this country¶

I'm not sure how long I can stay in this country. Standing by while the world ruptures. While fascism flourishes. While the struggle for liberation wages on without me. I retreat into the comfort of climate controlled buildings and cheap bananas while babies are caked in dust. My torment is immense, but it's all psychic. There is no glory in suffering, but neither is there in avoiding it. What agony am I willing to bear in pursuit of liberation? Nothing but my own mind? What do I lack but peace of mind? How far would I go? What excuses could I hope to muster in the face of this truth? That I am worth preserving. That my safety and stability is paramount. That somehow I, more than any of the 10,000 slaughtered, have some magic to offer the global movement that is worth protecting through cowardice. My sedation is upheld by those who care for me. In their wisdom and their sympathy, they gently guide me toward "self-care" and "doing what I can." I can be of no use to anyone if I "burn myself out."

Complacency and complicity disguised as tactical triage. And how dare I? What gives me the right to feel these things about myself, let alone utter them? I elicit pity for these words, but really, it is anger. Because if I feel useless, if I am a failure, then so is everyone else who stands by and does nothing. And that is an affront. And what use would I be anywhere else? I can't be a soldier, for I am weak. I can't be a tactician, for I am inexperienced. I can't be a medic, for I am untrained. I can't be a theoretician, for their theory surpasses my own -- they already make real whatever words I could write. Useless here, useless there. At least there I could learn. There I could grow. There I could hear what they need from me and struggle to give it. There I would suffer, but here I suffer regardless. Suffering is useless and irrelevant: only my labor serves a purpose. Here, my labor serves empire. There, my labor would serve liberation Here, my labor is teeth sinking into the throat of the world. There, my labor would be a balm on the wounds rent in my name. Here, my labor traps me. There, my labor would free me. The choice now is whether to continue in "building a life" for myself, constructing my own prison of comfort and security, or whether to change course entirely. There is no middle distance, no compromise that maintains the comfort while challenging its very foundation.