I write for those women who do not speak, for those who do not

Audre Lorde, the warrior-poet, the Black feminist whose voice burned with both fire and tenderness, once declared: “I write for those women who do not speak, for those who do not have a voice because they were so terrified, because we are taught to respect fear more than ourselves. We've been taught that silence would save us, but it won't.” These words are not gentle—they are thunder. They reveal the chains that bind countless souls, especially women, who have been silenced by fear, tradition, and oppression. Lorde calls us to remember that silence is not safety, that submission is not survival, and that to live without speaking truth is to die with the heart still locked in its cage.

The origin of this quote lies in Lorde’s own life and work. Born to Caribbean immigrants, a Black lesbian woman in a society that sought to erase her many identities, she carried firsthand the weight of marginalization. Her poetry and essays became a sword and a shield, written not for comfort but for liberation. She saw how many women, taught to be quiet, to accept, to shrink themselves, surrendered their voices in the hope that silence would protect them. But Lorde’s wisdom was forged in the furnace of truth: fear grows stronger in silence, and silence protects only the oppressor.

The ancients knew this lesson as well. Think of Cassandra of Troy, who spoke truth but was cursed never to be believed. Her tragedy was not her silence, but the silence of those who refused to listen. In another age, the prophets stood against kings, knowing their words might cost them their lives, but also knowing that silence would betray generations yet unborn. Thus, from every corner of history, the same wisdom emerges: the voice of truth must rise above fear, or injustice will reign unchallenged.

Consider the story of Rosa Parks. On that day in Montgomery, she could have remained silent, rising from her seat as countless others had done before her. That silence might have saved her momentary peace, but it would not have saved her people. By refusing silence, by letting her quiet defiance speak louder than fear, she lit a fire that spread across a nation. Lorde’s words echo in Parks’s act: silence does not save—it suffocates. Only the voice, trembling yet unbroken, can break chains.

The lesson for us is clear: fear must never be revered more than the self. If you respect fear above your own dignity, you become its servant. If you bow to silence, your silence becomes the accomplice of oppression. But when you speak—whether through words, actions, or art—you reclaim your life and offer freedom to others. Lorde reminds us that to break silence is not merely personal liberation; it is a gift to every soul still bound by fear.

Practical actions must follow. Speak when silence is demanded of you. Write, as Lorde did, for those who cannot yet write. Defend those whose voices tremble too much to defend themselves. Teach children that fear is not a master but a challenge to be faced. If your truth burns within you, do not bury it, for the grave of silence is wide enough for all humanity if we do not resist. Remember: courage is not the absence of fear, but the decision to honor yourself more than the terror that seeks to silence you.

Thus, O listeners, let Audre Lorde’s words echo across the chambers of your heart: “We've been taught that silence would save us, but it won’t.” It is a call to arms, not with weapons, but with voices. For every voice raised is a stone removed from the fortress of oppression, and every silence broken is a beacon for those still in shadows.

And remember this eternal truth: fear will always whisper, but it is your voice that must thunder. Silence builds prisons; speech builds freedom. Speak, and you live. Stay silent, and you serve fear. Choose the path of the courageous, and your words will outlast your days, guiding others toward the light.