My son,
the inspector said your body was found floating,
calm, like you always were,
the water holding you
like a secret it could not keep.
I asked you so many questions,
but this silence—
this silence is the first lie you ever told me.
They took the one thing you ever truly studied, son,
they took it!
I wanted to scream,
but my throat was clogged with words I never said.
All I had were regrets and prayers.
I wanted you to remain silent,
and now that you're quiet,
I realize silence is not living.
Silence is not peace.
Life is never quiet;
the only life that is quiet is not living.
This is why I called you stupid.
I knew what this country does
to sons whose thoughts are louder than presidential motorcades.
You asked me,
Mama, are we living or surviving?
I couldn't answer.
Son, how could I tell you—a child—
the only kind of breathing I have ever known
is the one that hurt but kept you here?
I warned you not to fight the government,
that they kill people for less.
But you said they kill us even if we're quiet.
Son, I realize you were right.
But it's too late to take back calling you stupid.
They killed you for trying to live.
They killed you for remembering you had a mouth.
Son, you wrote,
"If I must die, let my death serve a purpose."
And the news read:
Young truth-teller killed in unknown circumstances.
I tremble, for the one who wrote the story might follow you,
for truth, here, is a contagious death.
But your cause echoes around the capital
like a prayer that came true too soon.
Son,
now I finally understand—
you were never reckless.
You were a vessel of freedom,
who bore truth and light.
And when they thought they had turned off the power,
they completed the circuit of your becoming.
So shine, my boy,
shine.
They extinguished your flame early,
but they cannot flip the switch on what you began.
Son, someday, when I join you in the skies,
the ancestors will ask me, what did your son die for?
And I will answer:
My Manyar* died trying to teach his mother how to live.