“Murdered by the State, but not forgotten. Not forgiven.”
They murdered my husband today.
They dragged Albert from his cell, marched him to the gallows like a trophy, bound his hands as if they had not already sentenced him to death. They slipped the noose around his neck with steady hands, cowards that they are, hiding behind their laws, their robes, their weapons—anything to keep from facing the truth of what they’ve done.
They would not even let me see him. They locked me away like a criminal, as if my grief could start a riot, as if my love for him was a danger they could not allow to roam free. And maybe it is. Maybe they should be afraid.
I was not there when they dropped the trapdoor.
I was not there when the rope snapped tight.
I was not there when my husband gasped his last breath.
But I felt it all the same.
I felt it in the hush before the fall, the moment where the whole world held its breath.
I felt it in the crack of the rope, in the stunned silence that followed.
I felt it in the hollow left behind, in the space where a good man had stood before the state decided he must die.
Do not mistake this for justice. Do not let them tell you this was law. Law had no place in that courtroom, no voice in that sentence. This was murder. This was revenge. This was the state lashing out in fear, making an example of him because they know—they know—that Albert was right.
This was their warning to you, to me, to every worker who has dared to dream of something more.
Obey, or be destroyed.
But listen—do you hear it?
Not silence. Never silence.
I hear the roar of voices rising in anger.
I hear the sound of presses rolling, printing his name, his words, his legacy into history.
I hear hammers striking steel, I hear fists slamming onto tables, I hear the murmurs of a thousand men and women who are done being afraid.
They think they have buried the fire.
They have only scattered the embers. And we will burn brighter than ever before.