Who are we fighting for?

By Kerri-ann Brouwer

My alarm went off at 5:45 am this morning. I rolled over sleepily, wishing for just a few more minutes in bed. I quickly grabbed an apple, yogurt, and some leftover supper in a Rubbermaid container from the fridge and rushed out the door, just in time to leave by 6:30 am. 

File 4295

Seven of us hustled into the van, some whistling, some still sleeping, and some finishing bowls of Corn Pops. Two of us were dropped off at our post carding location. We scouted out our map and planned the most efficient way to get the postcards out. I wrote down our start time: 7:03 am. Door to door we walked, up steps and down steps, again and again. Once in a while my steady rhythm was interrupted by an unwanted encounter with an angry dog. I kept going. The sun started beating down. My legs were getting tired. We once again piled into the van. I looked at the clock; 10:28 am. The day had just begun. 

It’s during the ordinary activism days that I ask myself: Why? Why am I standing here holding a sign while high school students around me are laughing? Why do I spend my time handing out brochures when people pass by me like I don’t exist? Are the minds I changed today going to really make a difference? 

And then I become more disheartened. Inconveniences. Tissue. Problems. Clumps of cells. Products of conception. Parasites. These are just a few derogatory names given to pre-born children. Terms that deny their humanity and determine their future. Oh, they are so much more. 

Hands that will never reach for their mothers, lips that will never give slobbery kisses, legs that will never take those first wobbly steps. Children who will never learn an instrument, graduate university, play on a soccer team, or get married. Children who are denied the fundamental right to life. 

Small children whose tiny bodies are violently torn apart by the cold tools of an abortionist. Small children who are suctioned out of their mothers’ wombs, which should be the safest place on earth. Children whose limbs are ripped off, piece by piece. Can you hear their faint screams? Can you see them struggling to survive? Can you imagine the endless joy they would bring? 

Would she be a little girl with soft blond curls and bright blue eyes? Would she be a little girl who loved tea parties, dress-up and side-walk chalk? Would he be a little boy with a mischievous sparkle in his eye? A little boy who loved Oreos, puppies, and mud-puddle play?

Let’s keep fighting. Let’s keep discussing this prevalent issue, not matter how uncomfortable it may seem. Let’s keep post carding, regardless of the heat. Let’s expose injustice in love. Let’s keep fighting, because lives depend on it.