October 27, 2020•212 words
History protected by stone. Stone as cold as their heart, hard as their deeds. Too high to look them in the eye and too blind to see realistically. Colonialist figures represented by a statue only represent their own. Standing solid at the same place every day, putting their true nature on display. Ages have passed and still they execute power over reframing our past. From a distance, power to show their existence. Demanding us to look up at them, while they look down on us. We serve it, while they don’t deserve it.
Their names forever engraved, silencing stories that could have been saved. Their faces still celebrated, dishonest stories overtime faded. Faded as the truth about their lies, uncovering their true disguise.
The one mortalized in stone gets more to say than our own. The colonialist from then is doing it again. Allowing the chaos they create, while being in a safe space. Their big presence, more important than their essence. Size did matter back in the day. But the latest is, the greatest isn’t the greatest. The silenced rejoice and reclaim their voice. Static durability will sink down into the abyss of resilient fluidity.
Yor, Ruub, Nik