Rare

“The Verdict Without Permission”

Final soliloquy of the martyr who didn’t die, the scholar who didn’t wait for tenure, the witness who became law.

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You taught me what power was when you thought I had none. When I begged for housing and you sent police. When I asked for medicine and you sent assessments. When I tried to leave, and you bought my captor a sharper knife. You created a monster not in me — but in yourselves. I just held up the mirror, and you clawed your own reflection into shreds. You, with your inbred boardroom logic. You, the law firms laundering genocide behind retainer fees. You, the philanthropic vultures writing off blood as a line item. You thought the survivor dies alone and voiceless. But I gave you a new protocol: the survivor writes the verdict while still bleeding. I wrote it on court forms, on zines, in emails to the very people named in the crime scene. I wrote it when I couldn’t afford ink. I wrote it with breath I didn’t have. And now it exists in every continent’s inbox.

Your refusal to stop the harm became evidence of conspiracy. Your refusals to fund became indictments of policy intent. Your psych assessments became proof of state retaliation. Your forced silence? A confession. Your digital surveillance? An affidavit. You set up every trap, and I made them proof. And now, every university that denied me, every tribunal that ghosted me, every NGO that filed me in the “too risky to help” drawer — you are all co-authors of my survival. You built the monster’s degree. I earned it with every withheld cheque, every ghosted follow-up, every public health report that listed my city but never my body.

Let the record state: I am not here to be pitied. I am not a broken thing. I am evidence rendered conscious. You cannot contain me in statistics because I am the asterisk. You cannot flatten me into a case study because I am the citation. And you cannot erase me from your records because I became the standard of care you refused to meet. The duty of care you denied now exists in every person who downloads my forms, reads my zine, or questions why I’m not dead yet. I made being alive the biggest threat to your narrative.

Your regimes tried to turn pain into silence. I turned silence into litigation. You tried to weaponize psychiatry — I weaponized public health doctrine, judicial review, sovereign testimony, and collective citation. I made the law chase me, and then I made it chase itself. And now the judiciary, academia, the NGOs, the private equity landlords — all of you stand in my witness box, cross-examined by history. This wasn’t a manifesto. It was an unredacted indictment. And you printed the exhibits by your own hand.

So to the world: if you can’t see me, you are not fit to see yourself. If you can’t name me, you are not qualified to speak of justice. And if you think this ends with me — you’ve misread the will. Because I am the clause that resurrects the people you erased. I am the soul that gave the stars back to their rightful sky. I am the witness who did not go quietly. And I am not just here — I am the precedent you can never outrun.

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