Sometimes we’re left with the power of words

Opinion

I’m not a head of state. I’m not a general. I’m not a billionaire.

I’m a writer. And in times like these, that is both a burden and a responsibility.

The world is on fire — again.

Israel and Iran are locked in a war that has already killed hundreds, including civilians, children, and hospital patients. Missiles have struck medical centers. Entire cities are bracing for what comes next. In Gaza, the death toll continues to rise, with over 55,000 Palestinians killed since 2023, according to Gaza’s Health Ministry.

And still, more than 50 Israeli hostages remain in captivity in Gaza — some confirmed alive, others feared dead — while their families wait in anguish for a world too distracted to remember.

In Ukraine, Russia’s illegal war of aggression grinds into its fourth year. Russia continues to bomb civilian infrastructure and resist ceasefire proposals. In recent weeks, Kyiv and Kharkiv have seen some of the deadliest strikes since the invasion began. Apartment blocks flattened. Hospitals hit.

The United Nations reports that more than 16,000 Ukrainian civilians remain imprisoned inside Russia. At least 19,000 Ukrainian children, in age from four months to 17 years, have been forceably moved in a systematic campaign into Russia, fracturing their connection to Ukrainian language and heritage through “re-education, and even disconnecting children from their Ukrainian identities through adoption,” notes the Yale Humanitarian Research Lab.

And still, the bombs fall.

Meanwhile, in the United States, the Trump regime has launched what it proudly calls the “largest mass deportation program in history.” ICE raids have escalated in Democratic-led cities. National Guard units have been deployed to suppress demonstrations. Daily arrest quotas have tripled. People are being detained en masse — not for crimes, but for where they were born.

This is not a dystopian novel. This is the news.

And yet, I worry we are becoming numb. That we are scrolling past suffering. That we are mistaking fatigue for neutrality.

So I write. Because I believe, as James Baldwin said, “Nothing can be changed until it is faced.” And I believe that facing it begins with naming it.

Let’s name it.

Let’s name the fact that the United Nations Human Rights Office has warned of a global collapse in accountability. That civilians are being deliberately targeted. That starvation is being used as a weapon. That executions are on the rise. That civic space is closing in country after country. That the world is not just in crisis — it is in retreat.

And as the planet records its hottest year yet, the climate crisis continues to accelerate — fueling floods, fires, and famine — while the world’s largest banks pour billions more into fossil fuels.

Let’s name the fact that economic injustice is not a side issue. It is the soil from which every cruelty grows. The richest one per cent now control almost half of global wealth. The poorest 50 per cent own just over one per cent. This isn’t just inequality — it’s economic apartheid. And when people lose faith in fairness, they lose faith in democracy.

Let’s name the fact that authoritarianism doesn’t always arrive with tanks. Sometimes it comes wrapped in a flag. Or disguised as policy. Or piped through a social media algorithm. Sometimes it comes with a smile and a slogan.

And let’s name the fact that silence is not neutral. It’s a decision. And it’s one that history rarely forgives.

Even here in Canada — my home, my hope — we are not immune. We remain a bastion of liberal democracy, of pluralism, of dignity. But we are also a country still reckoning with the legacy of residential schools, with inequality that cuts along racial and economic lines, with disinformation and political polarization. Our democracy is not unshakeable. It survives only because people believe in it. And act to protect it.

I take comfort — and courage — from those who came before me. From Émile Zola, who risked everything to write J’Accuse! when France betrayed justice.

From Anne Frank, who believed in goodness even as the world collapsed outside her hiding place. From Margaret Atwood, who reminds us that dystopias are not predictions — they are warnings. From Salman Rushdie, who nearly died for his words, and still refuses to stop writing.

These writers didn’t just describe the world. They challenged it. They didn’t just bear witness. They bore consequence.

And so must we.

I don’t pretend that writing alone can stop a war. But I do believe writing can stop forgetting. It can preserve the truth when propaganda poisons the air. It can remind us that history only moves forward when people pick up the pen — and use it.

Anne Frank once wrote: “How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.” She was fifteen. She was hiding. And she was right.

So I write. Because I refuse to wait. Because I refuse to forget. Because I refuse to be silent.

And if you’re reading this, I hope you’ll write too.

Martin Zeilig is a writer and journalist based in Winnipeg.