There is a dangerous myth we tell ourselves in times of social fracture. It is the myth of the isolated incident, the separate box, the problem that belongs to “them” and not to “us.” We see a line being crossed somewhere else, a group being targeted, a right being eroded for others, and we rationalize our silence. It doesn’t affect our livelihood. It’s not our community. We’re not like them. We turn a careful, deliberate blind eye, believing that by looking away, we are stepping out of the path of the storm.
But oppression is not a contained fire. It is a wind. And the first law of such a wind is that it must expand to feed itself. It thrives on the oxygen of apathy and the kindling of division. The boundary you see so clearly—between you and the target—is invisible to the machinery of control. That machinery only recognizes one category: those who comply, and those who might, one day, question.
History is not just a record of actions, but a chronicle of consequences for inaction. When you ignore the knocking at your neighbor’s door because you believe your own lock is stronger, you fail to understand the nature of the force outside. It is testing doors. It is learning which hinges are weak, which frames will splinter, and which neighbors will not come to one another’s aid. Your silence is not neutrality; it is a data point. It tells the oppressor that this street, this community, will not unite. That it can be taken, house by house.
The justification for targeting any group is never built on logic, but on a fabricated narrative of threat or inferiority. Once that narrative is successfully sold and accepted for one group, the script is written. The tools are sharpened. The architects of division now have a proven blueprint, a playbook that works. Why would they discard it? They will simply search for a new chapter, a new “them.” Today’s “them” might be defined by faith, or origin, or ideology. Tomorrow’s “them” could be defined by the very privilege you thought insulated you—your profession, your accent, your unwillingness to cheer loudly enough.
Your safety was never guaranteed by your distance from the initial target. It was guaranteed by a social contract, a shared understanding of human dignity and mutual protection. When you watch that contract be torn up for others and say nothing, you invalidate it for yourself. You teach those in power that the contract is meaningless, that rights are not inalienable but are permissions they can revoke. When they eventually turn to you—with a new demand, a new accusation, a new restriction—you will find the chorus of voices that could have defended you has already been quieted, one by one, often with your own tacit approval.
The moment of realization is a cold one. It is the shock of discovering that the wall you thought protected you was actually the one you allowed them to build around others, and now it encloses you. The language of dehumanization you chose not to challenge has entered the common lexicon, and now it is being refined to describe you. The legal precedent you ignored because it “only” applied to someone else is now being cited in a case that strips you of your own standing.
We are not separate houses. We are rooms in a single, vast building. When a fire is set in one wing, the smoke will eventually reach every corner. To fan the air before your own face and say, “My air is still clear,” is not wisdom. It is a failure of imagination and a profound misunderstanding of fire.
So do not be surprised if, after seasons of silent complicity, you finally feel the heat. The storm you believed would only ravage other shores has a way of circling back. The only true shelter is built long before the clouds gather, with the bricks of solidarity and the mortar of a common, vocal courage that declares, long before it is your own door at stake: this far, and no further. For anyone.
