Eulogy for the Stolen Letters

You will be missed, but the bereaved can never be at peace.

Suddenly, they all vanished into thin air. A decade ago, everyone in our town was encouraged to write love letters to their future pals and keep them in the captain’s safety box. The patrolmen would zeal them at the end of the year and let the diggers bury the box deep in the ground as if it was a fancy coffin. Back then, the practice of sending letters to the unborn version of ourselves is covertly meant to help us escape from the unfathomable reality of our time.

Instead of the children worrying too much about the lack of food on the table, they were instructed to send off a note to the captain that he may help the farmers till the land. Instead of the sick elders crying about the scarcity of medicines, they would write a letter to their future sons and daughters that they may rally for an inclusive healthcare program. There were tons of wishes made in town every year—safe spaces, food security, poverty alleviation, women empowerment, and government accountability—hoping that the next generation will make them possible. In my case, I only wish to be heard and understood.

Our town criers told us that soon enough all the captains will connive to fulfill our wishes upon unlocking the memory box. But now, we received such news that a pile of letters was stolen—and only a few were saved. For the poorest of us, that signifies dreams that can never transpire. For the children, they were advised never to imagine again—as there are no longer hopes for the future.

And we’re all back at that bleak reality we wished to write off. We were left in a helpless situation, where hundreds of thousands of us got sick and some died of famine and contagion. But the captain was surprisingly calm.

In a town hall meeting, he arrived bearing a new set of promises to replace those that were written. He assured the restless farmers that the uncultivated land will be converted into malls and skyscrapers to help the economy grow. He convinced the famished street dwellers that homes are not for the lazy—and there are tons of jobs waiting for those who keep on searching.

The captain kept on blabbering. He gazed at us, the dissenting children, and ordered us not to leave home and crave for anything more than our society could offer. He gave his words to the agitated workers that soon their seemingly unending labor will pay off. Meanwhile, he told our mothers and their poor sisters that “good things” come to those who follow the rules of men.

For more than a decade, I vividly remembered how several of us were compelled to imbibe all sorts of violence sponsored by the captains and the corrupted statesmen. The masses weren’t allowed to speak—but they could write their fears, struggles, and hopes for the future. Today, the cycle is again in full swing as the only space that allowed us to dream was stolen. The worse thing is they were not even read.

But we’ve had enough of that. We’ve already left our last farewell to the chances we lost. However, we believed that the stolen letters aren’t necessarily the death of humanity. That merely paved the way to a new spring of life where a dictator can never define our peace.

We realized that we are done dreaming. It’s about time to make those dreams possible altogether—and we will allow our discomfort to lead the way.

Adieu, our old ways! Soon enough, the people will connive to fulfill our forgotten dreams.