Sanctuary in a Country That Has Forgotten How to Love Its Own
Sanctuary in a Country That Has Forgotten How to Love Its Own There are mornings when I wonder if I still belong to this country, or if it slipped from beneath my feet while I was sleeping. The streets I once walked without thought now feel charged with suspicion, lined with the quiet dread of patrol cars and unmarked vans, of ICE raids that arrive like storms with no forecast and no mercy. Somewhere, a family door splinters at dawn; somewhere, another mother cries into her hands. Safety has become so fragile that even silence feels like a risk. Exiled at Home I live in the place where I was born, and yet I move through it like an uninvited guest. The language of “law and order” now sounds like an elegy for the living. Men in suits write policies that turn neighbors into targets and whole communities into crime scenes. Fascism does not always announce itself with grand speeches and marching boots; sometimes it arrives in memos, in budgets, in the practiced calm of a press c...