Voice Of The Voiceless Quotes

I am not anxious to be the loudest voice or the most popular. But I would like to think that at a crucial moment, I was an effective voice of the voiceless, an effective hope of the hopeless.

I am the voice of the voiceless; Through me the dumb shall speak. Till the deaf world's ears be made to hear. The wrongs of the wordless weak. And I am my brothers keeper, And I will fight his fights; And speak the words for beast and bird. Till the world shall set things right.

The institutions of human society treat us as parts of a machine. They assign us ranks and place considerable pressure upon us to fulfill defined roles. We need something to help us restore our lost and distorted humanity. Each of us has feelings that have been suppressed and have built up inside. There is a voiceless cry resting in the depths of our souls, waiting for expression. Art gives the soul's feelings voice and form.

My story is the story of forgotten people and the voice of the voiceless.

When we share those stories we've been scared to share, voicelessness loses it's wicked grasp.

What creature is it that is female in nature and hides in its womb unborn children who, although they are voiceless, speak to people far away? The female creature is a letter. The unborn children are the letters (of the alphabet) it carries. And the letters, although they have no voices, speak to people far away.

Humanity can no longer stand by in silence while our wildlife are being used, abused and exploited. It is time we all stand together, to be the voice of the voiceless before it's too late. Extinction means forever.

You’re going to be the voice of the voiceless.

If you achieve a voice that will be heard, you should use it to speak up for the voiceless and oppressed. If you possess any power or authority, you must strive to use it to help and empower the powerless.

Make a commitment to serve the needs of the ‘least of these’ and give voice to the voiceless.

I favour humans over ideology, but right now the ideologues are winning, and they're creating a stage for constant artificial high dramas, where everyone is either a magnificent hero or a sickening villain. We can lead good, ethical lives, but some bad phraseology in a Tweet can overwhelm it all - even though we know that's not how we should define our fellow humans. What's true about our fellow humans is that we are clever and stupid. We are grey areas. And so ... when you see an unfair or an ambiguous shaming unfold, speak up on behalf of the shamed person. A babble of opposing voices - that's democracy. The great thing about social media was how it gave a voice to voiceless people. Let's not turn it into a world where the smartest way to survive is to go back to being voiceless.

I was determined to be someone who told the truth, using my voice to lift up the voiceless when I could, and to not disappear on people in need. I understood that when I showed up somewhere,

-What do you think makes a good leader? -Someone who listens, who thinks before acting, who tries to understand different viewpoints, who does what is right even if the path is long and hard. Who will give a voice to the voiceless.

SHOW THE WORLD YOUR STRONG COMPASSION! GIVE YOUR VOICE TO VOICELESS KOBANE KIDS!

TRAUMA STEALS YOUR VOICE People get so tired of asking you what's wrong and you've run out of nothings to tell them. You've tried and they've tried, but the words just turn to ashes every time they try to leave your mouth. They start as fire in the pit of your stomach, but come out in a puff of smoke. You are not you anymore. And you don't know how to fix this. The worst part is...you don't even know how to try.

We are not a voice for the voiceless. The truth is that there is a lot of noise out there drowning out quiet voices, and many people have stopped listening to the cries of their neighbors. Lots of folks have put their hands over their ears to drown out the suffering. Institutions have distanced themselves from the disturbing cries.. It is a beautiful thing when folks in poverty are no longer just a missions project but become genuine friends and family with whom we laugh, cry, dream, and struggle. One of the verses I have grown to love is the one where Jesus is preparing to leave the disciples and says, "I no longer call you servants.... Instead, I have called you friends" (John 15:15). Servanthood is a fine place to begin, but gradually we move toward mutual love, genuine relationships. Someday, perhaps we can even say those words that Ruth said to Naomi after years of partnership: "Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried" (Ruth 1:16-17).

Having the right to show up and speak are basic to survival, to dignity, and to liberty. I’m grateful that, after an early life of being silenced, sometimes violently, I grew up to have a voice, circumstances that will always bind me to the rights of the voiceless.

