Eyes Up, Wise Up, Rise Up

This is a story in the nearing rainy season, where all the ants gather in different places, at different time, all hoarding food and other materials for their home; until the sun comes to rise again.

This is a story of a beaten down man stripped off of his clothes, his possessions, and his dignity. A man left naked at the side of the road where none of his kin spared him a single glance, except one who is treated differently—one casted away. He took the man back to his village, into his home, where his family treated the man as their own. 

A story of U.S. Marshals under the order of the President to accompany a young black girl to and fro to school. Where parents and children shouted, screamed, and threw things at her. But she was firm—she walked straight on like a soldier, protected. A school where there are no students nor teachers willing to be in the same space as she is. All except one teacher who is happy to see her everyday.

A story of women, hand in hand, arm in arm, mothers and daughters against the empowerment of men. Where they rallied, worked, and proved their way up to the top and are still struggling to. A struggle of everyday that leaves them scarred yet emerging through the battlefield—triumphant.

A story of nuns, students, teachers, and workers, who marched the streets and fearlessly faced off soldiers. They stood together in one voice under the target spot of a bomb in the sky. They stood together against the dictatorship of their President, and God heard their voices, and the pilots to drop the bomb saw the image of His love in His people. And they listened. The bomb never dropping—the President forced away—and the people powerful.

A story of medical workers, convenience clerks, garbage men—the story of the people working in the frontlines, their lives at risks, not ever knowing when they will see their family. These people made individual sacrifices for the service of many. They see each other as equal. They see their importance. Without the other, they know, they will fall.

This is a story of me and you, of everyone, of the entire world. 

I glance at you—you who stands beside me—face red and sweaty. Your hair sticks at your face, your eyes are burning, and our throats tightening at the words that grows louder, and louder, and firmer on every syllable. A repetition. An emphasis. Our hands are clasped tight together. Our fists raised through the air with countless hands behind us—no—beside us. 

We march forward, weaponless, defenseless, with only wooden boards that bear our messages, and voices that catapult it. We march forward with the beating drums of our heart. The ground shakes beneath us, startled—shocked at our pounding spirits—but we keep moving forward anyways. I see the cars block the streets. I see the flashing red and blues. I see the shields where the silver gleams, where they bang on their clubs, a thrumming—drumming—noise of intimidation. Of provocation. Their eyes are vicious and they seethe at us with unspoken words. Our marching grew stronger with their banging clubs, our words echoing across the crumbling city. 

Then, at a heartbeat, they fire.

We scatter as quick as we could—but the bullets were faster. Over, and over, and over, they rain upon us mercilessly. The bullets stung our skin, bruise our body, and the gas they hiss claw at our throats as the tears pierces our eyes. I see our brothers and sisters fall. I see them get tackled, bombarded, and dragged away. Their blood splatter on the sacred grounds. Their shouts ringing in my ears. I turn to see you, beside me, on the ground, the shadows closing in around us. It was dark—dark enough to see their wicked grins gleaming sadistically down upon us. I clenched my jaw. You grit your teeth. We reached for each other and they tried to stop us. They grabbed onto our limbs, our tongues, our faces, our eyes, but we reach out—we reach out—we reach out—

My hand meets yours. 

Like the abnormally still ocean, the tsunami belts out.

We rise. 

The fire ignites at our hearts, it burns brighter—fiercer. A fire that burns brighter and stronger is because of the flames joining together. We kick back up, a furious blaze that got played for too long that it has come to bite back. 

We march. We rise. We shout on top of our lungs and they fall back. There are eyes upon us. Eyes that watches us. Eyes that watches them. They are the eyes to every corner of the world that witnesses this revolution. The eyes to open others; to open their caged hearts. 

They see the eyes and they cower. Bullets fired one more—countless hit the peering eyes. They forcibly blinded them, fogging their vision with the gas they hiss. But no matter how many they tried to shoot more eyes would appear. Peering, glaring, broadcasting. The hands on their shields and clubs laden with blood and powder. The eyes see all of this. They know. The world now knows.

For years we have been silenced. For years we have been fighting. For years we have offered and accepted peace. Now, we had enough. 

We nod back to the eyes that watches us. The eyes that see the truth, not those blinded by biased beliefs, but those who know the truth. They see us, they understand us, and around the world they are our link to the hands of our brothers and sisters. 

We rise. For our fallen families—their blood spilled and smeared needlessly on our feet. 

We rise. For our voices to be heard that are more than voices—it is our dreams. Our lives. We holler out to be heard but also for the lost voices to be heard too.

We have won battles but not the war. And still we are fighting. We have fallen but we kept rising up. We are not divided—we are strong. 

This is not a story. This is history.

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» The title Eyes Up, Wise Up, Rise Up is taken from the lyrics of the song Hurricane from the American Broadway Musical 'Hamilton' written by Lin-Manuel Miranda