Perhaps the greatest deception
is not the lie we recognize.
It is the one
that arrives wearing the clothes
of something we already believe.
We are surrounded by voices
telling us whom to fear,
whom to blame,
what is being taken from us,
and who is responsible.
Fear does not care
which door it enters.
Perhaps the work
is to become quiet enough
to ask:
Can I recognize deception
when it confirms me?
Can I feel another’s loss
without becoming them?
Can I see their humanity
without requiring their sameness?
Can we find enough
shared ground
to thrive together?
Perhaps there is a place
where we can begin.
Loss.
We may disagree
about how another should live,
what they should believe,
or what makes a life worthy.
We may even convince ourselves
that what another loses
does not matter.
Until we remember
what it is to lose.
A home.
A livelihood.
A freedom.
Someone we love.
A future we thought was ours.
Loss strips away
the labels we give one another.
The grief of someone
we do not understand
is still grief.
The fear of someone
we would never become
is still fear.
Perhaps our shared humanity
begins there:
when I do not have
to become you
to understand
what it would mean
to lose
what you love.
Who have I decided
does not belong?
Whose lose
have I learned
not to mourn?
Whose freedom
matters less to me
because their life
does not look like mine?
Perhaps consensus
does not begin
with agreement.
Perhaps it begins
when we can see
the human being
before the label.
Then we can talk.
Then we can listen.
Then we can search
for what we still share.
Not asking
who must surrender
for the other to win,
but how we might live
with our differences,
care for what we share,
and find enough
common ground
not merely
to live beside one another,
but to thrive.
Because no one’s humanity
is the price
for another’s certainty.
— a Torchbearer Wisdom by Corvalya