This is a LinkedIn post by Ismail Aderonmu, an award-winning journalist and a kindred spirit. His message resonated with me, especially about the genocide shattering something in him (and me).

I also appreciated Ismail’s reference to “keep pushing – for justice, for equity, for the forgotten, the muzzled, the erased, and for the right to be heard and seen.” It’s a moral code I’ ‘ve followed since I was a university student. The reference to “as long as I’m breathing” reminds me of this quote from James Baldwin: “I can’t be a pessimist because I am alive.” I can’t be a pessimist because I am alive. To be a pessimist means that you have agreed that human life is an academic matter. So, I am forced to be an optimist. I am forced to believe that we can survive, whatever we must survive.”

Peace, MAA

This year tore through me like a storm I couldn’t outrun. The genocide in Gaza didn’t just break my heart—it shattered something fundamental in me. Watching innocent people massacred while the world looked away—while governments lied, while voices I once respected defended the indefensible—made me question everything I believed about justice, humanity, and morality.

I know what it means to feel powerless. To scream the truth at systems built to silence you. I’ve fought battles against institutions that would rather grind me into the dirt than admit they were wrong. But this year wasn’t just my fight. It was entire families, entire communities, obliterated while the world stayed silent.

I thought I understood cruelty. I thought I’d seen the worst people and systems could do. I was wrong. What I witnessed this year, and what I personally endured, broke me in ways I’m only beginning to unpack. (More on that in my upcoming article.)

I saw myself in those fighting for survival. In the faces of children bombed out of their homes. In the voices of mothers begging for mercy. In the deafening silence that followed. I know what it feels like to be forgotten. To feel like your humanity doesn’t matter to the people with the power to save you. Access to justice, for so many, is nothing but a distant dream.

I won’t lie: I’m tired. I’m angry. But I’m alive. And as long as I’m breathing, I’ll keep pushing—for justice, for equity, for the forgotten, the muzzled, the erased, and for the right to be heard and seen.

2025, I’m not walking into you quietly. I’m kicking the damn door down. I’m not asking for a fresh start—I’m demanding better.