Stories of Resistance
You can smell the air of resistance unleashed from bodies that barely sleep during their ceaseless fight. Incomplete stories doomed to repeat themselves generation after generation. After many years, they still don’t have any redemption song.
Every line on his face represents a struggle…and a loss. He waits for the same old bus every Sunday morning with his beloved hat in his left hand and his produce in his right hand. His feet are clean, yet they look dirty as if the soil of the farm had merged with his skin. It’s market day and the coin is in the air. Will it be a good or bad day?
She hasn’t been home in 55 days. The city hall has become her new home, while her husband works the land and defies the traditional roles to take care of their three children. She still has hope that’s why she spends the cold nights in front of the city square, waiting for the government to end the conflict in her town. People have been fighting. They share the same roots, but land has been stolen and power has corrupted the thread once they created. Nothing is sacred, anymore. We all have forgotten where we come from.
They chant what their parents are chanting, giggling between sentences of resistance. It seems as if they didn’t know what they are repeating, yet they do know what they are fighting against. They play with each other and hide behind protesters, they know their fists will do the same in the coming years. Oppression will never end for those who have the neglected roots.
Stories that make me wonder: where is my fight?