Entry #1

I don’t often think about how my reporting affects me, and right now, while we remain in such odious times, I’m stuck in what feels like “auto-mode.”

I think it’s quite clear that I’m fueled by impactful stories that deserve the eyes of the world, and sometimes, on days like these, after watching people who look like me, my father, and my mother cry out during an unwarranted arrest, after speaking to families whose loved ones are in camps, after friends reached out to me for help, and even after a two-hour gym session to blur out the wailing of a wife whose husband perished, all I can do is sit on my couch and stare at a wall. Alone.

It’s midnight, and as I lay in this small studio, it feels as though the prisoners longing for freedom sit parallel to my own existence. 

Longing for freedom, not only from imprisonment, but from their demonization for committing the deeply human act of self-preservation. Of survival. Of desperation. Of protection.

I think individualism can be detrimental in my case, as the stories I write are not my own. I’ve become a conduit of tragedy, and the only thing keeping me steady is the need to keep the truth alive.