Do you feel better now, having spent the better part of half an hour trying to convince me of your hateful racist opinions being true? Would you feel better if you succeeded?

And why the need? Why does it matter to you how I feel? It doesn’t change you when I say I believe every person is the same, that I don’t look to color or religion when I judge. 

You get so busy; googling statistics, raising your voice, cheeks red with excitement, not the good kind, though. They are less intelligent, you state. You read that article once. Because they haven’t been educated for generations, these people. But of course, you’re not a racist. It’s just a question about what culture you’re raised in. This makes it okay, you obviously think. 

These statistics, the articles, you’re exchanging religion with culture makes it okay for you to think less of other people, to judge them, to view yourself as superior. This matters to you, obviously, the feeling superior. It matters a lot.

Your words and arguments start feeling physical, suffocating me with their hatred. The room feels smaller and smaller. I feel like screaming.
In this moment, you’re everything that’s wrong with this world.

The right wing hate, the bigotry and the wars. The self-righteous self-serving bullshit …

And you call me blind to the facts. You call us blind to the facts. 

Us. The ones who want peace, the ones who don’t judge people by the color of their skin, the aim of their prayers or the land they came from. I’m blind, you scream, waving around your statistics.

I have long since shut up. You won’t let me talk in anyway, and if you did, you wouldn’t listen. You will never be able to hear me.

You scream so loud trying to convince me with your hate, I believe you’re trying to drown out how much your voice resonates with the memories of Holocaust. How it all began once before … 
I will speak up, but not to you. I will speak up to the world. To us. Those like me. I know you’re out there. We will speak up.

The hate will never win.