Sanctity of Hypocrisy
What is pride to a body that spends its life afraid to leave footprints in the sand?
What is patriotism to a soul that has never left town, yet never feels at “home”?
What is comfort to a child that lurks in the shadows of a motherland that refuses to hold their hand?
What is it like to be so marginalized, your entire purpose for existence is to be the literal margin on our flag, a fitting ‘liberal’ image for our brand?
What is it like to be doused in shame before you’re even granted a name, for the womb that bore you has also spent years hiding themselves away? Regardless of what they say, you’re never truly safe for it takes a simple slip of the tongue for your entire world to go up in flames. So you sit silently in uniformed classrooms memorizing the foreign names of prophets and how others pray because that’s the only way to get a passing grade in a country that was built on the promise of room for all, but somewhere along the line, your rights were erased. Instead now you listen to your woke friends jump to support victims of atrocities all over the world but draw the line and dub it too complicated to complain, every time you bring up your pain. For there’s nothing wrong with extending their support but it’s convenient how carefully their sympathy is framed.
What is it like to watch our leaders stand up for ‘us’ at international forums, knowing you’re implicitly left out of the tirade? Hearing them go off at those who have committed wrong against our people, while you’re unable to guarantee peace for your loved ones even as they’re laid in their graves? What is it like to have to dig a new grave every time your words are misconstrued, while watching the majority get away with blatant disrespect, by merely claiming it was just a mistake? What is it like to be constantly left out of the narrative of your own country, only to then be poached for our benefit to boost the image of our state? To awaken to the sudden celebration of a new temple circulated like propaganda, while your own places of worship are barely ever safe. For there are always self-righteous hooligans polluting the streets, ready to stone you upon merely discovering your faith.
What is it like to never feel at home, yet to still somehow harbor hope that perhaps tomorrow will bring change? That perhaps tomorrow all the girls that leave their homes will not end up photographed as another minor ‘wed’ to a predator on the front page. That the looming threat of blasphemy will cease to exist and you won’t be reduced to a statistic - that individuals can once again learn from one another through candid discourse and debate. That our differences will give us more reasons to celebrate. That your mere existence would no longer justify torture, abductions, murder, and rape. That perhaps one day, you too will be looked at as just another face, one that doesn’t need to hide itself away, but can own every part of your identity, and be openly and fully embraced.
For this I bow my head tonight and pray. And regardless of the language or ritual, Divinity will still hear that the intents muttered are the same. I’d imagine that’s all that matters anyway.