The night thickens like a shroud around me. The gallows loom—silent, unmoving—casting their shadow over the earth that birthed me. They say I will die at dawn. But what is death to one who has already seen his people’s spirits crushed beneath foreign boots? This cell holds only my body. My mind and heart roam free over this stolen land, through forests, rivers, and mountains that have known us far longer than these invaders.
I am not alone. The ancestors are here, their echoes carried by the winds that find cracks in these walls. They remind me: this is not an end. It is but a moment, a breath in the long tale of our people. The colonizers think they can sever my thread from this land’s fabric, but they cannot. We are woven into the very roots of the soil. Our stories lie buried beneath their cities, their laws, and their lies.
They came with guns and flags, laws and language, thinking they could remake us in their image. But we are not theirs to mold. We belong to the earth and to each other. They tried to rewrite our history, convincing us we were born from their conquest. But we know better. Our story began long before their arrival, stretching back to our ancestors, the songs of the winds, the rhythm of the land. We cannot be defined by borders or the cages they built for us.
I did not take up arms out of love for violence. I fought because there was no other path. To do nothing would have been to betray everything we are. This battle is not just for the soil beneath our feet, though the land is sacred. It is for our right to define ourselves, to speak our truth in our own tongue, free of their judgment and chains.
Liberation is more than removing their flags or breaking their hold on our land. It is breaking their hold on our minds. It is destroying the lie that their way is the only way, that their gods, cities, and laws are superior to the ways we have known for centuries. Their civilization is a mask, thin and brittle. Beneath it lies the rot of domination, control, and conquest. Ours is older, deeper, built not on bones but on balance, reciprocity, and respect.
They believe that by hanging me, they will end this struggle. They think the rope around my neck will snuff out the flame. But they are wrong. My life is not measured by the days I walk this earth but by the fire I have ignited. That fire burns in our people’s hearts, flows through the rivers, sways in the trees, and beats with the rhythm of drums that will never fall silent.
Our rebellion is not just rejecting their power; it is reclaiming our own. It is the audacity to dream of a world unshaped by their oppression and greed. It is remembering who we are, healing the wounds they inflicted, and rebuilding what they destroyed. It is looking beyond their narrow vision and seeing a future where our stories and wisdom are not just remembered but lived.
I may die at dawn, but they cannot kill what we have begun. They cannot kill the seeds we have sown. For every tree they cut down, a forest will rise. For every life they take, a hundred more will stand, unbowed and unafraid. They cannot defeat us because we are not fighting for a moment—we are fighting for eternity. For the land. For the soul of the land.
As dawn approaches, I do not tremble. I do not fear the rope or the death they believe awaits me. I know this is not the end. It is the beginning of a new chapter in our story, one that will be told long after their empire crumbles into dust.
Let them hang me. Let them think they have won. They do not see what I see. They do not hear what I hear. The land sings. The ancestors rise. And we, the sons and daughters of this soil, will reclaim what is ours—not just the earth beneath our feet but the very essence of our being.
They cannot hang the truth.
