It was election year. The candidates had made impassioned speeches. They’d been photographed handing out food to needy constituents. They had made promises to deliver peace and prosperity and safety.

The only problem was that the food they handed out was a photo op. As soon as journalists left, the food was loaded back onto the truck and driven away and the needy were left in their need. The promised safety? It only extended to those who didn’t speak up, to those who didn’t call for change. A lawyer who dared to tell the truth was shot in the head near his home. More than one candidate running for a local office was executed simply for not agreeing with the powerful people in his or her town. 

I had the privilege of living in Guatemala for four years. During that time, we watched an election take place, one which we could simply observe and not participate in. The night before the election, I went to my local store for some groceries, and all of the bottles of alcohol had been covered up. No one could purchase it, for fear of it fueling more violence, for fear of what would happen if one candidate won over another. Day after day, new headlines declared another person dead, simply because they ran for office or simply because they wrote or spoke the truth. 

I used to think that these scenarios could only take place in countries where many citizens were merely trying to survive, where they could not always feed their children, where there were no government programs to help the sick and injured and poor. I used to think that elections in my own United States were exciting and hard work: That you canvassed and walked neighborhoods to talk to real people. That you might have disagreed with your neighbor, but it probably didn’t come up again once you figured that out. That votes were cast and counted and a winner was named; and the one who didn’t win graciously congratulated the opponent and stepped aside, to continue serving his or her country in another role. 

In recent days, everything I believed about our election process has been upended. In a time where many of our citizens are grieving and struggling, we have taken away another piece of their hope: That their vote counts, that it matters, and that the election process will work the way it has for generations. We have told them that the process by which America peacefully chooses its leaders is no longer a guarantee. 

Our system isn’t perfect: Districts need to be redrawn and suppression needs to be yanked out by its evil roots. But it’s OUR system, and protecting it matters. We may not be the policy-makers, but we are the guardians of our democracy: We get to say what we agree with, what we don’t. We get to appoint someone to stand in for us in the hallways and chambers of power, to cast a vote on our behalf, to speak in our stead. We get to stand up to actual voter intimidation, wherever we see it. If we don’t, if we do not protect the gift of the election process, the alternative is unacceptable. The alternative is why so many citizens of so many other countries fled those places to live here. 

I might not vote the same way you do, but I value and protect your right to do so. That is what neighbors and citizens do. 

Those few years ago, when the presidential candidates sent their loud, empty promises echoing down the cobblestoned streets of my Guatemalan town, I saw what hopelessness and despair looked like. I saw people decide not to vote at all, since it truly would not matter, would not count. I won’t let that happen here. Neither should you. Because if my voice is silenced, yours will be next.