It was my father who first informed my family of what happened in Charlottesville. His voice was low and empty as he entered the kitchen, shoulders sagging and head shaking in disbelief. He stopped in front of my mother and I, and we looked up from our own discussion and turned our faces to him, waiting. Then: ¡°There¡¯s been an attack. In—in Charlottesville.¡±

A horrified gasp fell from my mother¡¯s lips, and suddenly, suddenly I was scrambling for my phone, barely listening as my father tiredly described what had happened. I scrolled through article after article, reading until I couldn¡¯t because of the wetness in my eyes and lashes and face.
   

It has been over a week. We are still grieving, clutching our own loved ones and staring at our tea-colored Indian American skin, wondering how the darkness of it—wondering how the dark skin of anyone could possibly deserve such hatred.
     

How can we hate each other for so foolish a reason? How can we think one life is more precious than another, that the factors that make us so beautiful and diverse are the mark of inadequacy? How can we believe in a world where being human justifies being murdered?
     

But beyond the internal screams that bother my mind, filling it with confusion and raw anger, torturing me—I am concerned for something else. Something we¡¯ve already noticed in ourselves, and that terrifies me more than an attack ever could.
     

Why are we so, so numb?
     

This is not the first act of terror on our soil in the past couple of years, and certainly not the only tragedy to occur in the world this year. When it was still the beginning, we opened our mouths to say something, say anything that expressed how we felt and why things were so horribly wrong. But then time crept by, and a considerable number of horrific experiences stained the new year, tightening our lips with the belief that this was the new normal, and that each new act of violence devalued the previous one.
     

It seems as we¡¯ve steeled ourselves, caging our feelings to avoid suffering the shock wave of horror and grief that comes with events like these. Because of the pain we are caused, and because of the frequency of it all—which, in fact, should only serve to help us see life more clearly—we choose to not feel anymore, slowly ¡°accepting¡± that the world is evil, and that no amount of fighting for good could ever change that. In other words, we¡¯ve been living as if acts of hatred don¡¯t need to be addressed, and that each victim isn¡¯t worth remembering.
     

What a repulsive lie we¡¯ve been telling ourselves.
     

Life is so terribly, terribly fragile. Each one that is cut short deserves to be looked upon with the recognition that our world has lost a person. A human, with feelings and smiles and people they truly loved. We have all felt tempted to sneak away from our feelings, to push away any kind of sadness. However, If we allow ourselves to lazily accept things as they are, to actually raise our hands in defeat and discomfort instead of recognizing evil where it stands, we are no better than the murderers themselves.
     

When violence occurs, let¡¯s reject such poor mentalities. Let¡¯s work together. Let us join hands, regardless of background, and acknowledge each incident and the people we¡¯ve lost to them. Let¡¯s honor their memory—take a moment to fix our own attitudes. Let¡¯s really live.
     

To those who have been affected by violence and hatred, in Charlottesville or elsewhere, stand strong.
     

We are all with you.