It was 1973 when my dad jumped onto that moving train in Prijedor, Bosnia and broke his arm in the process. He was 10 years old, and his school was trying to force him to go to communist dictator Josip Broz Tito's birthday parade, again.
This wasn't the first time he felt the brunt of communism or felt the urge to flee from it, and it was only one of many suppressing incidents in his youth that would lead to his running away from Bosnia at 16. Among them were being forced to stop writing with his left hand (courtesy of a switch and a harsh teacher), being forced into the army, into a pro-Tito mindset, and into an education that was biased and propagandist. He was tired of his people being denied loans and jobs for rejecting communism, and tired of things like bananas being an expensive luxury. My dad ran away from home for freedom of speech, for freedom of thought, really.
In what has been a tumultuous and unrelenting year of tragedy and vicious discord among parties in the United States, a year where a brash presidential hopeful rose to power on the shirking of human dignity, it feels like we've stopped focusing on the free speech that families like mine always dreamed of having -- that we've left it alone. This is dangerous, because freedoms do not exist on their own.
The legal granting of free speech doesn't mean it's present or prevalent or accepted; it's not just a statement on a historic piece of paper, but an environment conducive to logical and respectful debate. It's an environment without hate toward difference, without anger toward change, without silencing of opposition. My parents, for example, are still afraid to voice their opinions against government actions, even here in the U.S., because they know exactly how quickly and how unexpectedly governments fall apart and entire countries literally go up in flames (See Ex-Yugoslavia 1989-present). Government protections can be arbitrary and transient, but is an environment that makes freedom of speech come alive, and a population of citizens that create that environment.
This year, our First Amendment-granted duty is more important than ever.
It is our duty to push back against empty and fear-inducing rhetoric. It is our job to look past lofty, vague promises and think logically about what steps must be taken for something to "get better" or "be great." It is our job to fight for those who do not have our privileges, for those who are human and therefore our equals. It is our job to fight back, even when injustice will not directly affect us, because injustice for one is injustice for all.
When we choose to remain silent about these injustices, or we don't vote, a duty countless people would kill for, we are not performing our central functions as citizens within a democracy. Apathy is not a valid response to an election season you're not looking forward to: That's not rebellion. Rebellion means writing, voting, canvassing, speaking out, and fighting for what you want to change. Rejecting it, ignoring it, and waiting for it to pass are not ways to share your voice: That's not democracy. We are a privileged and free-spoken people, and it's simply not an option to remain ignorant or silent about the things that are wrong in the world.
It is in fact dangerous to ignore the stories that need to be told, to stifle the conversations that need to be had. When innocent people are persecuted anywhere or discriminated against for their appearances or religions or beliefs, when powerful people threaten to silence press and discourse and freedom, then it is our duty to push for conversation, for action, and for justice.
Within that Bill of Rights lies our right to push back.
Freedom of speech is not just something to think about when it's the Fourth of July and we're celebrating with fireworks and cakes and barbecues -- it's a demanding and ambiguous duty, but a duty nonetheless, and one that none of us are exempt from. It's a standard that we have to uphold, and an environment that we have to encourage. When we don't, we give up what makes us American.