REDACTION AS NATIONAL ANTHEM
I read the file the way my country taught me to read—
with my mouth open
and my hands empty.
The first name is ████████████.
The second name is ████████████.
The third name is not missing.
It is protected.
This is what passes for disclosure now—
a bonfire built from black ink
and called transparency.
I pledge allegiance to the blur.
I pledge allegiance to the margin note that says
[REDACTED – ongoing matter]
which means: ongoing immunity.
My generation learned its civics
from feedback loops and chorus lines,
from three chords and a scream that said
the system isn’t broken—
it is working as designed.
We were promised receipts.
We were handed ███████████████████.
We were promised truth.
We were handed a printer jam
in a locked room
inside a locked building
inside a locked class.
My father’s questions are ███████████.
My daughter’s future is ███████████████.
The address of the house is █████████████████.
The flight logs are ███████████████████████.
The introduction email is █████████████████████████.
You can still see the verbs bleeding through.
met
arranged
flew
stayed
returned
The grammar survives.
The guilt is erased.
What happens to a truth
delayed too long?
Does it dry out
like a postponed dream,
cracked open and brittle on the sidewalk
while a press conference steps over it
and thanks everyone for their patience?
Does it rot quietly
in a sealed evidence box
while a spokesperson explains
that rot is complicated?
My country specializes in complicated.
There is a line that reads:
“The individual known as ████████████”
and I swear I can hear the rest of the sentence
screaming under the toner.
There is a paragraph where the silence is longer
than any sentence I have ever written.
There is a footnote that says:
[REDACTED at the request of █████████████]
which is the most honest line in the document.
You call it privacy.
We call it power with better handwriting.
Somewhere a survivor said █████████████████████████████
and the answer came back
as a rectangle.
A clean shape.
A professional shape.
A shape designed not to tremble.
I try to read the black bars like sheet music.
This is the rhythm of protection.
This is the tempo of influence.
This is the chorus everybody knows
but pretends not to sing.
Because the names are █████████████.
Because the meetings are █████████████████.
Because the money is █████████████████████████.
Because the favors are █████████████████████████████.
Because if you erase enough nouns,
you can keep the system intact
and only amputate the story.
They tell us the investigation is ongoing.
So is the forgetting.
They tell us due process requires patience.
So does injustice.
They tell us not to speculate,
not to inflame,
not to politicize.
But what do you call a file
that edits its own criminals
and leaves only the weather and the timestamps?
What do you call a justice system
that files down names
the way a prison files down people?
In one place the document says:
“████████████████████████████████████████”
and I know—
I know—
that is where the room changed temperature.
That is where someone stopped being hypothetical.
That is where a life split into before and after
while the ink learned how to hide.
I am tired of elegant censorship.
Tired of neutral rectangles.
Tired of public statements that speak fluent ash.
You taught us to rage with guitars and broken radios.
You taught us to ask what happens to a dream
when the law keeps setting snooze alarms on it.
You taught us what it costs
when a body becomes a problem for a system to manage.
So do not ask me to be calm
in the presence of professional erasure.
Do not ask me to trust
a document that looks like it survived a fire
but somehow protected every match.
The truth is not missing.
The truth is ████████████████████████████████
and everyone in the room knows
exactly what shape it takes.
Say the names.
No—
don’t say them.
Print them.
Let them stain the page
so badly the black bars finally run out of ink.