The point of my books is to give voice to otherwise voiceless females from history and myth, to unlock what has been secreted away in women's hearts and minds for millennia. Historically, women have either been reduced to nothing but their sexuality or stripped of it entirely: the Madonna or the whore.

Seek justice: Make a commitment to serve the needs of the ‘least of these’ and give voice to the voiceless.

For scapegoating to occur, a community must agree on a target who can be blamed for anything that goes wrong. Sometimes a community just needs someone to BE wrong all the time, so they can know they are right. It really doesn’t matter if the person is actually guilty or wrong, as long as everyone agrees on it. That agreement allows the community to act against the scapegoat and feel justified. They can hate, abuse, ridicule, neglect, expel, wound or kill the scapegoat and actually experience feelings of joy and well-being afterward.

que ferais-je sans ce monde que ferais-je sans ce monde sans visage sans questions où être ne dure qu'un instant où chaque instant verse dans le vide dans l'oubli d'avoir été sans cette onde où à la fin corps et ombre ensemble s'engloutissent que ferais-je sans ce silence gouffre des murmures haletant furieux vers le secours vers l'amour sans ce ciel qui s'élève sur la poussieère de ses lests que ferais-je je ferais comme hier comme aujourd'hui regardant par mon hublot si je ne suis pas seul à errer et à virer loin de toute vie dans un espace pantin sans voix parmi les voix enfermées avec moi Translation... what would I do without this world what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been without this wave where in the end body and shadow together are engulfed what would I do without this silence where the murmurs die the pantings the frenzies towards succour towards love without this sky that soars above its ballast dust what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness

How will a girl like me born childrens? Why will I fill up the world with sad childrens that are not having a chance to go to school? Why make the world to be one big, sad, silent place because all the childrens are not having a voice?

That was the day I made up my mind, I am the voice of those who don't have the strength to cry.

An altar is like an airport where spirits take off and land

Refusal to engage in spiritual warfare does not exempt you from being among the next casualties of war

My truth asked people to understand and to learn about depths of pain they had previously walked past…. I had kept my silence for a reason. - from Without a Voice by Chris Pepple

It's not the volume of your voice that matters, it's the content.

Do not be afraid to be the voice of the voiceless.

With all our understanding of the speed of light, We're yet to cross the distance from heart to heart. With all our fancy equipment of communication, We are yet to listen to those unheard.

Those most oppressed do not owe you thanks for acting in allyship (it’s just the right thing to do), but we deserve gratitude for showing you the way. For teaching you, holding space for you, and leading the charge toward our collective liberation. Gratitude means crediting our words and work, remunerating us, and otherwise supporting us physically, mentally, emotionally, and energetically. We don’t need you to be a voice for the voiceless, because nobody is without a (metaphorical) voice. We just need you to pass the damn mic.

Silence is what allows people to suffer without recourse, what allows hypocrisies and lies to grow and flourish, crimes to go unpunished. If our voices are essential aspects of our humanity, to be rendered voiceless is to be dehumanized or excluded from one’s humanity. And the history of silence is central to women’s history.

I have been impressed by the realization that a few men have virtually 'decided' what experiences count and even exist in the world. The language of Western science--the reigning construct of male hegemony--precludes the ability to express the experiential realities it talks about. Virtually all the actual experiences of this world, expressed through the manifest and mysterious characteristics of all the different beings, are unrepresented in the stainless steel edicts of experts. Where is the voice of the voiceless in the scientific literature, including the literature of environmental ethics?

This is why i hate social media. It gives a voice to people who dont (sic) deserve one.

Just because the African woman is poor and voiceless doesn’t mean her voice gets hijacked by someone who believes the world revolves around them and their culture.

To be an effective voice for the voiceless, you have to speak and fight from your heart.

In North Korea, journalism, the job of telling the stories power and money do not want told, of giving a voice to the voiceless, does not exist.

SHOW THE WORLD YOUR STRONG COMPASSION: GIVE YOUR VOICE TO VOICELESS YAZIDI GIRLS!

I cried out.../ ...A cry like both a baby's first and a dying man's last.../ ...in a voiceless voice.

