My earliest memories of democracy are not of elections. They are of tear gas. 

I was in kindergarten in Bolivia when state violence interrupted my classroom. I remember the chaos. Parents rushing to pick up their children. Students, miners, workers, and Indigenous peoples protesting in the streets. Tear gas burning my eyes.

I was terrified.

I grew up under the shadow of military dictatorships and political repression. I remember the news of journalists, students, and political opponents disappearing. The curfews. The fear. I remember bakeries and stores being shut down. Food shortages. Families struggling to find bread. I remember waking up at three in the morning to stand in line for bread. Everyone in my family had to get up. We were afraid there wouldn't be enough food for our family. I was so little, so exhausted, I would fall asleep standing up and I didn’t understand why something as simple as bread had become a source of fear.

That is what state repression looks like.

It doesn't just silence political opponents. It enters classrooms. It empties kitchens. It steals childhoods. It teaches families to live in fear. But I also witnessed something extraordinary: 

 Resistance!

Years later, I returned to Bolivia with my husband. He too witnessed indigenous peoples, the Ponchos Rojos, descending from the mountains to protest. He saw families camped in the streets, still demanding justice for loved ones killed during government repression. Families dismissed by the powerful as troublemakers. Ridiculed for yet another strike, another march, another act of civil disobedience. But I knew what he was witnessing: My people refusing to surrender. Indigenous peoples. Artists. Miners. Workers. Students. Mothers. Generations fighting against racism, exploitation, corruption, and oppression. Fighting for water. For land. For dignity. For the earth. For true democracy. And I witnessed how my people took power back. How generations of organizing transformed our political system and helped elect Bolivia's first Indigenous president. How poverty declined, Indigenous political power grew, and communities long excluded began to see a different future. Not because one man saved us but because people organized. This is what Bolivia taught me.

Democracy is not a gift from the powerful. Democracy is not something we inherit and simply keep. Democracy is something we build. Something we defend. And here, in our beautiful North Country, that responsibility belongs to all of us. Not just on Election Day. But every day. Because voting is not the finish line. It is one expression of our collective power. The real question is what we do with that power afterward.

Will we stand with our neighbors? Will we challenge injustice? Will we keep organizing when the crowds go home?

My ancestors did not struggle so that I could remain silent. And our children deserve more than our fear. They deserve our courage.

So on November 3, remember the power of your voice. And on November 4, remember the power of your community. Because another world is possible. But only if we build it together.

In community,

Carla Eliana Godoy Laguna

Wilmington, NY