Untitled: Confessional

“It’s important to take into account here that not every country is like the United States, or even most of the Western world. While we as Americans take free speech for granted, in other countries, just saying the wrong opinion can lead to serious jail time for those willing to speak their mind.”
– Turkey Tom, from the video Amos Yee: Never the Hero (2021)
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"If I speak, I am condemned. If I stay silent, I am damned."

This has become the mantra of my existence, a relentless echo in my conscience, ever since the war between the Human Empire and the Forest Masters broke out back in October. As an outsider, my perspective is unique, yet I face a dilemma that weighs heavily on my soul. My nation, though not directly involved, is a close ally of the Human Empire, and it is within this alliance that my predicament roots itself—a dilemma coated in the grim reality of censorship, and the looming threat of punishment for those who dare to question the government's actions or alliances.

I write this not as a confession but as a testament to the internal conflict that plagues me. In my nation, the liberty to speak one's mind, to protest against injustice, is as foreign as a mass shooting. Here, ‘dissent’ is not seen as a right but a crime, which tips the scales of my nation’s policy of harmony out of balance. The laws are clear and unforgiving; criticism towards the government or its policies can lead to severe consequences, including imprisonment. This is a reality many in the world, especially the Western nations, cannot fathom, accustomed as they are to the freedoms of speech and protest they rightly celebrate. Yet, in the shadows of such freedoms lie nations like mine, where even a whisper of dissent can dismantle lives.

My struggle is not just with my nation's restricting laws, but with the moral obligation I feel to speak out against the atrocities committed in the genocide — if I can even call it that, as my parents call it nothing more than a conflict —carried out by the Human Empire and its army slaughtering the innocent Forest People by the millions. Men. Women. The elderly. Babies.

I have witnessed enough of humanity, in its myriad of forms, to know that not all humans are monsters. Likewise, I understand that the Forest People, demonized as terrorist supporters by some, fight for their survival and their right to exist. It's this understanding that fuels my belief in the possibility of peace, in the potential for harmony between the Human Empire and the Forest, if only the voices of the people, rather than the governments, were heard.

Yet, my previous attempts to voice these beliefs have only alienated me from some of my friends and from my followers across the globe. To them, my calls for peace are acts of ignorance and indifference to the plight of the Forest People. My insistence on dialogue and understanding is seen as naivety, a failure to choose a side in a world obsessed with black and white binaries. And perhaps they are right. Perhaps my refusal to respond to corruption by embracing anger and revenge does make me naive. But in a world aflame with anger and the need for revenge, is it so wrong to yearn for water rather than fuel for the fire?

The risk of speaking out again is monumental. Not only does it threaten to sever the fragile ties that bind my family, but it also places us in the direct line of fire of our government's wrath. My father, a foreigner who has spent decades building a life here, could see his permanent residency revoked, a punishment not just for me but for my entire family. The price of my voice, it seems, is the well-being of those I hold dear.

This is the essence of my dilemma: the choice between silence and the risk of persecution. To speak is to risk everything—my family, our security, perhaps even our freedom. To stay silent is to betray my own sense of justice, to turn my back on those suffering in a conflict far removed from my own life, yet so intimately connected through the web of international alliances and personal convictions.

In moments of despair, I find myself wishing for a path that does not force me to choose between my family and my principles. A way to show solidarity with the Forest People, to advocate for peace without endangering those I love. I dream of a world where such choices are unnecessary, where dialogue and empathy bridge the divides that wars, corruption and politics have entrenched.

Yet, here I am, trapped in the amber of my indecision, writing these words in the hope that they might capture the essence of my turmoil. This reflection is not an act of defiance but a plea for understanding. It is an acknowledgment of the role hatred and anger play in our lives and a reminder that we have the power to choose how we let these forces shape us.

In my heart, I refuse to let anger guide my actions. I choose instead to navigate this world with empathy, to understand that behind every conflict, every act of violence, there are people driven by fear, by a desire to protect what they love. It is this understanding that tempers my words, that shapes my refusal to embrace the forcefulness and tone that so many see as necessary in times such as these.

And so, I remain in my dilemma, condemned if I speak, damned if I stay silent. Yet, in this silence, I find a sliver of hope, a belief that there might still be a way to bridge the divide, to bring peace to a world torn asunder by conflict. It is a faint hope, perhaps, but it is mine to hold onto, a beacon in the darkness that surrounds us all.