Things unsaid

Issue 

By Sarah Connor

LONDON — On the day that I am writing, this I attempted to give evidence as to the value of someone's life. A defence attorney flew in to the UK to obtain testimony that might mitigate his punishment.

My words were controlled and directed by those who knew the rules of the justice game. I could not find a way to tell my truth.

As a consequence, I have much to regret. I am as accountable for what I do not say as I am for what I do say. At this moment my concern is with the former because everywhere there are those going about the business of killing regardless of guilt or innocence.

I have always been able to find reasons for not saying anything. I do not want to upset anybody. I want to be liked and even loved. I want to live a quiet life. Compromise achieves more than confrontation. Expressing anger is self-indulgent. Hiding my feelings saves my friends as well as myself the embarrassment of dealing with them.

More than that, if I said what I think people would think I was mad because I think they are mad for accepting the status quo. I would be considered judgmental or a bleeding heart liberal, a left-wing lunatic who wants to ban Christmas and make everyone else feel guilty for having fun.

Getting involved is for losers.

I am afraid of the consequences of truth when the system is predicated on lies. Step out of line too far and I could land myself in jail.

I can always find good reasons not to say anything. I might even be able to get away with silence if it were not for regret. The nagging, niggling doubt that if, just maybe, for once in my life, I did find a way to articulate with accuracy my beliefs and my truth, I should start changing the world.

As the light fails and the darkness encroaches again, I can only shed tears for the omissions of today. I have not told the necessary truth when it was required of me. I did not reveal the extent of my love for both stranger and friend. I tolerated too much too easily.

The man whispering stories of burning suns and dying angels in the gutter remained unattended and alone with his visions. The horror of distant gunfire went unheeded. All the while, in a jail cell equally far removed from me, a man crouches on the floor scratching out sentences of optimism and courage. He does not have the luxury of freedom to indulge the apathy of indifference to anything at all.

Still, I tell myself, next time you will do it. You will wake up in the morning and make it through an entire day without something to expiate.

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