When you don't have a voice, you can't stand up for yourself.

The doors of the darkest room one had ever seen were opened and everyone was asked to collect the pieces of themselves that they have lost with time all these years. Everyone rushed in and started searching for the pieces that would complete them but all of a sudden they saw the light in the room fading away, they turned around and saw the doors closing back again. They screamed and tried to run back but all of a sudden there were fences all around them, they lost their voice and helplessly stuck in there saw the doors closing. They lost themselves completely in the quest of searching the pieces they had lost before.

Enemy of the American people,” in President Trump’s phrase? We are the American people. Journalists bring vitality to the national conversation. We bridge differences, serve public safety, expose corruption, constrain power and give voice to the voiceless. As Madison might say today, Freedom of the Press is the right that guarantees all the others. The stakes are high. Become a journalist. We’d be proud to have you.

FOR THE VOICELESS by El Niño Salvaje I speak for the ones who cannot speak, for the voiceless. I raise my voice and wave my arms and shout for the ones you do not see, perhaps cannot see, for the invisible. For the poor, the powerless, the disenfranchised; for the victims of this so-called “war on drugs,” for the eighty thousand murdered by the narcos, by the police, by the military, by the government, by the purchasers of drugs and the sellers of guns, by the investors in gleaming towers who have parlayed their “new money” into hotels, resorts, shopping malls, and suburban developments. I speak for the tortured, burned, and flayed by the narcos, beaten and raped by the soldiers, electrocuted and half-drowned by the police. I speak for the orphans, twenty thousand of them, for the children who have lost both or one parent, whose lives will never be the same. I speak for the dead children, shot in crossfires, murdered alongside their parents, ripped from their mothers’ wombs. I speak for the people enslaved, forced to labor on the narcos’ ranches, forced to fight. I speak for the mass of others ground down by an economic system that cares more for profit than for people. I speak for the people who tried to tell the truth, who tried to tell the story, who tried to show you what you have been doing and what you have done. But you silenced them and blinded them so that they could not tell you, could not show you. I speak for them, but I speak to you—the rich, the powerful, the politicians, the comandantes, the generals. I speak to Los Pinos and the Chamber of Deputies, I speak to the White House and Congress, I speak to AFI and the DEA, I speak to the bankers, and the ranchers and the oil barons and the capitalists and the narco drug lords and I say— You are the same. You are all the cartel. And you are guilty. You are guilty of murder, you are guilty of torture, you are guilty of rape, of kidnapping, of slavery, of oppression, but mostly I say that you are guilty of indifference. You do not see the people that you grind under your heel. You do not see their pain, you do not hear their cries, they are voiceless and invisible to you and they are the victims of this war that you perpetuate to keep yourselves above them. This is not a war on drugs. This is a war on the poor. This is a war on the poor and the powerless, the voiceless and the invisible, that you would just as soon be swept from your streets like the trash that blows around your ankles and soils your shoes. Congratulations. You’ve done it. You’ve performed a cleansing. A limpieza. The country is safe now for your shopping malls and suburban tracts, the invisible are safely out of sight, the voiceless silent as they should be. I speak these last words, and now you will kill me for it. I only ask that you bury me in the fosa común—the common grave—with the faceless and the nameless, without a headstone. I would rather be with them than you. And I am voiceless now, and invisible.

This could have gone on for years. Me having my brain torn apart by sensations, thoughts and feelings of somatic torment at the hands of an Other Body in its mirror. Family and friends wanting to help — I assumed that was so, at least — but failing in the specifics. This glass between us making the seen, unseen, the seeing, unseeing. Making the outspoken voiceless and the listening deaf. Making the caring confused and the cared for distraught. Like an exile trapped in a labyrinth of glass panes splitting me off from my society and my tribe, no matter which direction I turned, no matter which impossible hallway I travelled down I was always separated from reflections of some other world where people could be happy, and safe, and understand their own inner workings well enough to voice them in the form of words.

