Accidental Excavation

I am history. 

I am the secret struggling to be known. I am the silent shriek of the gagged; the hushed whispers of the free. I am woman, man, girl, boy, aging, young. I am not unheard of but I am what only few have seen. I am concealed behind tight-lipped faces and eyes perpetually cast down but I wish not to remain hidden. They say I am a teller of tales; and with that I concede. For it is a tale not anyone except I know by heart. It is a tale I am silently coerced not to speak of; a tale I long wished I did not have to star. It is a tale of futures lost, pasts broken, and present shamed. It is a tale born from humanity’s darkest times; a tale of a young girl sold into harems, of a teenage boy scarred to succumb, of a human wronged for the sake of war. My voice is hoarse from its lack of use but this time, I will scream. I am the oppressed staring back, unafraid and unashamed, at the face of my oppressor; shouting for the justice that is mine. I cannot be subdued. 

I am freedom.

I am history.
I am the ear that listens. I am the receiving end of the call. I read the lines between the broken sobs; I hear the plea from a practiced line. I put words into paper and shape them into paper bridges stretching over dark waters of doubt to let the stories pass. The stories rise from ink and turn into words once more; words that grow louder and louder until they reverberate all over the hills and seas. I am the social worker, the documenter, the teacher, the reporter, the legislator, the trail of help for those who had called me. I am unwavering. 

I am hope.  

I am history.
My voice rings from the distant borders of Nigeria to the serene skies of The Hague. I speak in different tongues; and yet, I speak the same language. I am the conjugation of brilliant minds; the unanimous approval of a council; the fulfillment of a thousand dreams. I am the sound of a pen scratching into the parchment; the echo of a tapped microphone perched on a policymaker’s desk; the deafening applause of humanity. I am the doctrine learned by the soldier – that more than a fighter, a soldier is a defender; of what is right and what is humane. I am the law demanding obedience from the rulers – may they be of politics or principle. I am power gifted by the powerful to the powerless. I will win. 

I am justice.

I am the answered prayer; the now-told story; the much-desired transformation.
I am strength. I am courage. I am peace of mind.

I am history and I am changing.

This is a literary piece I wrote way back 2014 about sexual violence in conflict. I'm calling it a literary piece because I do not know if it can even be classified as a poem or an essay. Haha. I discovered it when I accidentally pressed the Notepad button on the time machine that is my ten-year old yahoomail account. 

It's weird reading this when I have no recollection on why I even wrote it to begin with. I think this may have something to do with the Conflict and Fragile States World Bank e-course I took (and eventually abandoned) back then. Hehe. 

I don't remember being this emotional about sexual violence in conflict. I'm calling it emotional because there's no way I'm not emo when I wrote this. It's rather raw and non-cerebral. I was probably high from inhaling the polluted Manila air when I wrote this or something.