The news comes again, another closed polling station. It is a story too familiar, repeated like a broken record, yet still as unsettling as the first time it happened. The reasons vary each time: security concerns, logistical failures, last-minute changes that leave voters stranded in confusion. But the effect is always the same—disenfranchisement, frustration, and a growing sense of mistrust in the system. For some, the closure of a polling station means a simple inconvenience—an extra mile to walk, a few more minutes in traffic. But for others, it means the difference between voting and not voting at all. Imagine an elderly woman, determined to make her voice count, only to arrive and find locked doors. She waits, hoping someone will come with a key, a solution, an alternative. But no one comes. The time ticks away, and the choice she intended to make is stolen by bureaucracy, by inefficiency, by something she may never fully understand. In some places, polling stations close due to alleged threats of violence. Authorities say it is for the protection of voters. But why does it always seem to happen in neighborhoods where the opposition is strong? Why do the closures disproportionately affect those who have fought hardest for the right to be heard? The questions linger, unanswered, as the news reports move on to the next scandal, the next distraction. What does it mean when a polling station closes? It is not just the shutting of doors; it is the silencing of voices. It is democracy, chipped away, one inconvenience at a time. People are told their votes matter, that they should participate in shaping their future. But how can they, when the very system meant to facilitate their choice keeps failing them, Another closed polling station. Another lesson in how power bends the rules. And yet, the people will keep trying, keep standing in long lines, keep raising their voices. Because if they stop, then the doors don’t just close temporarily—they close for good.