He played the opening bars again, opening a door for her, inviting her to join. She started quietly, almost voiceless, only a thin string of sound weaving herself into his tune, as if her voice were just another string on the guitar between his fingers. She had to be careful, so no one saw the changes on her face. But she didn't want to be careful; she couldn't be careful. He played and she sang to him, and inside her more and more blocks of ice began to melt, cracking and falling into the frozen sea between them. She sang of all the things that were happening to her and him, the world that collapsed over both of them, the things that might be in store, if only they dared to believe it was possible.

I realized a long time ago that in order to create real change for animals–from domestic pets to wildlife to farm animals–you need to have a lot of money, or a lot of power. Laws that could–and should–protect animals more aren’t being championed the way they should be. All it takes is one person, determined to rise, to get enough power to give a voice to the voiceless.

She gave me breast and vaginal exams until I was seventeen years old. These 'exams' made my body stiff with discomfort. I felt violated, yet I had no voice, no ability to express that. I was conditioned to believe any boundary I wanted was a betrayal of her, so I stayed silent. Cooperative. When I was six years old, she pushed me into a career I didn't want. I'm grateful for the financial stability that career has provided me, but not much else. I was not equipped to handle the entertainment industry and all of its competitiveness, rejection, stakes, harsh realities, fame. I needed that time, those years, to develop as a child. To form my identity. To grow. I can never get those years back. She taught me an eating disorder when I was eleven years old--an eating disorder that robbed me of my joy and any amount of free-spiritedness that I had.

WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight; Ere the evening lamps are lighted, 5 And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlor wall; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more; He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, 15 Weary with the march of life! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more! 20 And with them the Being Beauteous, Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep 25 Comes that messenger divine, Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, 30 Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, 35 Breathing from her lips of air. Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died!

Voice of the Voiceless by Ella Wheeler Wilcox So many gods, so many creeds, So many paths that wind and wind, While just the art of being kind Is all the sad world needs. I am the voice of the voiceless: Through me, the dumb shall speak; Till the deaf world’s ear be made to hear The cry of the wordless weak. From street, from cage and from kennel, From jungle, and stall, the wail Of my tortured kin proclaims the sin Of the mighty against the frail For love is the true religion, And love is the law sublime; And all is wrought, where love is not Will die at the touch of time. Oh shame on the mothers of mortals Who have not stopped to teach Of the sorrow that lies in dear, dumb eyes, The sorrow that has no speech. The same Power formed the sparrow That fashioned man-the King; The God of the whole gave a living soul To furred and to feathered thing. And I am my brother’s keeper, And I will fight his fight; And speak the word for beast and bird Till the world shall set things right.

The fact that the Qur'an "happens against a long background of patriarchal precedent" may also explain why its exegesis, the work entirely of men, has been influenced by their own needs and experiences while either excluding or interpreting, "through the male vision", perspective, desire, or needs". The resulting absence of women's voices from "the basic paradigms through which we examine and discuss the Qur'an and Qur'anic interpretation," argues Wadud, is mistaken "with voicelessness in the text itself"; and it is this silence that both explains and allows the striking consensus on women's issues among muslims in spite of interpretive differences among them.

As long as I am still alive, they have failed. As long as people hear my story, they have failed. As long as I keep fighting, they have failed! This book is a declaration of independence. It is a story of how hatred failed and love and justice prevailed. My hope is that my story serves as inspiration for those who have been harmed by the very institutions that were meant to protect them. There is power in our voices. The more of us speak up, the more likely we are to be heard. Our communities cannot thrive if some of us are made to feel like we do not matter. I hope this book inspires more people to stand up for the voiceless. Don't let your silence be another person's death. Fighting for each other is the only way we all win.

