After so many years of standing still I have learned to tell the difference between silence and absence. Today felt like a day wrapped in noise and yet all I could hear was the hum of things not said. People walked out with flags raised high like old lovers showing up out of habit. I saw children trying to smile for pictures they did not understand and a group of women dancing on the sidewalk as if they could rewind the world with a song. I guess I went out too pretending it was just another Saturday. But there is always a strange ache that crawls into my chest every time I hear someone say freedom like it is a word still under construction.
Behind every celebration there is a little betrayal. Not always loud or brutal sometimes it is just subtle a hesitation before clapping a doubt buried under pride. I watched a man wave a flag so hard his arm began to tremble. Maybe it was not just from effort maybe it was from holding on too long to a story that no longer fits. That is the thing about rituals. They survive even when the meaning does not. We inherit them like furniture scratched heavy and impossible to throw away. I am not saying I do not love where I come from. I do. But it is like loving someone who never really listens. There is a point where affection turns into endurance and that is the line I am tiptoeing now.
Childhood taught me things that adulthood keeps trying to erase. Mafalda with her little black shoes and furious honesty used to make me feel less alone. She asked questions adults could not answer and that always made me feel braver. But here I am now asking myself if anything has changed. I am older quieter a little more scared. I still love to question but I have learned to do it under my breath. There is a weight in the air between wires and mountains between chants and sighs. We all seem to be waiting for something pretending the waiting is part of the plan. I took a photo today of a girl holding a camera just like me. And I wondered if she was trying to capture the same invisible things I was.
Days like this are not made for resolution. They are made for wandering thoughts for standing too long in a single place unsure if you are mourning or remembering. The sun hit the clouds so hard this morning they looked like they wanted to break. And yet we all went out. We all raised our arms. We all tried. I think that is the part that hurts the most how deeply we want to believe in symbols even when they have stopped protecting us. I took another picture this time of the flag bending in the wind like it was tired too. I do not think anyone noticed but it felt like the flag and I shared something.
Every story we tell ourselves has a shadow. Today mine followed me through the streets whispering that freedom might not be what we thought. Maybe it is not in the anthem or the date or even the blood. Maybe it is in the way we look at one another when the songs end. In the way we keep showing up even if we feel like we are lying. I do not know if this is rebellion or resignation but I know that writing it down makes it a little more real. And maybe that is enough for now. To tell the truth quietly but completely even if no one claps.
Source
All photographs and content used in this post are my own. Therefore, they have been used under my permission and are my property.
Author's note: Francisco de Miranda is the name of the last image. A Venezuelan patriotic and hero.
National identity and pride is an important thing, because otherwise why would the powers that shouldn’t be try so hard to destroy it? If you think about the society we live in today where there is little national pride in a lot of countries, it’s sadly effective to demoralize the citizens.
There is a lot to be said about pride in local areas because that’s where we have the most effect in the grand scheme of things!