“Freedom”

You tell me that I’m free. Free to be me. You paint the most vivid illustrations. The free-spirited wind or the reckless river. Such grand and idealistic elements to tell me that I am free.

I look closer, for I am no fool.

I see the river restrained by its banks and the wind trapped in the leaves. They are not free.

I look at me.

You tell me that I can dream. Im free to be me. You tell me to be grateful for being in a great country. After all, I am free. I somewhat agree, after all, I can be me. The only thing that contains me is myself.

However, I look closer, for I am no fool.

I hear of children huddled in tin foil blankets, shivering in fear of the future. Cruelly separated from their parents. How are they free?

I hear stories about girls, barely teenagers, clinging to their mothers as their fathers push them into the hands of strange men. How are they free?

I hear of an adolescent boy, fearing for his life. Afraid that the colour of his skin makes him a thug, a target, a news story.

I hear about children in less privileged countries, who sleep and wake up to the sound of gunfire. How are they free?

I look at the people around me. I realise now that you lied to me.

I can’t be free, without affording its fee.

I can’t afford the fee of your social construct. Your privilege that pays this fee. The fee to be free.

But your fee oppresses another. So how can you say that we are free? Freedom comes with a price after all. One some people cannot afford.