Today was difficult. But I can’t imagine how much more difficult it is for [redacted], [redacted], and [redacted]—when press freedom is threatened, this is what rejected pieces of news will look like each day.
There is a fire burning in me. I do not know how to extinguish it or if I even should. Dowsing it with more fuel will end up hurting and obliterating myself; extinguishing it, on the other hand, seems like the most unvirtuous thing to do, as if today’s dissent and vocal outrage are just trendy come-ons, fleeting as jaded glimpses of imminent change.
Terror is being forced to face the unknown, knowing full well that chances are not in your favor. It’s the demon watching over your shoulder, out to get you on the sunniest day at the slightest whimper of protest. It keeps you wide awake at night as you stare into nothingness, your chest pounding erratically at heavy phantoms that will not appear. It’s knowing that there’s absolutely nothing you can do—no will, no might, no call, no prayer—that can save you.
Terror is not what a human deserves to wake up to each day, not least the average Filipino who toils for bread on the daily and manages to pray every single night.