A Record for the Days They’ll Try to Forget

There will come a day when they will insist it wasn’t as terrible as it seemed. When the detentions become mere footnotes in the history of policy. When the raids and separations are rationalized as necessary actions. They will try to forget. They will want us to forget. But I won’t .  Because every day brings a new horror, a different injustice. 
Just this week, in a nearby part of America, a mother and her child were taken away. A family was placed in detention. Not for any act of violence. Not for fraud. Not even for breaking a law that anyone can name. They will argue that crossing the lines drawn in the sand is illegal. But the truth is, it’s simply because someone decided they didn’t belong. 

ICE was there. Local police were involved. Brown skin. Black hair. That was enough. This isn’t an isolated incident. This is policy in action. This is the system revealing its true nature without any shame. The line between policy and violence is gone.. What was once whispered in secret is now shouted in the open. They’re not hiding anymore. The masks have come off. The cruelty is no longer hidden behind bureaucracy—it’s on full display. It’s intentional. It’s designed to paralyze. 

ICE raids are not just enforcement actions—they are acts of terror. They aim to instill fear in neighborhoods, in hearts, in the minds of children. And while white refugees are flown across oceans—welcomed, housed, and fast-tracked to safety—those with brown skin are left to be hunted. Deported. Detained. Denied. Stripped of safety, voice, and breath. In contrast, white South Africans arrive with an unearned presumption of innocence and humanity, receiving a warm welcome, housing, and protection, their narratives framed as victims rather than beneficiaries of colonialism. 

Meanwhile, Guantánamo Bay remains operational, ICE conducts raids openly, and border walls continue to rise. This is not justice; it is a rebranding of settler colonialism with a new passport. And the empire declares: welcome home.
 
And I’m tired of living in a space between grief and fear. I refuse to remain silent. I am planting my feet firmly on the ground, in this moment. I am writing it down. It doesn’t matter if anyone ever reads it. What matters is that I wrote it. So that when history is rewritten—sanitized, softened, and wrapped in polite language—there will still be records that say: 
We knew. 
We saw. 
We did not remain silent. 
This is one of those records. 
Let it echo.