Lately, everything hurts. It feels like we’re in a constant state of mourning, not for someone in particular, but for everything. For humanity, for dignity, for meaning itself. As if pain is crawling beneath the Earth’s skin. And the most terrible part is that this grief seems to be happening in silence. As if we’ve given up. As if loss were inevitable, rather than the result of concrete decisions, power structures, and carefully cultivated indifference.

On those days, it’s hard to breathe. Reading the news feels like letting the world pierce right through me, without anesthesia:

Gaza… Gaza is being starved to death. On purpose. It’s not just the attacks. It’s hunger used as a weapon, childhood targeted, genocide as strategy. The massacre is live-streamed. Over 17,000 children murdered while the world debates whether it’s “proportional”. Terror is imposed as collective punishment. Where did our humanity go? In what dark corner did they hide compassion? How many bodies does it take before someone finally looks without blinking?

Sudan, another epicenter of neglect. Sudan is burning and almost no one is watching. Over 25 million people are in need of humanitarian aid as the country bleeds through massacres, displacement, and famine. In Darfur, horrific crimes are being committed, ethnic cleansing, systematic rape. A genocide that, apparently, doesn’t sell. Because, where are the headlines? Where is the global outrage? How do you silence a war like this?

Tuvalu, a small island in the Pacific, has become the first nation to be fully evacuated due to climate change. Not because of a single catastrophe, but because of a series of omissions, decades of ignored warnings, negligent decisions, persistent emissions, and broken promises. More than 80% of its inhabitants have already applied for visas for Australia, before their islands disappear. Where does an entire culture go when it loses its land? Who mourns a country that sinks?

In the deep ocean, governments are negotiating the destruction of the more pristine ecosystems on the planet. Deep-sea mining advances in the name of a “green transition” that is nothing but more extractivism, another sacrifice, yet another promise of a future made by those who’ve already sold everything. A geopolitical neocolonialism: the demand for these minerals isn’t about sustainability, but about fueling the arms race, maintaining hegemonies, and perpetuating a system where military and economic power is worth more than life itself.

And I could go on, but then this blog would become a book.

Everything is connected: The climate crisis, the wars, social collapse, displacement, authoritarianism, the loss of meaning. What’s at stake is life itself, and still, we carry on as if nothing’s happening.

And I understand. Because it hurts.

Because when you try to see the full picture, what stares back is a brutal void. A world ruled by those who only seek to protect their wealth. People who love nothing. Who cry for no one. Who see other lives as obstacles and suffering as collateral damage.

Eduardo Matte Pérez said it in 1892, without shame: “We are the owners of Chile, the owners of capital and land. The rest is an influenceable and sellable mass; it carries no weight, neither as opinion nor prestige”.

That sentence still holds true. Not just in Chile but in every corner where power stands upon contempt.

They are ripping empathy out of us, through saturation, speed, and algorithms that numb us. They teach us to consume horror as part of the landscape, to scroll past it as if it were natural. To believe nothing can be done. To think resistance is symbolic, that love is naïve, that rage is unproductive.

But rage is a language too.

Because yes, there is rage. There is fear. There is helplessness. And also, a vast sadness. A feeling that no matter how hard we fight, they’ll destroy everything anyway. And yet, even in that abyss, something stirs. Something refuses to vanish completely.

Maybe it’s not hope.

Maybe it’s memory. Or love. Or dignity.

If it still hurts, doesn’t that mean something is still alive? And that something can become action too.

Not heroic, individual action. I’m not talking about productivity dressed up as change. I’m talking about gathering, about shouting, about holding each other, about crying out loud.
I’m talking about not letting them steal our sensitivity. About not surrendering that last territory: the soul that still trembles at horror.

Maybe we’re not here to win. Maybe there’s no victory as we imagined it.

But we can still resist from a place of love, from fierce tenderness, from the stubborn purity of those who know things could be different.

And if we can’t change everything, at least we can refuse to be part of the silence.