My interest in comics was scribbled over with a revived, energized passion for clothes, records, and music. I'd wandered in late to the punk party in 1978, when it was already over and the Sex Pistols were history. I'd kept my distance during the first flush of the new paradigm, when the walls of the sixth-form common room shed their suburban-surreal Roger Dean Yes album covers and grew a fresh new skin of Sex Pistols pictures, Blondie pinups, Buzzcocks collages, Clash radical chic. As a committed outsider, I refused to jump on the bandwagon of this new musical fad, which I'd written off as some kind of Nazi thing after seeing a photograph of Sid Vicious sporting a swastika armband. I hated the boys who'd cut their long hair and binned their crappy prog albums in an attempt to join in. I hated pretty much everybody without discrimination, in one way or another, and punk rockers were just something else to add to the shit list. But as we all know, it's zealots who make the best converts. One Thursday night, I was sprawled on the settee with Top of the Pops on the telly when Poly Styrene and her band X-Ray Spex turned up to play their latest single: an exhilarating sherbet storm of raw punk psychedelia entitled "The Day the World Turned Day-Glo" By the time the last incandescent chorus played out, I was a punk. I had always been a punk. I would always be a punk. Punk brought it all together in one place for me: Michael Moorcock's Jerry Cornelius novels were punk. Peter Barnes's The Ruling Class, Dennis Potter, and The Prisoner were punk too. A Clockwork Orange was punk. Lindsay Anderson's If ... was punk. Monty Python was punk. Photographer Bob Carlos Clarke's fetish girls were punk. Comics were punk. Even Richmal Crompton's William books were punk. In fact, as it turned out, pretty much everything I liked was punk. The world started to make sense for the first time since Mosspark Primary. New and glorious constellations aligned in my inner firmament. I felt born again. The do-your-own-thing ethos had returned with a spit and a sneer in all those amateurish records I bought and treasured-even though I had no record player. Singles by bands who could often barely play or sing but still wrote beautiful, furious songs and poured all their young hearts, experiences, and inspirations onto records they paid for with their dole money. If these glorious fuckups could do it, so could a fuckup like me. When Jilted John, the alter ego of actor and comedian Graham Fellows, made an appearance on Top of the Pops singing about bus stops, failed romance, and sexual identity crisis, I was enthralled by his shameless amateurism, his reduction of pop music's great themes to playground name calling, his deconstruction of the macho rock voice into the effeminate whimper of a softie from Sheffield. This music reflected my experience of teenage life as a series of brutal setbacks and disappointments that could in the end be redeemed into art and music with humor, intelligence, and a modicum of talent. This, for me, was the real punk, the genuine anticool, and I felt empowered. The losers, the rejected, and the formerly voiceless were being offered an opportunity to show what they could do to enliven a stagnant culture. History was on our side, and I had nothing to lose. I was eighteen and still hadn't kissed a girl, but perhaps I had potential. I knew I had a lot to say, and punk threw me the lifeline of a creed and a vocabulary-a soundtrack to my mission as a comic artist, a rough validation. Ugly kids, shy kids, weird kids: It was okay to be different. In fact, it was mandatory.

Journalists and politicians were exactly alike. Most got into the business for altruistic reasons. Voices of the voiceless. But the lure of power, money, pride, all the major vices, was enticing. The truly good-hearted got eaten up and spit out. The ones who learned how to play the game made it.

She had been sad. She had been melancholy. She had cursed her fate as a voiceless monarch, railing against her lot quietly. Once in a while she had a burst of temper when she wanted to be heard and no one would listen, when people were shouting over her and ignoring her hands, as if because she had no voice she had nothing to say.

Readers and writers should not deceive themselves that literature changes the world. Literature changes the world of readers and writers, but literature does not change the world until people get out of their chairs, go out in the world, and do something to transform the conditions of which the literature speaks. Otherwise literature will just be a fetish for readers and writers, allowing them to think that they are hearing the voiceless when they are really only hearing the writer’s individual voice.

The number of letters in the English alphabet was only settled in the seventeenth century. Before then, i and j were different forms of the same letter, as were u and v (the form used depended on the position of the letter in the word), s was used for the voiced sound /z/, and f, aka the ‘long S’, represented the voiceless /s/ we know it today.

… coming to voice is an act of resistance. Speaking becomes both a way to engage in active self-transformation and a rite of passage where one moves from being object to being subject. Only as subjects can we speak. As objects, we remain voiceless-our beings defined and interpreted by others.

