Say Something Real
By Michelle Bryant
Michelle Bryant
Dear Assata,
Now that you have passed, there are so many things I wish I could have said to you, words left unspoken, thoughts left unsaid. Your death marks the end of a life that was as fiercely contested as it was deeply inspiring. You were more than a person; you were a symbol, a beacon, a challenge to a world that too often refused to see Black people as human.
I wish I could have told you that as you sat in exile, your name still echoed across continents, spoken in reverence and rage, depending on the speaker. It was no accident that your story endured, that your image adorned posters from Harlem to Johannesburg, and that your words were recited at rallies and whispered in moments of despair. You transformed suffering into struggle, and struggle into hope.
I wish I could have told you that your unflinching nerve and refusal to be broken gave strength to countless people who felt otherwise, powerless. Your words, “our duty to fight for our freedom. It is our duty to win. We have nothing to lose but our chains,” spoke to your willingness to risk everything, even your life, rather than submit to a system you believed was designed to destroy you.You lived through a time when the system declared you guilty before a fair trial, when you were hunted, shot at, and ultimately convicted for a crime that many still question whether you committed. Yet, you never stopped speaking your truth. Your life was a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of relentless oppression.
I wish I could have told you how your story crossed borders and oceans, inspiring people worldwide who see their own struggles in yours. Your words, “A wall is just a wall, and nothing more at all. It can be broken down,” have been seared in my consciousness. That message of hope and resistance remains a rallying cry for those fighting injustice everywhere.
And yet, the very system that calls you a murderer has, in recent years, shown a different face. The January 6 protesters—many of whom attacked the very seat of American democracy—are now defended by some of the same voices who condemned you. They are called “patriots,” “political prisoners,” and “defenders of liberty.” The contrast is stark. Where your fight was for liberation from oppression, theirs was, in many cases, an attempt to maintain privilege and power. Where you were hunted, beaten, and exiled for your beliefs, they are often celebrated, even as their actions left deep wounds on the nation.
I wish I could have discussed the double standard with you regarding the January 6th rioters. They attacked the very seat of American democracy and the police. However, they were defended, referred to as “patriots,” “political prisoners,” and “defenders of liberty.” You fought for liberation from oppression; they fought to maintain privilege and power. You were hunted, beaten, and exiled; they were celebrated and set free.
I wish I could have told you that, despite everything, your story mattered. For some, you are forever a fugitive. To others, you are a freedom fighter. But to all who have ever felt the lash of injustice, your words remain: “A wall is just a wall,” not just a physical barrier but a metaphor for the boundaries of race, of class, of power faced across the globe. I wish I could have said thank you for the lesson that walls can be scaled and torn down. Through your life, we many have learned how to climb.