11/05/2025
[๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐] ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ ๐๐๐๐๐
"You donโt know how the world works, iha," they said.
And maybe theyโre right.
Maybe we havenโt lived long enough to understand every law, every system, every political game.
But we do know how injustice feels.
It feels like walking home past campaign posters
while our families still struggle to afford a single sack of rice.
Like sharing one phone for online classes.
Like learning to dream quietly because dreaming too loudly makes people laugh.
Like skipping meals so our younger siblings can eat.
Like scrolling through scholarship deadlines while our friends post about leaving the town, because theyโve given up on home.
Like seeing our parents cry quietly at night, thinking weโre asleep.
We know the ache of being brushed aside.
Weโve heard the condescending chuckles.
โYouโre still young. Youโll get it when youโre older.โ
But when exactly will we be old enough to be heard?
When our youth is gone? When the damage is done? When weโve already learned to silence ourselves to survive?
We are the youth. And we are tired.
Tired of pleading.
Tired of being told that our words are too big for our age.
Tired of raising our hands and being met with rolled eyes.
Tired of speaking out only to be called namesโโoverdramatic.โ
Tired of performing strength when weโre breaking inside.
Tired of pretending weโre okay because thereโs no space to fall apart.
Tired of being brave for a world that rarely feels brave for us.
We are not speaking for attention.
We are speaking for survival.
Because how do you build a future when your present is already on fire?
Weโve seen families torn between food and medicine.
Weโve watched neighbors lose homes to floods, while those in power posed for photo ops.
Weโve heard promises spill out during election season and disappear as soon as the cameras do.
Weโve seen headlines about billion-dollar projects while classrooms collapse and mental health hotlines go unanswered.
Weโve watched our heroes be red-tagged, silenced, erased.
Weโve learned that sometimes the truth dies quietly, buried under convenience and fear.
And stillโ
We study.
We organize.
We convince our parents, our titas and titos, our neighbors:
โPlease, vote wisely. Please, think of us.โ
Sometimes they listen.
Most times, they smile and say, โYouโll understand someday.โ
But we are already carrying the consequences of what they didnโt understand yesterday.
We are cleaning up messes we didnโt make.
But we do understand.
We understand what itโs like to worry about tuition fees.
We understand what itโs like to pretend everythingโs okay because we donโt want to burden our already burdened parents.
We understand that we are growing up in a country that keeps asking for patience, while showing us the same broken cycle.
We understand what itโs like to feel older than we are.
To juggle part-time jobs, family care, and school, while wondering if weโll ever have the luxury of simply being young.
We understand that our sadness is often seen as weakness, our anger as rebellion, our compassion as naivete.
We are tired.
But we are not lost.
We are not bitter.
We are not just the futureโthey keep saying that to delay responsibility.
We are here now, trying, speaking, hoping.
We are stitching together meaning from whatโs left.
Building community in comment sections, safe spaces in group chats.
Writing truths that algorithms try to bury.
Loving loudly in a world that keeps telling us to be quiet.
We write, not because we expect the world to change overnight,
but because we believe our voices matterโeven if they tremble.
We hold up placards not for rebellion,
but for a dream we all deserve to live in.
A dream where healing is free,
where education doesnโt come with shame,
where no one has to apologize for caring too much.
So maybe we donโt know how their world works.
But maybe their world was never built to work for us in the first place.
And maybe thatโs why we stopped asking to fit into it.
And maybe, just maybe,
thatโs why weโre trying to build a better one.
Brick by weary brick,
name by silenced name,
with every poem, protest, and prayer.
One where truth is louder than money.
Where good leaders donโt just visit, but stay.
Where the youth arenโt mocked for caring,
but empowered to help.
Where being soft is strength,
where crying isnโt shameful,
where healing isnโt postponed for convenience.
We are tired.
But we are not asleep.
We are wide awake,
and we
are watching.
We are waiting,
but we are also moving.
And one dayโsoonโ
you will realize
we werenโt just right.
We were brave.
We were loud.
We were love in its rawest, most determined form.
And so before May 12 comes, with this little voice, can you maybe, just maybe, consider us too?
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