My name is Rosa. I’m 70 years old. And yes, I’m still marching.

I march for those who have been silenced, and for those they’re still trying to silence. For those who are just arriving, for those who never could. I march for myself, too. Because marching is remembering you exist. It’s refusing to disappear. It’s saying, again and again: I’m here, and I won’t stop fighting.

My first battle began in 1972. I was 17, a student, a little naive but already furious. I signed the Manifesto of the 343, where women declared they had had illegal abortions. I hadn’t yet. But I knew women who had. My cousin, for example. She died on the bathroom floor of an underground doctor. I still see her mother, hands covered in blood, her eyes not yet understanding what had just happened.

That day, I swore I’d never be silent again.

At 25, in 1975, I marched through the streets of Paris for the International Women’s Year placard held high, throat tight, heart ablaze. In 1983, I screamed against rape at the first major feminist protest in Paris. In 1995, I sat in front of my TV, tears streaming, watching the Beijing Conference try to reshape the world for women everywhere. I’ve seen it all: the small wins, the great betrayals, the quiet setbacks.

I’ve marched for the right to control my body, for equal pay, against harassment, against femicide. I shouted when others were silent. And sometimes, I shouted alone.

But there has been hope, too. In 2017, I stood side by side with young women chanting #MeToo, finally voicing what we had buried for decades. I had never felt prouder. Proud that the seeds we planted under concrete were finally breaking through.

Recently, a young activist told me,
— “Rosa, things are different now. We fight in other ways.”
I smiled and replied,
— “Sweetheart, do it however you want, as long as you do it.”

Because feminism doesn’t need clones—it needs fire passed from hand to hand, generation to generation, never letting it die. I haven’t agreed with everything, no. We’ve had disagreements, conflicts, misunderstandings. But I’ve learned to listen, to question myself. Even at 60. Because if you want to change the world, you have to accept that you, too, must keep evolving.

I’ve known loss. Jeanne, my best friend in this fight, died of cancer. Just before she passed, she said,
— “You’ll keep going for both of us, right?”
Since then, I carry her photo in my bag, close to my heart, at every protest.

These days, my voice is softer. My steps, slower. But I’m still here. I hold the placards. I talk to the press. I tell stories to the youth who want to listen. Sometimes, I take a girl’s hand—18, eyes wide—and I say,
— “You don’t need permission to exist.”

And I’m still here because hope never left me. Even after 50 years of struggle, I still see something fierce, something bright, something unbreakable in the eyes of the young. Something that says: we’re not done believing.

So yes, I’m 70. And I’m still marching.
And as long as my legs can carry me, I will keep marching.