The beginning of change

I was never interested in politics. The hypocritical power struggle in which men culminate in a relentless attempt to assert their identity, it has always terrified me. I shunned it.

In my college days, when the wave of youthful adrenaline washed over us and gave us the apparent illusion of potential change, promising student protests flourished. I was there on the streets, with an idea, with a passion and a belief. I somehow felt little, like a solitary piece, but not an expendable piece, like the thousands of grains of sand thrown aside by the whip of the ocean, but rather a fragment of a bomb that holds the power to crumble walls of oppression. That was the only close experience with what I considered politics. It was, as it seemed to me, a brief encounter with the disappointment of unfulfilled promises.

Transitioning to life in America, having a voice in politics was nowhere near a priority. In the years that followed, during occasional conversation in various social gatherings, I would nod my head in disapproval or approval, make light comments, and leave an impression that I was following the conversation. In rare instances, I would express my judgment just to balance the existing tone of the passionate speakers.

Today, many years after my student protests and social silence, the flame of protest is once again ignited by the spark of injustice.  On the streets of Los Angeles, San Francisco, San Jose, Chicago, people are hurt. Broken. Angry. That’s enough of a reason for reform. I am angry too. How much longer? I am still not interested in politics. I grew up. I care about people. I will not be disappointed this time. I will not be silent. I am a voice too. BLACK LIVES MATTER!