The Weight of Silence: Identity, History, and the Cost of Dissent - Naked truth chapter 34

When some people gang up

Ever since she could remember, Martha had to read the room and adjust her thoughts to fit the majority. But the truth was, from the moment she was born, she was different. Her parents came from two different nationalities—one of which was not particularly loved by the other. History had a cruel way of shaping people’s perceptions, lingering in the present like an old wound that refused to heal.

So she learned to keep quiet about the Russian part of her identity. She never spoke about it unless absolutely necessary, offering only the bare minimum of acknowledgment.

HISTORY IS NEVER LINEAR

History was never linear. Nations waged wars only to form alliances later, building and destroying relationships in a never-ending cycle.

During her university years, before the revolution, she needed approval from the student union whenever her relatives invited her to visit them in St. Petersburg. She would never forget sitting before the committee, the smug smirks on their faces. One of them was already known to be a Securitate collaborator.

The questioning was humiliating and unnecessary, yet entirely expected. She had seen zealotry before, witnessed how power twisted those at the lower levels—and she would see it many more times in the years to come.

And she had to put her head down and endure. Too much such endurance followed after as well.

PRESENT TIMES IN EUROPE

Let’s take a leap in time and examine the vicious reactions from so-called friends. In a Europe led by incompetent, bloodthirsty rulers, history would one day deliver its judgment—but for now, emotions ran high. Self-righteousness was paraded at every corner, theatrical gestures of so-called solidarity swelling in numbers, yet devoid of any true understanding of political context, historical complexities, or unkept promises. Dissenting voices were silenced, shut down, annihilated.

It was just like the BUG years, when people banged pots in the streets and clapped like seals, masked in layers, drowning in sanitizer. What followed was three years dominated by two colors, flags waving frantically, empty words of forced compassion, and a blind, unrelenting revolt against a single nation.

Hate, once ignited, was easy to sustain. People made friends with it, cradled it, refused to let it go.

MINORITY AGAIN

Once again, Martha found herself in the minority, forced to bite her tongue in the groups she once belonged to. Any attempt to introduce historical context was met with an avalanche of rhetoric, a pre-scripted narrative drowning out any nuance.

FRIENDSHIPS?

For years, Facebook had been her shop window—a space where she shared her creative endeavors, connected with artists, and brought daily entertainment to others. But at some point, she had enough. She started sharing what truly mattered to her: perspectives outside the mainstream, cultural insights, and imagery from places that held a deep soul connection—Russia, former Soviet states, the Middle East, and beyond. She had always kept a close eye on the political scene in her country of origin and recently expressed her support for the only candidate she believed could make a real difference. National identity meant something to her, and this person, while not perfect, shared many of her values.

That, of course, was enough to provoke a backlash. The smirks returned. Even worse, some so-called friends took it upon themselves to "correct" her views just like they did a couple of years ago on another controversial topic, their words laced with condescension and judgment. Disappointed in you. Delusional.And much more.

It’s extraordinary how people who never cared to ask how she was suddenly felt entitled to show up and reprimand her. Equally extraordinary was the fact that Martha never sought to instigate conflict with anyone. Her stance had always been: You have your view, I have mine. The problem arises when one is denied the right to express their perspective, only to be met with judgment and hostility instead.

Where is the let’s agree to disagree? Where is the pause, the patience to hear another perspective?

How easy it is for people—sitting in the comfort of their privileged lives, the kind many in the West would envy—to point fingers and demand, How could you?

With so much information available today, it should be easier than ever to form a well-rounded, informed view. But no—that isn’t fashionable, is it? Far easier to pick up a stone and silence the one who dares to think differently.

Well, I will not be silenced anymore says she.

It never served me.

My voice matters just as much as yours whispers Martha!

And I will use it. To be continued!

Until next time, be well!

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