Bearing Witness When Silence Is Not an Option

I haven’t written in a while, and that absence wasn’t accidental. It came from the weight of what has been unfolding—especially in Minnesota—and the toll it has taken on my heart and spirit.

On the early morning of January 24th, I was one of many who witnessed, through video, the killing of Alex Pretti. I saw it almost immediately. And once you see something like that, it does not leave you. It settles into your body. It brings up memories you didn’t invite. It forces you to confront truths that many would rather explain away.

This came only shortly after Renee Good was shot and killed. Two lives lost. Two moments that were quickly wrapped in justifications—phrases like “violating the law” or “attacking an officer.” But many of us saw the footage. We saw the fear, the confusion, the humanity. And what we saw did not align with the narratives that followed.

That disconnect is what breaks people.

We are told to doubt our eyes. To question what we witness. To accept rewritten stories over lived reality. In a time when technology can blur lines and reshape narratives, it has become harder—and more necessary than ever—to hold onto discernment and truth. When reality is challenged, control quietly enters the room.

What haunts me most is not only the violence itself, but the ripple effects. The children who watch. The families who are shattered. The communities who learn, again, that safety is conditional. I think of the five-year-old boy taken from his school—removed from the only world he knew—and transported far from home. That kind of rupture leaves scars long after the headlines fade.

I know this feeling personally.

When I was a child, my own mother was shot and killed. That kind of loss reshapes your entire understanding of the world. It teaches you, far too early, how fragile life is—and how deeply violence echoes through generations. So when I see these moments now, I don’t view them from a distance. They land close. They reopen wounds. They remind me how easily harm is normalized when power goes unchecked.

I am not writing this to incite fear or division. I am writing because I want peace—real peace. The kind that comes from accountability, truth, and collective courage. Peace does not come from denial. It does not come from silence. It comes from refusing to accept brutality as normal.

What we are witnessing is not isolated. It is systemic. And while the language around it may vary, the outcome is the same: lives lost, families broken, and trust eroded. This is not about race alone. It is about humanity. About who is protected, who is believed, and who is expendable.

I believe deeply that change begins when people refuse to look away. When we stop minimizing harm because it’s inconvenient. When we listen to those who are grieving instead of rushing to justify the violence that caused it.

There is a quiet revolution happening—not one of chaos, but of consciousness. People are waking up. They are questioning. They are choosing truth over comfort. And that, to me, feels like hope.

I want a world where unity is not built on silence, but on shared responsibility. Where children are protected. Where life is honored. Where peace is not a slogan, but a practice.

That future is possible—but only if we are willing to see what is happening, speak honestly about it, and stand together in our refusal to accept cruelty as the cost of order.

That kind of awakening?
That sounds pretti good to me.

— RC