My prison was built early.
I was a refugee boy in Uganda...
In school, they called me
slurs because I was a Tutsi.
A bigger boy threw me against a brick wall. The lesson was clear: to survive, I had to be silent.
But, everything scattered when I saw my father, a man of profound dignity, stumble home, soaked in blood.
He was beaten for the crime of being a Tutsi who dared to own something.
The world was telling us:
“This is your reality. Accept it.”
But as my family trembled, I had an epiphany that would become the key to my freedom.
The silence wasn't protecting us.
It was erasing us.