Who will hear me? Who will stop, listening and then move to action after hearing me? I am a nobody, as most of us are. We are born, go to school, get a job, work for ten or 12 hours a day, sometimes six days a week. We receive a salary that never is enough, a job that never fills our aim to grow or be better. We just exist.
Every four or five years, we become essential. They beg for our votes promising changes, equality and investments. My children will collect what they are promising, which makes them believe I should choose them.
Next day, the victorious, turn their face when crossing my path. They refuse to listen to my questions as I am now, invisible. Day after day, I am pushed to the limits. Life is good for some, not for most of us. Those who are in the middle blame us when taxes go high when food prices increase when the streets become our home—a mix between despising and indifference. Many times, I preferred the hate because at least we were acquainted. The indifference kills.
I know a young mother who died because of indifference. She was poor; she was black; she was a single mother; she was something not valuable. She couldn’t work, without money we know we become a number in a computer at the DWP department, transformed from flesh and blood to bites. We were forgotten in the middle of millions of other numbers, unaccounted on the HMRC, useless for the politicians.
And there is the news. Painted in dark colours, we are the vampires sucking the welfare system. We lie low, like big cats waiting for the opportunity to defraud, to obtain what is not right. All said in angry and upsetting words. We the poor are blamed for our own state. We choose to roam the streets under the rain, scorching sun, even snow. We decide to assemble our tents under bridges just because we are too lazy to work, study, make our own life better. I cry every night, fear takes me, and I ask why I did to deserve that. The question is still unanswered.
What amazes me sometimes is I am not the only one without a voice. How many, in the distant villages and small cities far from the power centre are silence because they are not powerful enough or not important enough. People living there aren’t necessary; their ideas, concerns and fear aren’t important. What do they know about politics? Why do they question the politicians’ decisions? The promised made for them gone with the wind, lost in the offices and restaurants, in the feast with important donors, in holidays paid for those who want to take the steering wheel of the country.
Nobody hears us. Nobody hears them. Everybody says we are to blame. Everybody says our skin colour makes us less critical. Everybody says our ancestral make us a pariah. Everybody agrees we should go. Go to where? I was born here; my mother worked to them all her life why they don’t see how they are playing with us, creating a war where only they will win.
Win is important. A country uses our greed to win to manipulate our decisions, our vision, our fear. Win makes everything acceptable, including lying, cheating, breaking the law. How a country could fall on this trap, the trap that winning gives them everything. It was a big untrue, the most overstated affirmation that wins means we are better. We aren’t. They still not hearing you and me. We even only a number in a statistic, an “it”. Our humanity had no meaning to them, dreams we dreamed are smoke fast lost in the middle of nothing. Who are we? That’s a constant doubt taking my nights and days. Who am I?
I am watching on the border of the abyss we eagerly run to. I don’t know what to feel. Sometimes I just want they jump. Maybe they could understand what a cold and hard ground meant. Others, I hope they awake and run back. Poor me, I am deluded. I have no future last, no hope to hang. They win, they win, I lost.