“WHITE – ROOTED”

You want battle?
Alright.
Before your timeline started scrolling,
before slogans filled the streets,
Europe was bleeding in silence.
White skin under iron skies.
White skin under southern suns.
Same chains.
Same ropes.
Same human price.
Say it loud — I’m white.
Not scared of the word.
Not whispering it like it’s a crime.
White like frostbite mornings.
White like smoke over burning timber.
White like scars from winters that don’t forgive.
Before “slave” was English,
there was “Slav.”
Slavus.
Sclavus.
Slave.
That’s etymology — not emotion.
History carved in Latin.
North to south — trade routes pumping bodies.
From lands not yet called Poland.
From early Slavic tribes.
Down the Dnieper.
Into markets.
Christian ports.
Mediterranean cities.
Muslim courts.
Profit didn’t care about prayer.
European women taken south.
Braids torn loose.
Eyes locked in shock.
Sold into households.
Sold into labor.
Some into royal harems.
Not romance — power.
Men in fields under heat that cracked pale skin open.
Stone quarries.
Construction.
Walls built by hands that would never own them.
Ropes cutting wrists.
Salt in wounds.
Sweat mixing with blood.
And still — we survived.
Listen close —
this ain’t hate.
This is memory.
I’m not above you.
I’m not beneath you.
But I’m not erasing myself either.
White isn’t supremacy.
White isn’t apology.
White is ancestry.
White is survival.
If every life matters —
then mine does too.
Not louder.
Not softer.
Equal.
I stand in my skin.
In my history.
In my roots.
White.
Unashamed.
Unbowed.
Unbroken.