What are we protecting?

They stand awake where the land ends,

boots sunk into frost and dust,

eyes trained on an invisible enemy,

holding the border like a wound

that must not bleed.

They protect the lines on maps,

the silence between two flags,

the idea of a country

drawn with rulers and guns.

But inside these lines,

people are still breaking.

A child learns hunger before language.

A woman learns fear before freedom.

A name becomes a verdict,

a caste becomes a cage,

a skin, a gender, a class

decides how much air one deserves.

If soldiers protect us at the borders,

who protects us in the streets?

Who guards us from hunger,

from hatred wearing law’s uniform,

from oppression that doesn’t cross borders

but lives next door?

What are you protecting,

o silent sentry of the night?

Is it the soil, or the souls upon it?

Is it the nation,

or only the notion of one?

Because a country can be safe

and still be cruel.

A flag can fly high

over bent backs and broken lives.

What happens when the country is not protected?

The people will suffer, they say.

But look closely

they suffer even when it is.

Borders may fall or stand,

governments may rise or rot,

yet the poor remain poor,

the oppressed remain invisible,

the unequal remain unequal.

Now let me know

what are we protecting at the border

when justice has no checkpoint,

and dignity has no uniform?

Perhaps the real enemy

was never outside.