In uniform,
a battle never asked
what faith you align with.
They only asked—
Will you watch my back?
Will you keep me alive?
Heavy questions in the silence of a watch shift.
In combat,
a convoy doesn’t ask
the color of the hand
gripping the wheel beside you.
Rank, race, hometown—
all dissolve
when the IED hums beneath the road.
But at home,
the questions changed.
Why are you with them?
Why call them brother,
sister,
family?
Their stares
cut deeper than shrapnel.
I wasn’t hated for me,
but for the company I keep.
For the laughter we shared,
for crossing the lines
they swore must never blur.
That’s when racism hit—
full throttle.
Not a whisper.
Not subtle.
But loud enough to remind me:
solidarity has a price.
And still—
I’ll pay it.
Every glare, every closed door,
every weight on my shoulders.
Because I know this truth:
The measure of a soldier,
the measure of a human—
is never who you stand against,
but who you dare to stand with.