I stand hand in hand with my boyfriend, the two of us young men in a sea of other people. In a sea of people who are all fighting for the same thing. Who are fighting for something that the powerful in society deem as unimportant. We are fighting for the moon.

“Stop mining her! Stop mining her!” the crowd all around me is shouting, and I am shouting too. My boyfriend is shouting. We’re all shouting at the top of our lungs. We have power. We have power. We can all gather together, we can all demand that the government hears what we’re demanding, what we want, what we need. We have the power to make our voices heard. And maybe, just maybe, we have the power to change things. We have the power to change the way that society is being pushed.

We don’t actually need to stop mining the moon, at least that’s what the companies who are profiting from the destruction of our natural satellite are saying. But I’ve seen the moon. I’ve seen the dark gray scars, the giant metallic scars, that are all over her surface. I’ve seen them, and I’ve seen how much she is hurting.

It was not meant to be like this. Nothing was meant to be like this.

And of course, the mining of the moon is affecting the earth as well. All the elements gotten from the moon take up space on earth. They take up a lot of space. That space is carved from the ecosystems that we desperately need for so many reasons. That space is made of blood and excess and toxic pollution. The many, many spacecrafts that carry things and people to and from the moon also create lots of pollution, as they use dangerous chemicals as fuels.

The scientists who are speakers in this rally have said about as much, standing on the crystal stairs of the large, looming monolith of shimmering, faded colours that is the government building. We are all in front of the government building, about ten thousand of us, crammed in within the large space in front of the structure. This space is usually for leisure, for people to spend their time relaxing. But now, it’s empty save for the thousands of protestors. The electronic floor is turned off. As is all the other tech.

It’s ugly here, all of us with our protest signs projecting from our communication devices. It’s ugly, but it’s beautiful.

“Hands off the moon! Hands off the moon!” The chants all around us change, and our chants change alongside them. And then it’s time for a speaker to take the stage.

“Hello, everyone,” the teenaged girl greets us. “It is an honour to be here in front of you. My name is Kakami McLarsen and I am a member of the Fakili people, one of the many, many groups who hold the moon in high honour within our religion. We worship the moon as our sibling and as the provider of water for the earth. The moon is our protector and provider, and is much exalted to our people. To see the moon so desecrated, so built on and mined through and devastated, it is a spit in the face for everyone who holds our religion in high regard, who cares about our sibling, the moon.

“But our culture is not the only one who exalts and relies upon and respects the moon. In the olden times, every single culture on earth held the moon in high regard, and they held the well-being of the moon in high regard. We must all respect our ancestors. We must all respect all of our ancestors. And we must respect the moon that they so cherished!”

The crowd around me cheers. High, shrill, rageful sounds full of power and threat. We could be an army. We could be an army. Could we be an army? I do not know. We have the numbers. We have the technology. But we might not have the courage, we might not have the heart.

“There are many of us,” the girl continues once the cheering dies down, “who still exalt the moon! There are many of us who are still in touch with the cultures and beliefs of our ancestors, with the cultures and beliefs that are part of all of human heritage, and there are many of us who have learned what we must from the old ways. We remember. And the moon remembers. And to honour our memory, we must honour the moon!” The crowd goes wild again.

She’s so right. The moon is a cornerstone of what it means to be human. It has been a cornerstone of what it means to be human for so many years, so many centuries, so many millennia. It has existed in its natural state for far, far longer than our species has existed. Every other species knew to admire and howl at the moon from a distance. It is only us who seek to reap profit and entertainment from the moon, only us who are changing it so drastically.

This is not right. This is not right. I know in my very soul that this is not at all right.

I grip my boyfriend’s hand tighter, and he grips my hand tighter in return. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel free.

I think, faintly, of all the privilege I have, of all the privilege all of us who are standing here have. We live in the home country, not the colonies. And as such, all the comforts and safety nets and products and services of the home country are available to us. All the wealth and the prosperity of the home country is available to us. There must be so many people who want to protest, but cannot, since there is so much police violence in the colonies, since protesting there means death.

It isn’t fair. It isn’t fair at all.