On leaving and staying
This is the only place you know. These are your people. But are they, though? Some are, but not all.
What do you mean by 'my people'? This is my culture; they speak my tongue, they look like me. We grew up together. Dreamt together. But every few months, I feel like leaving. Everyone wants to leave. Everyone wants to stay.
This is your land. You are hopeful, raised to be optimistic, wanting to change the world. If you can change the world, surely you can change your country.
But what *is* a country? It's its people, your people. They are unrecognizable now. Some are animals, most are angels. The animals are getting louder, and the angels are, well, angels. You cannot express yourself without being labeled seditious. Everyone loves labels. Labels are good.
You are a student of history, you think you are smart and thoughtful. You understand how history influences the present. You empathize, are patient, and want to see progress, your version of progress. So do they! But why care for them when they don’t care for you?
You want to be with people like you, who think like you. Leaving means being an alien, a second-class citizen, judged by the color of your skin, and the accent of your tongue. Here, you are more privileged than most.
But you just need to find your tribe there, as I have here. If it's the same there as it is here — you just need to forget the nation and find your people, then why bother? You have your people here too.
You stay, you live in a prison; the walls are closing in. You can’t be yourself; your people do not feel safe. Some do.
You feel this anguish because you think they are your people, this is your home. You can't leave your family, your people.
You forget. You are someone building the future, and everyone says the future is here.
The future is here, and I believe in it and want to live in it. It’s just that, I don't want to wait for it. But I do anyway.