"I understand what it means to be in no man's land. That is how many of us, born or raised in the diaspora, might often feel: outsiders from the inside."
Every Khmer word taught to a child is an act of hope. Every class in a temple is a quiet act of resistance. Every young person who learns to read and write Khmer helps protect our future.
Before there was vocabulary for politics, there was already a language of absence: unanswered calls, lowered voices, a syllable in Uyghur that could feel like a small homeland. Identity is not something we simply inherit. It is something being taken.
For Ahwazi Arabs, exclusion does not begin when citizenship is stripped. Sometimes it begins in a language that must justify its own existence, in a culture made to feel suspicious, in rights that are technically intact but quietly, persistently hollow.
There is a specific kind of silence that follows Roma youth into many of the spaces we enter. It is the silence of being spoken about before being spoken with.