Any church that operates in prayerless and powerless Christianity spend their days and years conducting dust to dust rites in the burial grounds.

Another evidence that proves that 'Kheper' can in no way be associated with 'creation' is taken from the myth of the diving insect which plunges down to the bottom, managing to grab and bring back to the surface some amount of matter to allegedly form the terrestrial world. With a confused tongue, the voiceless velar fricative consonantal sound will be rendered as a voiceless pharyngeal fricative one and vice versa. Another ambiguity arises in differentiating the voiced and/or voicless bilabial stop from the voiced and/or voiceless labiodental fricative consonantal sound. In other words, 'tidings' were intentionally and/or unintentionally rendered as '(dig a) hole'.

If you place two living heart cells from different people in a Petrie dish, they will in time find and maintain a third and common beat. —MOLLY VASS This biological fact holds the secret of all relationship. It is cellular proof that beneath any resistance we might pose and beyond all our attempts that fall short, there is in the very nature of life itself some essential joining force. This inborn ability to find and enliven a common beat is the miracle of love. This force is what makes compassion possible, even probable. For if two cells can find the common pulse beneath everything, how much more can full hearts feel when all excuses fall away? This drive toward a common beat is the force beneath curiosity and passion. It is what makes strangers talk to strangers, despite the discomfort. It is how we risk new knowledge. For being still enough, long enough, next to anything living, we find a way to sing the one voiceless song. Yet we often tire ourselves by fighting how our hearts want to join, seldom realizing that both strength and peace come from our hearts beating in unison with all that is alive. It feels incredibly uplifting that without even knowing each other, there exists a common beat between all hearts, just waiting to be felt. It brings to mind the time that the great poet Pablo Neruda, near the end of his life, stopped while traveling at the Lota coal mine in rural Chile. He stood there stunned, as a miner, rough and blackened by his work inside the earth, strode straight for Neruda, embraced him, and said, “I have known you a long time, my brother.” Perhaps this is the secret—that every time we dare to voice what beats within, we invite some other cell of heart to find what lives between us and sing.

His lips moved. A single syllable, brief, inaudible, but definitely a voiced palatal glide morphing into a voiceless alveolar fricative. Therefore almost certainly: Yes.

Later on in the day, Shrader was just getting her bag ready to go home when Fallon pulled her aside. “Come with me.” He said. “Where?” “Oh, just a place. It’s really nice and I think you’ll like it.” Shrader nodded and Fallon disappeared as quickly as he had come. They met at the school’s front doors and Fallon began leading the way to wherever he was taking Shrader. She was curious, very curious to where he was taking her, but Shrader dared not to ask. Fallon kept a steady pace, and he seemed confident so Shrader seemed to somehow trust him. They passed the park, and every possible idea that Shrader could think of. She knew Fallon’s plan. He was going to take her somewhere where she’s never been before. “Here we are.” He says as they stand in front of each other. Shrader looks around. “There’s nothing here but the grass and some railroad tracks.” “Exactly.” Fallon says. “These railroad tracks have the power to hold the explanation that a human being cannot say. For example, in the 50s, African men used to lay on the railroad tracks and protest against segregation.” “What happened if a train came?” Shrader asked. “Then they would die. They wouldn’t move, because they wanted to prove a point. If they would’ve moved before the train reached them, then the protest wouldn’t have made any sense. People sacrifice to do the things they believe in.” “So what are you implying about us?” Shrader asks. “You explained to me a long time ago how badly you wanted to be heard. You believe that words should stand tall, and not just vocally. So, what I am implying is we lay on these railroad tracks to be heard. Let people know that we are the voice for the forgotten voiceless.” “And if a train comes?” Shrader asked carefully. “Then we die.” Fallon said as he laid against the tracks.

I’ve often envied those writers in the Western world who can peacefully practice their craft and earn a living thereby… What [the authorities here] cannot stand is that a writer should give voice to the voiceless or organize them for action. In short, they do not want literature on the streets!

Christ asked people who follow him to be the voice for the voiceless - not to wire their mouths shut.

