Don’t read this

 In moments of reflection, the mind can function like an aging slide projector, casting stark images onto the screen of our consciousness. Recently, one such image resurfaced: a frame from a wilderness photo essay glimpsed long ago in the sterile quiet of a waiting room. 

It depicted a gazelle, arrested mid-leap, the nascent terror of a distant cheetah etched into its posture. The accompanying text, a stark annotation to this tableau of vulnerability, described the gazelle’s paralysis not as a reasoned response, but as an instinctual shutdown, a desperate, often fatal, wager on invisibility.

This primal scene resonates with a disquieting familiarity in contemporary global affairs. 

I wonder how often, like that frozen gazelle, we find ourselves immobilized by the mere specter of negative repercussions. 

The apprehension of transgressing established norms, of articulating a divergent viewpoint, can calcify into a state of inertia, a self-imposed subjugation that subtly erodes the foundations of genuine discourse.

The dread of being branded “difficult,” “unrealistic,” or even “radical” can act as a potent silencer, compelling individuals back into the perceived safety of the collective, unique perspectives lost to the expediency of compliance, accumulating like the unseen casualties of a silent war.

Unchecked, fear becomes a corrosive agent.

Consider the gnawing anxiety that keeps individuals such as Kilmar Abrego Garcia awake in his prison cell.

Reflect on the precarious position of Mahmoud Khalil, facing the potential instrumentalization of his suffering and possible deportation as a mere justification for voicing against an uncontested atrocity. 

Or closer to home, observe the palpable apprehension within university administrations, a fear of governmental reprisal that can stifle their willingness to stand in solidarity with international students facing the abrupt revocation of their visas.

The invisible, yet often detectable, forces that shape our realities wield influence with the quiet authority of signatories on a balance sheet. 

Their methods may lack the overt ferocity of a cheetah’s attack yet exploit the same fundamental vulnerability: our innate aversion to pain, to ostracization, to the disruption of our precarious stability. 

They cultivate an environment where the potential for negative consequences, whether subtle or overt, serves as a constant deterrent, keeping us within prescribed boundaries.

The danger lies in allowing this pervasive fear to become our default setting, to transform us into creatures perpetually poised for flight, forever calculating the risks of utterance or dissent. 

For when we succumb to this frozen reflex, we become easy targets for an unchallenged status quo.

The challenge, then, lies in recognizing this primal response within ourselves and cultivating the courage to move, to speak, even when the silhouette of the predator looms in the distance.