I Feel It In My Soul

by Phurden Lepcha-The Conscious Storyteller

I feel it in my soul...

Not on paper, not in policies —

But in the breath I carry,

In the hills I walk,

In the silence my ancestors left behind

Waiting for someone bold enough to listen.

I don’t wear this title—Lepcha—like a label.

I carry it like a duty.

A name engraved on this soil.

A whisper in the winds of Dzongu,

A fire beneath the cool shade of Tendong.

I don’t need validation from broken systems.

Because I know who I am.

I’m not confused.

But maybe… you are.

You—the one who holds the chalk,

but leaves the board untouched by memory.

You who once promised to echo the voices of our elders,

Now speak only in borrowed syllables.

The script sleeps inside you…

but you no longer wake it.

And the silence you've grown used to?

It’s become contagious.

And you—the guardian of young footsteps,

who clothed your child in new beliefs and comforts,

but left the thread of belonging unwoven.

You lit other lamps in their path

but let your own hearth grow cold.

Now the child wanders—bright on the outside,

but dim in their own story.

You—the leader in starched white

Who chants “development”

But never funds a single Lepcha classroom.

You pose in our hat for photographs

Then trade our forests for profit

Behind closed doors.

And you — my dear lost brother,

Chasing likes, filters, and fake gold chains —

You mock your own roots,

Hide your title,

And call it evolution.

But evolution that forgets its origins

Is not growth — it’s extinction.

📍 Where are our voices?

📍 Where is our accountability?

📍 Where is our courage?

We dress up on festival days…

Only to undress our values the next morning.

We quote our ancestors…

But silence their wisdom.

We speak of pride…

But whisper our names in fear.

Well—not me.

Not anymore.

I will not let this legacy decay

in the corner of cultural shelves.

I will not let my children grow up

speaking every language but their own.

I will not stand still

While our forest songs become forgotten

hums in polluted silence.

I’m starting something.

Call it rebellion.

Call it awakening.

Call it what you will.

But this is war —

Not with guns,

But with truth.

Not to destroy,

But to rebuild.

A page.

A space.

A movement.

Where history breathes.

Where silence is broken.

Where being Lepcha is not just a fact —

It’s an act of resistance.

📌 This isn’t just for culture.

📌 This is for consciousness.

So when they ask you —

Who are you?

You won’t just say, “I’m a Lepcha.”

You’ll say:

“I remember.”

“I carry.”

“I fight.”

“I rise.”

And I will not forget.

Not now.

Not ever.

— Phurden Lepcha, The Conscious Storyteller