FEBRUARY 2 Two Heart Cells Beating If you place two living heart cells from different people in a Petrie dish, they will in time find and maintain a third and common beat. —MOLLY VASS This biological fact holds the secret of all relationship. It is cellular proof that beneath any resistance we might pose and beyond all our attempts that fall short, there is in the very nature of life itself some essential joining force. This inborn ability to find and enliven a common beat is the miracle of love. This force is what makes compassion possible, even probable. For if two cells can find the common pulse beneath everything, how much more can full hearts feel when all excuses fall away? This drive toward a common beat is the force beneath curiosity and passion. It is what makes strangers talk to strangers, despite the discomfort. It is how we risk new knowledge. For being still enough, long enough, next to anything living, we find a way to sing the one voiceless song. Yet we often tire ourselves by fighting how our hearts want to join, seldom realizing that both strength and peace come from our hearts beating in unison with all that is alive. It feels incredibly uplifting that without even knowing each other, there exists a common beat between all hearts, just waiting to be felt. It brings to mind the time that the great poet Pablo Neruda, near the end of his life, stopped while traveling at the Lota coal mine in rural Chile. He stood there stunned, as a miner, rough and blackened by his work inside the earth, strode straight for Neruda, embraced him, and said, “I have known you a long time, my brother.” Perhaps this is the secret—that every time we dare to voice what beats within, we invite some other cell of heart to find what lives between us and sing.

Someone who listens. Who thinks before acting. Who tries to understand different viewpoints. Who does what is right, even if the path is long and hard. Who will give a voice to the voiceless.

Love does that. It names the nameless and gives voice to the voiceless.

You tell yourself don’t be a voice for the voiceless. Abolish the conditions of voicelessness.

I focused so much on my conscious mind that I forgot about the one beneath it, the one that wanted to talk but could only whisper. I'd suffocate those whispers and I'd feed the silence, but it was still there, hidden but not discreet as it pierced my insides with the sharpness of its thorns, growing inside me within the darkness of my soul. I continued to pretend it wasn't there, that I was okay. Because everyone else's opinions, although they shouldn't matter, they did. They did and it made all the fucking difference.

Talking. It's important and I wish I fucking did it.

He never appreciated what I did for him by taking some of his songs and putting them in my book. I took his voice, the voice of the voiceless, do you see, to the whole country...

Related changes saw PIE voiced stops [b, d, g] become voiceless [p, t, k] (hence Latin duo, but English two; Swedish två).

Kleptocracy, corruption, injustice, dirty politics, unscrupulous political movers, patronage politics, destructive and corrupt political dynasties, and impunity have found perpetual happiness in the Pearl of the Orient Seas. There are so many endless questions: What have you done? What are you going to do? Will silence, apathy, vindictiveness, emotional abuse, verbal abuse, psychological abuse and economic abuse go on? Will you just go with the flow of kleptocracy, corruption, injustice and impunity? When will you ever genuinely decolonise your mind from colonial mentality? Will you live and work upholding truth and honesty as you continue to help strengthen the country's collective memory of various factual incidents in history without being politically biased? Are you one of those who committed revisionism, cancelling out, discrediting others, peddled disinformation, calumny, gossip-mongering, fear-mongering, destructive lies, group political narcissist bullying, harassing, blaming, gloating, provoking, sabotaging, intimidating, threatening, abusing others as you are more loyal to a political party than the truth? Will there be honest public servants and honest lawmakers? Because with honesty as a top living value, you can find effective solutions to many issues in society. Are you willing to help minimise, stop and eliminate corruption, violence, injustice and impunity? Are you going to be one of those honest voices for the voiceless without breaking the law? Are you going to help hold accountable those thieves, perpetrators, scammers, and corrupt members of society without breaking the law? I have so many nagging questions, but I shall always end it with these: Will you be honest in every deal? How hard is it to be truthful? Will you uphold the truth and justice? Do the fact and truth whisper to your conscience? Then, are you willing to honestly listen to it and move toward the right, lawful and humane actions? ~ Ana Angelica Abaya van Doorn writing as Angelica Hopes Onestopia Book 3, Solo la verità è bella Trilogy

She didn’t balk. “Someone who listens. Who thinks before acting. Who tries to understand different viewpoints. Who does what is right, even if the path is long and hard. Who will give a voice to the voiceless.

