I do not know—when exactly fear slips into a human being.

Perhaps it comes on some night, when the doors of the house are closed, the windows are shut, yet it feels as if someone is walking around inside.
The night before the election was exactly like that.
The clock’s hands crossed twelve, yet they did not stop. Sleep would not come, and staying awake itself was turning into an act of courage. Lying on the bed, I kept thinking only one thing—
Will I be able to vote without fear tomorrow?
Once, this question was very ordinary. Now it is dangerous.
My wife lay turned to the other side. She was not asleep, I knew. Even in a person’s breathing, there is the sound of anxiety.
Suddenly she said,
— What if you don’t go?
I gave no answer.
Because “not going” is no longer a neutral decision—it is a form of surrender.
The dawn call to prayer did not wake me for prayer, but to gather courage. While performing ablution, I looked at my own face in the mirror. With this very face I am a citizen—but looking into the mirror, it felt as if my citizenship itself was on trial today.
As soon as I took the voter ID card in my hand, my chest felt heavy.
A piece of paper—yet it steals the sleep of so many people!
Stepping out onto the street, I saw that the familiar city was unfamiliar today. People were there, but there was no conversation. Looking at the posters pasted on the walls, it felt as if they no longer made promises—they issued instructions.
The polling center was my old school. It was here that I first learned—you must speak the truth, you must not accept injustice.
Today, entering that very school, my feet were trembling.
Looking at the people standing in line, I realized—my fear was not mine alone. An old man kept taking his voter card out of his pocket again and again, as if afraid it might get lost. A young man kept his eyes lowered—as if lifting them would cause something to happen.
Someone whispered,
— Brother, do it properly.
What “properly” means—I do not know.
I only know that I did not come to do anything wrong.
As soon as I stepped behind the curtain, it felt as if all surrounding sounds suddenly moved far away. I was alone. Just me and my decision.
It is for this very moment that there is so much fear, so much pressure.
Before stamping the ballot, I closed my eyes.
I remembered my father’s words. He used to say,
“The day people are afraid to vote, the state will no longer belong to them.”
I cast my vote.
Coming out, I looked at the ink on my finger. A strange thing—it did not make me weak; rather, it taught me to stand upright.
Leaving the polling center, I looked up at the sky. The sun was rising. The light was not very strong, but it was stubborn.
I do not know what will happen in this election.
But today I am certain—
It is because I want to vote without fear
that I can still call myself a citizen.
This is not just a vote.
This is my attempt to live with my head held high.