The dead of my tribe are angry and grieving, and I have done nothing.
The dead of my tribe were beaten and killed for daring to walk the streets as themselves, the living of my tribe are still beaten and killed for the same ‘offence’. And I have done nothing.
But we must fight. All of us who can must fight. Because there are children growing up feeling as frightened as we did, as alone, as confused, as broken as we did. The dead of our tribe fought for us and our futures, and it is our turn now to fight for their memories and for the children who cannot fight for themselves.
I don’t know why I’m even writing this, except that I went to pray to them tonight and their emotions were so overwhelming that I need to get this out somehow.
Remember the dead. Fight like hell for the living.