When the Echo Fades: Finding My Voice in a World That Told Me to Stay Quiet
As a child, I believed protests were noise—chaotic gatherings that served no purpose beyond disruption. Protesting an authority we had no right to question. After all, if politicians, priests, governments were given control over other people, that was probably something they got from a higher power, a divine force, an unseen mechanism. Not earned, but granted. Something we cannot scrutinise, and even less go against.
That was the narrative I was handed. And for years, I held it without question.
But now, camera in hand, standing among faces filled with conviction, I see protests for what they truly are—stories of resistance, urgency, hope.
I think I’ve always had a propensity to speak up about injustice. I could feel it in my bones when someone was wrongly accused by a teacher, or mistreated for being different, foreign, disabled. My rage would be so intense that I couldn’t let it go. As Cory Booker said in his filibuster on the American Senate floor, echoing the Civil Rights Movement, I remember a part of me always thinking that standing up for justice would actually be “good trouble”. Being on the good side of history, against the bullies (and I’ve known a few of those in my scholastic years, and throughout my career). This would go against everything I was taught at home and in church.
What enraged me most wasn't just the injustice itself—it was the notion that suffering was a form of spiritual investment. A ‘cosmic currency’, if you will. That if you were bullied, overlooked, broken down by the weight of someone else's cruelty, you could carry it like a badge, a tally that earned you favour in the afterlife. Pain, not protest, was the path to redemption. And questioning that belief felt almost as forbidden as fighting back. Just pray and think of yourself as a martyr. The Catholic Church loves to find ways to feel threatened, crushed, shamed. It makes them fell full, worthy, powerful, and worst of all, better than anyone else. That is the environment of my formative years. And that made learning critical thinking an extremely hard, long and painful process. I had to relearn my way of thinking, forget lessons that were not useful, or worse damaging, to me and humanity as a whole.
I have to admit here, that if you’re deep into this small, sheltered echo chamber, you end up doing whatever you can to fit in. You shrink yourself, compress your doubts, reduce your thoughts into shapes that won’t disrupt the order. So I told myself protests were pointless. I laughed—forcefully, intentionally—at the ones who made noise. Because to belong, I had to reject them. Despite the Civil Rights Movement, despite the civil disobedience of Mahatma Gandhi. Tangible, visible proof that if people come together to speak up, things might shift. Despite seeing that good trumps evil (eventually) throughout history, I convinced myself that protests belonged only to anarchists—the ones who sought destruction, not transformation.
What made it so hard to change perspectives, was the teachings of family and faith: respect authority at all costs. Speak up, and you risk unraveling the very fabric of the world you were told to trust. Outsiders are seeking the destruction of the bubble, so you must keep the “dirty laundry” secret, hidden. When you grow up being told that authority is always right, even when it’s wrong—that rules must be followed without question—you don’t just obey. You shrink. You become small, hesitant, afraid. You grow into an adult who doubts every decision, every instinct. And when you often fail, as humans do, when you make mistakes, there’s always a voice—waiting, ready—to whisper, ‘I told you so. You should have done what I said all along.
I never knew then, why did I feel so strongly about the world’s injustices? Why were others so compelled to speak up and protest? Why didn’t they fear the consequences of their actions? Why were they so bold, unafraid? Didn’t they have a higher authority to fear? An afterlife to work towards? I had so many questions I wouldn’t dare voice, mainly because I knew that the only answer was "they’re wrong, we are right”. And even worse, “pray on that and you won’t have any questions left to confuse you”.
My own voice was struggling, but it was eager to surface. It fought hard to come up. It compelled me to review my own judgments, my own shortcomings, my own ignorance, my own laziness.
Putting distance with the bubble, and I mean physical distance by moving abroad, was the start to my own personal change, and my own growing up. Deciding to go from the tiny village in the middle of nowhere, where everyone is afraid of change and the new, to an enormous cosmopolitan city, where the dangers were bigger, but the possibilities endless, was what gave me a big shake. I had to learn a new language. Make an entire new culture my own. An entire new climate my own. New rhythms, new humans, new sights. I started to learn. I started to really listen.
I saw people living differently than me, who were not a danger. We all had the same goal, survival, happiness. It wasn’t a question of “us” and “them” anymore. I actually realised that kindness and empathy was going beyond the borders of religion, culture, language. Cooperation made societies grow, become stronger and intelligent. So then, was everything I was ever taught even real?
This was my moment of shift.
I realised that I was only free once I allowed myself to be. When I learned that I didn’t have to be stuck in an ideal, especially if it was given to me by others, but questioning things would not only enrich me, it would certainly not destroy me, well, there was no coming back. The grief and battles that followed, anger towards that past that couldn’t be changed, depression, and having to sever ties with most of that past for my own good, were a tough pill to swallow, but it brought me to me. I’m starting to be less afraid. My own voice isn’t being silenced by anyone: I learned—and continue to learn—that I hold the power to decide whether to speak up or remain silent.
This is a daily task for me, as the familiar hiding (after all I’m the Invisible Photographer) surfaces here and there. I tend to censor myself because I’m still scared that I won’t be loved, accepted just for being me, and makes it often harder on my own family because I lived for too long in survival mode, so I still at times push loving people away, to protect myself. As anyone, I’m a work in progress.
As it’s probably clear up to here, I’m not one to make noise. I’m learning, but I’m still a people pleaser (being around narcissism will do that to you). So I asked myself: how can I be a part of a movement? Be on the good side of history and be part of that change, even when I struggle to chant and scream? After all, I have convictions, I can see genocide and fascism unwinding in front of my eyes. How can I, a shy, neurodivergent introvert, find a way to fight against what I believe is destroying empathy, and eventually humanity?
The answer is here, besides my desk. My camera.
Documenting protests against genocide and racism is allowing me to have a voice too. This way, the faces of courage and conviction will remain, even after massive historical shifts, societal changes, political unrests, wars, peace. Photography is what allows us to not forget. Even if recent events show us that we never learn from history. Even when societal progress takes steps forward, only to stumble frustratingly backward again. Photography won’t lie.
After all, isn't journalism looking at reality through the lenses of our past experiences?
I left silence behind. Still scared to speak up, but I have a voice and I can use it for good.