Care is also resistance

I was 16 years old when the youth of my country, Colombia, rose up in what we now call the 2021 social uprising. We took to the streets because an unfair tax reform threatened to push even more people into poverty. It was a moment of pain, of anger, but also of hope.

I experienced those protests up close. I remember the resistance points where most of the young men wore hoods or masks to cover their faces. I was there too, but my role took another form: care. I became the one who cleaned wounds, carried food, supported those who were exhausted, and at the same time raised my voice to defend human rights.

With time, I understood something that marked me deeply: in the midst of chaos, the protest was also being sustained by the hands and hearts of women. Once again, as in the economy, in families, and in daily life, it was us who took on the labor of care. For me, this is both a critique and a source of pride. A critique because society still assumes that women must always carry this burden. But also pride, because that care was not weakness — it was resistance. It was not silence — it was strength.

There is one scene I will never forget. A young man from the front line came up to me and said:

"Thank you. Since my grandmother died, no one has cared for me the way you do here. In the middle of this protest, I feel seen, protected, accompanied."

His words pierced me. They reminded me that peace and dignity are also built in the simplest gestures: a hot meal, a bandage on a wound, a look that says “you matter.”

Today, years later, I am convinced that peace is not just the absence of bullets. For me, peace is social justice, it is youth with opportunities, it is women recognizing that their care is also political power. It is that mix of critique and tenderness that inspires me to keep fighting and dreaming of a more dignified country.