On the night of Nov. 24, I was tucked away in my in Washington University-owned apartment with two friends. My mother, an affectionate but stern woman, informed me that I would not be leaving my apartment for any reason that night. In her mind, I would be just another ill-tempered protester in the eyes of the police, just another barrier between thieving opportunists and unattended commodities. So I begrudgingly stayed put and watched St. Louis County Prosecutor Robert McCulloch deliver the non-indictment heard around the world on my TV.

My friends and I sat in bitter silence as the prosecutor delivered the crushing blow: officer Darren Wilson would not be indicted. Crowds gathered outside the Ferguson Police Department and other government buildings began chanting in earnest. And then a bottle was thrown, and then a rock, and then more projectiles were launched by both riot police and aggravated citizens. I watched in horror as angered protesters clashed with the National Guard.

In CNN’s version of Ferguson, fires erupted and glass windows shattered as tear gas clouds overtook protesters, leaving them crying and gasping for breath. All the while, news anchors yammered on about the situation to one another, running for cover when the riot police got near. When a woman, frantic about a fellow protester’s cardiovascular distress, approached a CNN reporter, the TV screen shifted to a bird’s-eye view of Ferguson in flames. I scoffed from the couch. Silencing, it seems, can take many forms.

About halfway through one of Don Lemon’s pathetic attempts at reporting “the facts,” I ventured outside to print a document for class. I stepped out in the chilly November air and was astonished by the silence. I looked up at the sky and wondered why on earth it was so quiet in University City that night when the cacophony of injustice in Ferguson was too loud to bear.

I then realized that I was contributing to this silence. I was tempted to cry out, something, anything, but what would I say? Tears burned in my eyes but would not fall. I thought of my friends, who were most likely staring down the National Guard with signs and stern, flushed faces. I hoped that they were safe, and if not, that someone could hear their cries for help, for peace, for justice.

Many of us can (literally) afford to be silent right now. Many of us at this school, myself included, hold privileges that can make relating to and speaking up for the plight of the people of Ferguson and other low-income, minority communities difficult.

Some believe that if we can keep our nose in books and our heads in class, maybe—just maybe—this too shall pass. Furthermore, it is easy to say, “I will give back when I have more” or that we will make a difference when “gainfully employed.” It is easy to think that staying silent as buildings burn and mothers weep will somehow snuff out the fires, dry the tears.

Now is not the time to be silent. The mainstream media is not being silent. The Missouri justice system has spoken loud and clear about how it feels about marginalized groups, particularly black men. In his speech last Monday, McCulloch blamed the media, not the actions of the local police force, for inciting anger within local communities and beyond. Additionally, Wilson has pocketed more than half a million dollars from his supporters.

On Wednesday, we learned that another police officer will not be indicted for killing an unarmed black man, Eric Garner, even though there is audio-visual evidence of him being subdued by several policemen and held in an illegal chokehold maneuver until he died. How can we be silent at a time like this?

As an aspiring writer and advocate, I hope to look back on the night of Nov. 24 as the last time I was silent. Now is the time to pick up a pen, a picket sign or a phone to call your congressperson. As a novice protester with only a few marches and direct actions under my belt, I know that it can be scary to stand up and speak out. But we, the greater Wash. U. community and the world, have seen a gross miscarriage of justice unfold in real-time—several, in fact. Now that we have seen, we cannot look away. If we want equality and true justice, we must first overcome our own silence.