protest takes many forms

And silence has never saved anyone.

My brother has a pamamanhikan today at his fiancée’s place. That’s where I need to be.  I wish I could be out there in the protests. But I’m not. 

All I could do today is write. And for now, I’m choosing to believe that counts for something.

Because protest takes many forms.

It’s not always about being on the front lines. Sometimes, it’s about refusing to go quiet, even when you’re somewhere else entirely. It’s choosing not to move on like nothing’s happening. It’s choosing to say something even when it’s late, or soft, or unsure.

I don’t always know what to say. I’m afraid of sounding inauthentic, or self-centered, or misinformed. I second-guess myself. I write, delete, rewrite. And sometimes I go quiet, not out of apathy, but out of fear that I’m not doing it right.

But I’ve learned that silence might protect my comfort, but it doesn’t protect anyone else.

We don’t have to be experts to care. We don’t need credentials to feel rage. We don’t need to have the perfect language to convey what we mean.

Grief is not a contest. Neither is protest.
You’re allowed to feel helpless and still speak up.
You’re allowed to hold heartbreak and still resist.
You’re allowed to not be physically present and still refuse to look away.

Rabbi Tarfon once said, “It is not your job to fix the world entirely, but neither are you free to abandon it.”

This is what I could do today.
I couldn’t march, but I could write.
I couldn’t shout, but I could still refuse to stay silent.