Voice for the Voiceless

After years, I found myself…
in a faded state.
Not broken.
Not loud.
Just quiet. A slow dissolve. A version of myself that's been whispered into near-invisibility.

Every day, I try to find myself.
Trace the outlines. Reclaim what I once knew.
But the more I reach, the more I disappear.
As if in searching for self, I’m only reminded of what I’ve lost.

And now, here I am.
Sitting. Writing this.
Living off watermelon and stillness.
Red fruit, white rind, green skin.
Three colours that meant nothing to me once — until they started showing up
in headlines, hashtags, and hushed prayers.

I would never compare myself to those in Palestine —
never equate my solitude with their suffering.
But somehow, the fruit tasted different this time.
Watermelon became more than food.
It became a brief symbol of resistance.
A quiet emblem of existing
when everything around you says you shouldn't.

This journal entry isn't activism.
It's not a manifesto or a call to arms.
But it's an offering — to those who are forgotten,
overshadowed, silenced, erased.

A voice for the voiceless.
Not because I speak for them,
but because I’ve tasted silence too.
Because fading has a flavour.
Because survival, in all its forms, is sacred.

Maybe this is what becoming means.

Not louder. Just clearer.
Not full of answers. But full of care.

If you've ever felt invisible,
if you’ve ever lived off fragments —
of hope, of identity, of fruit and faith —
this one’s for you.

You are not alone.
Your voice may tremble.
But it still counts.

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