when I look at it, looking for release.
I Can’t Believe You’ve Done This
I remember that day clearly.
Too clearly.
Everything from that day is burned into my memory, forever embedded into my mind until I die or I lose it along the way.
It was barely a month ago.
To think all this anxiety and stress started from a math class.
I walked into my third period math class on Wednesday— or maybe Tuesday? I can't remember anymore. All the finer parts of the day have become fleeting memories. I can only remember this.
Graphs. We were learning about X and Y intercepts. It was going to tie into systems of equations. I liked math so there was no problem in the subject or the lesson. Nothing was wrong— except that my teacher insisted on her fast pace. I can still hear it. Her dreaded cry of "faster! Faster! Faster!" It brought sickness to my stomach and hatred in my mind especially with tests. How I hated her tests. She never gave us enough time to finish— for we were supposed to have it completed to perfection by the halfway mark of the period since we were honors students and could handle unrealistic deadlines no problem.
I never liked going fast. What was the point? Rushing was how you made mistakes. So, why were we forced to rush in math, the most direct of all subjects? One mistake and you were doomed. This was the subject that represented the saying "slow and steady wins the race". I think I'll never know why she chose that method, but I do know it was ineffective. Not just for her students, but for her as well.
I noticed the mistake clearly. She plotted the y intercept on the x axis. So, I raised my hand. I told her, not unkindly, that she had made a mistake with the x and y axis. She didn't quite understand. OK. I rephrased it. It didn't work. OK? I tried again. Nothing.
OK...
People with power know how to make things hurt. I learned that quickly, considering she immediately assumed I was the one who wasn't understanding. It was humiliating to the point that if I were to go back now, I would tell myself not to say anything even if she said "If I make the mistake, correct me" because it was just a lie.
My throat closed up as my eyes watered. Frustration burned inside me, but I could not scream. From anger or fear of authority, I can't say. Emotions seem to fog everything up.
I could barely breathe as I heard snickering. I saw the face of the boy I hated as he silently wanted this go on. It was like a stab wound. This was not funny! I wanted to say. Stop laughing! But I couldn't. I was all alone as people stood bystander, offering no help at all until someone else managed to get her to understand. It makes my blood boil to this day because we said the same thing, but they said it with a louder tone.
"I am a moron. A complete and utter moron."
That's all I could tell myself. Until class ended. I was a moron for noticing, and I was a moron for trying to explain. She had never listened to me before. Not many do. I was too quiet. Too comfortable being alone. Too comfortable not being loud, or flashy, or fast.
Yet, my torment did not seem to be over for her. She had stopped me after class, asking me if she had made me cry.
"Yes."
"Ah! You are just being too sensitive!"
It stunned me. Not just the words— but the realization they gave me.
I was alone in this. The class could be filled to the brim. Other staff could be in there— our superintendent could be their and I'd still be alone. Despite a crowd of people, I'd be isolated in this class.
I wasn't fast enough on the tests.
I wasn't loud enough to be heard.
I wasn't apathetic enough to ignore being hurt.
I wasn't like the rest of them. Yes, I was an honors student— heck. Even in that class, I'd be the one my peers asked for help. But I was alienated. We had stuff in common, sure, and most of them never publicly tried to differentiate me, but the effect that class had on me showed the difference. No matter what happened, I'd be alone. They were able to find ways to cope. I could not.
But dear reader, do you want to know the worst part of this story?
The worst part, the part that always sticks with me when this memory creeps back in, is that everything I've written was not a horrible dream made to demonize someone. This was not a story made up for the prompt. This story is completely true.
A Writer’s Life
This is the story about how I died. Don't worry, though, I came back!
For writers, our deaths are the hundreds of works we never finished
Held in piles of notebooks and unfinished documents of story ideas
Our inspiration and motivation can be vibrant one day but lackluster the next.
To the random disappearances and lack of updates— then suddenly writing chapter after chapter in one day.
We could quit, but the thought of being successful and saying, "I did it!" Is too tempting.
The life of writers is fascinating yet tiring.