A Shadow on the Newspaper – Reflections on Freedom, Fear, and the America I Dreamed Of

A Shadow on the Newspaper – Reflections on Freedom, Fear, and the America I Dreamed Of

Today, I went to a local coffee shop with my son. As we sat down with our drinks, I noticed a folded newspaper left behind on the table. Almost instinctively, I opened it—and suddenly, I felt something stir deep inside me. There they were: photographs of uniformed men, rows of tanks, scenes that brought back memories I thought I had long left behind.

I came to America in search of freedom. My childhood was defined by darkness and confusion. My father was once tortured under a military dictatorship. He would often warn me, “Never go near protests.” His voice always carried the weight of pain and fear—wounds that never quite healed. As a child, I lived with deep empathy for my father and a quiet grief for the time we lived in. And I vowed to myself that one day, I would leave. That I would find a place where I could speak, think, and feel freely. Where my thoughts and beliefs would not make me a target—but be respected.

So I worked, fought, endured. Life as an immigrant was hard, uncertain, and lonely, but it was nothing compared to the fear I had grown up with. I was thankful every day for the chance to raise my children in a society that felt safe and open—a place where I didn’t have to fear secret police banging on my door in the middle of the night.

But perhaps this is the strange irony of fate. Today, looking at that newspaper, I saw a scene eerily familiar to those from my childhood. Only this time, the language was English. Tanks, soldiers, political unrest—different place, same shadow.

I’m not on the left or the right. I’m an artist. I just want to live freely, to express freely. That’s all. And yet lately, there’s been this nameless anxiety in me. Will I be punished for writing this post? Is it truly unthinkable to imagine myself being taken away for simply expressing my thoughts?

Why should we feel this way in a country that stands for freedom?

As an artist, I feel that the age of darkness has returned—where creative expression is tinged with fear, and saying the wrong thing can cost you everything. And yet, I hold no hatred for those I see in the news, even the ones who stir controversy. In fact, I admire their energy, their passion. I only hope they will lead with compassion—not with division. I hope they don’t make the mistake my country once did: turning against its own people.

Still, I am thankful for today—for the moment I had with my son, for the conversation we shared about freedom, history, and the future. I only wish he didn’t have to inherit this burden of fear. I wish I didn’t have to say, “I’m sorry,” without knowing exactly why.
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But maybe, just maybe, even in these uncertain times, I can still choose hope.