He Who Steals from a Thief Has a hundred Years of Forgiveness

And not for the act itself,

but for the origin of the wound.

We were not born thieves.

We were born with open hands

and hearts ready to share bread.

But it was taken from us.

Little by little, they left us without a table,

without land,

without a fair wage,

without even time to dream.

The first thieves were them:

those who stole the homeland

in suits and ties,

with hollow speeches

and smiles made of cement.

They told us “democracy,”

but it was a theater where the same always won.

They told us “law,”

but laws slept while they plundered.

Then, the people,

tired,

looked at their empty hands.

And when hunger knocked on the door,

it no longer asked about morals.

It’s not that stealing is right.

We do not justify it.

It’s that stealing was all they left us,

when everything else was already theirs.

And yet… they judge us.

They call us criminals,

but never said a word

when the true crime

was turning dignity into a luxury.

So, when a worn soul has no other option,

and steals from the one who stole first,

it is not committing a sin:

it is returning what was everyone’s.

It is not revenge.

It is the only option left.

It is justice without lawyers,

but with hunger… and clarity.

A thousand years of forgiveness, yes.

But not for the theft.

For the silenced cry

hidden behind the act,

which the powerful — those in suits —

still keep covering up to this day.

And while we do not justify violence or theft,

we cannot close our eyes to a greater truth:

when a people have been plundered for generations,

dignity becomes an act of survival.

Because he who steals from a thief…

has a hundred years of forgiveness.