See No Evil. Hear No Evil. Speak No Evil.

See No Evil. Hear No Evil. Speak No Evil.

But what happens when silence becomes permanent?

I've been thinking about this photograph for weeks.

Three skeletons, positioned like the familiar three wise monkeys.

See no evil. Hear no evil. Speak no evil.

And the more I look at it, the more I wonder whether we've misunderstood what it means to remain silent.

Let me explain.

A few weeks ago, I traveled to Munich, Germany, with my dad and husband for a huge international healthcare conference where Dad, another wonderful community paramedic and I were speaking at.

And what a hoot it was!

We landed in Munich and practically headed straight to Oktoberfest.

Now, when I tell you the crowds were enormous, I mean ENORMOUS.

Whatever you're imagining, triple it.

People were everywhere. Coming off the trains in droves, dressed in beautiful dirndls and lederhosen, complete with elaborate hats, flowers, and tiaras.

And yep, your girl was dressed up in her dirndl best alongside her lederhosen-wearing husband!

The excitement was contagious.

The music, the laughter, the celebrations. It was absolutely incredible.

And yet, as I stood there surrounded by thousands upon thousands of people, I felt something else.

Fear.

Where were the exits?

What was security like?

What if something happened?

How would we get out?

And I hated it.

I hated that my mind went there. I hated that I couldn't simply stand in the middle of this incredible celebration without part of me scanning for danger.

But perhaps what bothered me most was realizing how deeply those fears had become part of my everyday thinking.

I am an American woman raising four children.

And whether I like it or not, the environment in which I'm raising them has shaped the way I experience the world.

I wanted to trust that this celebration, in this country, could be different from what I had come to fear back home.

But telling yourself to relax doesn't necessarily make the anxiety disappear.

I had traveled thousands of miles, but some of the fears I carried hadn't stayed behind.

They came with me.

A few days later, we attended the conference.

And let me tell you, it was wonderful.

I was surrounded by brilliant, passionate people from around the world who viewed medicine, particularly community paramedicine, with the same reverence and excitement that I do.

People who understood the possibilities of bringing healthcare and communities together.

People who weren't simply talking about what healthcare currently looks like, but imagining what it could become.

These were my people!

I belonged in those conversations.

I had knowledge to share, experiences to contribute, and ideas I couldn't wait to explore.

And yet, something unexpected happened.

I became afraid to speak.

Not because I questioned my intelligence. Healed the shit out of that!

Not because I doubted my experience. Nope!

But because of my American accent.

I was afraid that the moment I opened my mouth, people would hear where I was from and immediately associate me with everything happening politically in my country.

Now, please don't misunderstand me.

I love my country. I am incredibly proud to be an American, and I am proud of where I come from.

My husband served two military tours, and I have tremendous respect for his service and the sacrifices made by so many military families.

But loving my country doesn't mean I have to agree with everything happening within it.

I can be proud of my country, grateful for the freedoms we have, and still question its leadership.

In fact, I believe those questions matter precisely because I care so deeply.

And what is happening in our country right now? I am deeply troubled by it. I don't want to normalize it, excuse it, or pretend it isn't happening.

I wasn't afraid of being American. I was afraid of being misunderstood because I was American.

And standing in those rooms, surrounded by people from across the globe, I found myself wanting to explain that distinction before anyone had even asked.

And do you know what it reminded me of?

COVID.

Remember when someone would cough in public?

Immediately, almost instinctively, they'd say:

"Don't worry! It's just allergies! I don't have COVID!"

You barely had time to finish coughing before you were reassuring everyone around you.

You were anticipating the concern, the judgment, the assumptions.

And there I was, years later, doing something remarkably similar.

Except instead of explaining a cough, I was explaining my nationality.

Before I could share my professional perspective, I felt compelled to acknowledge the political turmoil in my country and make clear that I did not support the president's actions.

I wanted people to know that my American accent did not automatically tell them what I believed.

And when I did speak openly, the people I encountered were gracious.

They understood that a country's citizens do not all share the same political beliefs.

They could separate an individual from the person leading their government.

And I felt an enormous sense of relief.

But afterward, I kept thinking about it.

Why had I felt the need to explain myself before I could simply be myself?

Why had I allowed the fear of being misunderstood to make me hesitate to use my voice?

And perhaps the bigger question:

How many of us are doing something similar every single day?

Which brings me back to the photograph.

See no evil.

Hear no evil.

Speak no evil.

For generations, many of us have been taught some version of those instructions.

Don't make waves.

Don't talk about uncomfortable things.

Keep the peace.

Mind your own business.

Be polite.

And sometimes, those lessons have their place.

We don't need to fight every battle, comment on every disagreement, or turn every conversation into an argument.

But there's a difference between choosing not to engage and being afraid to speak.

Afraid of offending someone.

Afraid of being misunderstood.

Afraid of being labeled.

Afraid of what might happen if we acknowledge something uncomfortable.

And that's where the skeletons come in.

Because the monkeys are alive.

The skeletons are not.

I look at that photograph and wonder what happens when we spend so much of our lives refusing to see, hear, or speak about the things that matter.

When we stop questioning what we're told.

When we stop listening.

When we stop speaking up because it's easier to stay quiet.

And with elections approaching, I find myself thinking about this even more.

Not because I expect everyone to agree with me. Goodness knows, we won't!

But because I don't believe silence should be the price we pay for keeping the peace.

We can love our country and question what's happening within it.

We can disagree without forgetting our humanity.

And we can acknowledge what is happening around us without pretending it doesn't affect us.

Perhaps the greatest danger isn't simply the evil we see, hear, or speak about.

Perhaps it's what happens when we become so accustomed to it that we stop questioning it.

When we stop listening.

When we stop looking.

When we stop speaking.

And eventually, like the skeletons in my photograph, the heartbeat stops, the voice disappears, and the light within us is extinguished.

I refuse to be smothered.