I was born behind walls—not the kind built of stone and steel, but the kind stitched into the very fabric of a nation. You don’t always see them. But you feel them.
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I remember being six when I first noticed them—when my mother pulled me away from the TV and said, “Don’t repeat what you heard. That’s not safe.” I didn’t understand. The news was just saying someone got arrested for asking questions. Just questions.
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But that’s when I first tasted fear—not the kind that comes with monsters or the dark, but the kind that wraps around your throat and squeezes whenever you try to speak.
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By seventeen, I had learned the silence well. I learned how to smile when I wanted to scream, nod when I wanted to fight, bow when I wanted to stand tall. We all did. That’s how you survive.
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But surviving is not living.
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The change started in me like a quiet itch. A hunger. I saw a man in the plaza once—standing alone with a placard that read: We were promised more. He didn’t shout. He just stood there.
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By evening, they dragged him away like a disease.
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Something inside me cracked. Not out of pity. Not even rage. But envy.
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Because for a moment, he was free.
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I started writing—at first, anonymous, behind layers of encryption. Stories, poems, essays, whatever I could. I wrote about grief and silence and broken promises. I didn’t use names. I didn’t need to. Everyone knew what I meant.
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They called me “K.” Just a letter. No face. No gender. No age. But my words spread. Like fire. Like hope.
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It was stupid to think I’d stay hidden forever.
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They came for me at 3:17 AM.
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There was no knocking, no warning—just boots and shouting and the taste of metal in my mouth as I was thrown to the floor. My laptop was still open, my last sentence unfinished:
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Freedom is not something we wait for—it is something we claim.
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They dragged me out as my mother screamed. My father, silent, just held her close.
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I didn’t cry.
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I was done crying.
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