You do not understand because you refuse to understand anything that falls outside your realm of experience.
(And perhaps that will be the frailty of your empathy: that you, as a person who has lived with so much privilege, must always use yourself as the measuring stick of what it means to be human.)
You scoff and say: who are these people, and why are they out in the streets? Don’t we let them live? What else are they asking for?
You laugh. You sneer. You mock.
You want us to remain quiet.
In hushed voices you speak of your brother or sister, “Ewan ko nga kung sa’n nanggaling yan, wala namang bakla (o tomboy) sa pamilya namin.”
You speak of your children: “Kapag nakatikim ‘yan ng lalaki (o babae), titino din iyan.“
Salot. Kadiri. Abnormal. Makasalanan.
You tell us what sad lives (and afterlives) we will have.
And sometimes, when names aren’t enough, you throw us off buildings instead.
You refuse to stand beside us.
Yet here we are, knocking.
We’re calling your name.