The powerful want to deal with you one at a time. You immigrant. You refugee. You minority. You native. You token. You. You tell yourself: Don’t be a voice for the voiceless. Abolish the conditions of voicelessness.

Innocent teary eyes Grief stricken face You look everywhere with fear And with feelings of helpless pain! When you should be playing with Dolls and dancing in the rain! Neither do you like to wear new dresses, Nor sing, laugh, and play with the toy train! Oh my dearest sweet child! Please forgive us all we men, For we have made this world Fit for only guns, bombs and Acid rain!

Learn to listen! The voice inviting you is voiceless. Most ancient of all voices! Enticing voice without words! Listen from within the cells of your being. From the marrow of your bones, listen. From the deepest source of your life, listen. A holy vibration, a gentle movement, a persistent tugging—summons you into the deepening places. Learn to go deep! Like waves of the sea you are being pulled back into the depth. Embrace the depths! Deep calls unto Deep! There is a depth in you to which you must return. Most silent of all calls! A voice without words calls you to the deepening places. Learn to abide! Remain in Christ as Christ remains in you. Be like a sponge. Soak up the Word of God. Absorb it. Make the Word your home. Live in the Word! Abide! Dwell! Inhabit! Reside! Trust the deepening places. Learn to be silent! Silent as the leaves that fall, silent as the blossoming flowers, silent as the moment before dawn! You are being summoned into the temple of silence. Practice silence, for this voiceless voice can be heard only in the shrine of silence. You are being chosen for the deepening places.

I was determined to be someone who told the truth, using my voice to lift up the voiceless when I could, and to not disappear on people in need.

When the lively goes sour When the mighty even turn weak When the voice becomes voiceless When things did not go as plan When the drum-beat becomes soundless to all ears, Koo Tumtum, lead me not astray. - Nana Adu-Boafo Jnr

Artists aren’t just painters and musicians Artists are people who give voice to the voiceless. Artists capture the times we’re living in and help people make sense of their thoughts and feelings. Artist creations inspire you to express yourself. When words fail, the artist needs to intervene. Artists we are needed right now, people are suffering. They need healing, a vision and help finding their voice. Let's instill hope and rise to the occasion!

Something in you must remain in you, voiceless even as you voice your deepest faith, doubt, fear, dreams …

This world will not recognize real people and their real struggle. Because the majority are fake here. They have sold their souls to live the life of luxury and comfort. They deal in the currency of glitz and glamour. They are driven by the pettiness of greed and patheticity of selfishness. They don't recognize honesty, integrity, and real struggle! But you do not become a cynic. You cannot give up on your idealism and integrity. Lend a hand to the poor and needy. Stand up for the Innocents. Be a voice for the voiceless in this world! Don't let them take away the real hero or real heroine in you! Believe in yourself. Never doubt your capabilities. Stay real and stay humble.

In an interactive, decentralized world, the voiceless do not need someone to be their voice. They need a megaphone.

Everybody falls - make your fall spectacular and rise like a god, so that watching you even the voiceless regain their voice and the weak regain their strength.

what would I do without this world faceless incurious where to be lasts but an instant where every instant spills in the void the ignorance of having been what would I do what I did yesterday and the day before peering out of my deadlight looking for another wandering like me eddying far from all the living in a convulsive space among the voices voiceless that throng my hiddenness

The serpent seemed to find pleasure in the fact that Eve’s pupils dilated, her cheeks became rosier, her skin showed signs of goose bumps, and I could almost hear the quickening pace of her heartbeat as her shallow breaths caused her breast to rise and fall more quickly. If I had a voice, I would have shouted and warned her to flee to her husband’s arms where she would be safe.

God used my trauma and turned it into one of my life’s greatest purposes: fighting for those who can’t fight for themselves, being a voice for the voiceless, and empowering women all over the world to break barriers and overcome challenges with confidence.