Chapter I

Chapter I

It is often said that great events in history are like an ocean’s waves-they are bound to happen. In Depression-era-poverty-stricken Germany, the time was ripe for a dictator like Hitler and his bombastic promises of wealth, pride, and hope. He was their powerful and benevolent savior, with a clearly defined enemy to fight: full of boundless evil. And it was imperative to the country’s safety that it be eliminated.

Funny how every one of Disaster’s dominos was lined up and what began as one tiny flame of hope was enough to bring them all down, Laura thought as she lay on the grass, extending her hand above the still water of the pool beside her. Its mesmerizing stillness both fascinated and bored her, the beautifully flat, untouched surface. She was a logger eying and even pitying the pure virgin forests she was about to cut down. And one touch only  would be sufficient to create a ripple. Who knew what that ripple would eventually become?

As with the tiny flame of hope that became the fire that marked a dark downfall in decency for the oh-so-righteous human race, a ripple that would eventually become a tsunami of devastation, death, and destruction.

A soft tap on Laura’s shoulder jolted her from her reverie. It was her brother.

“The Program’s on” he whispered, “We’re all inside”.

She was about to protest, but her brother’s defeated sheepishness suggested that she wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to watch the Program.

And inside meant a cramped wooden cabin, meant for two jolly young campers, but currently housing a tired family of six. By now, Laura’s parents and two sisters would already be sitting on the floor, their eyes watching the TV. It wasn’t on yet, but it would be soon. And it was the law that when it did, the whole province had to be watching it.

But Laura’s eyes weren’t watching the TV as she entered the cramped cabin, but her parents. As the oldest and most trustworthy daughter, her mother would sometimes confide in her. This was why only Laura knew that when their parents went out, it was not on romantic dinners they went on (as her brother and sisters were told), but to stand on a long queue line that led to the entrance of the hospital. Her father was sick, Laura knew, and given the increased outings, he wasn’t getting any better.

Now Laura turned her attention to Jonathan, her willowy twelve-year old brother. He was sitting with his legs crossed, back straight. He even crossed his arms, imitating Father. But whereas the crossed arms made Father look imposing and serious, Jonathan looked like he was warding off blows that could crush his still childish frame. Beside him would be Agnes and Mina, three years old when they died, barely a year ago. Their bodies might  not be huddled in the damp cabin with the rest of the family, but their presence was still felt, as if they were still here. As they should be. They were too young… But Laura had learnt that disease, contrary to humankind, was anything but discriminatory, and that Death was not reserved for, (nevermind limited to) the old and miserable.

Laura felt her hand seized and furtively squeezed, and turned to look at her mother.  She was a short stocky woman, with a valiant air about her. Carolina Espinoza was usually a strict parent, determined to make sure her daughter became her own person. “Laura Beatriz Espinoza”, she would then cast a smoldering glance at her daughter, who would freeze immediately. Her mother only used her whole name on a few special occasions. So sparsely was her whole name spoken that it shocked Laura to a halt every time. “Laura Beatriz Espinoza” went her mother’s paralyzing spell, “Sit up straight, young lady. Or else you might get a joroba. Like a camel” she’d add, something that had terrorized a younger Laura. No way was she looking like a furry two humped horse.

But now, squeezing her daughter’s hand, Carolina Espinoza found herself deeply afraid. She was proud of her daughter, yes. Loved her immensely, too. Wanted the best for her, always had. Yet she knew, to the protests of her aching heart, that that place was not at home.

And it had been bothering her a lot recently. “It’s not safe here anymore” Carolina Espinoza would lament to her husband after the children had gone to bed. Her husband would agree, give in to his wife’s pleads that they leave. So they’d sit at the tiny kitchen table, planning. Once it got so intense Laura, who sometimes overheard these night-time conversations, really thought they would leave. However, by the time the sun came up, her mother would be in the kitchen making breakfast, and her father would leave for work. Laura had never understood why they never left. But she now began to understand, faced by her mother’s discrete squeeze. They simply could not leave. Like it or not, the decrepit cabin was their home, the life they knew. And they could not afford to leave it, not for mere hope for better.

Laura tried to return her mother’s squeeze, but she wasn’t facing her anymore. She was facing the screen. The Program had started.

The screen showed the latest news from the capital: A new law that granted the government the right to hold its citizens under 24 hour surveillance was finally passed by parliament. “But why was this law proposed in the first place?” asked the media, and to everyone’s surprise, the government answered. National Security.

The first time parliament had voted, about a month ago, 18 of 25 Legislative Assembly members had voted against it. Five of those were found to be conspiring to overthrow the president and were speedily executed. One person committed suicide while under investigation. Eight had fled. Or supposed to have fled, as they were never seen again. These fourteen people were then replaced by a new wave of Presidential protegees. The remaining four had a repentine change of heart and voted in favor of the law on the next referendum. Laura and her family watched as a beaming President Urbino Nesuf warmly thanked parliament for their vote, but just as he was in the midst of promising a decline in violent crime, the screen was suddenly shaken by static. Silence ensued. Father and Mother exchanged worried looks. Jonathan shifted his position in evident unease. Laura found herself gazing at the screen intently for the first time since it had turned on.

Then the static gave way to an embarrassed presenter. Laura recognized her as the blonde woman that usually gave weather forecasts. But instead of talking storms, blizzards, and chances of sunlight, she stood silent, anxiously pressing her earpiece closer to her ear. And after a barely audible whisper of, “Assasina...? Oh my god”, she smiled broadly and loudly proclaimed for all to hear: “Breaking news Orwell, the Prime Minister of Anansi, has sadly passed away in his sleep today. A Prime Minister is being chosen as we speak. More on that after the weather report”.

Anansi, Laura recalled from school history lessons, had once been part of Orwell. People there developed a competing ideology to the way Orwell was run: they wanted to bestow freedom of expression upon every single person. Which was insane, Laura was taught, as history has shown that people can be easily swayed to do the unspeakable. Hence Hitler. But the people of Anansi upheld their belief in man, claiming how people moved on from World War II and strove for better as their evidence.

But Orwell knew better, Laura’s history teacher had explained, opening a History book and turning the pages. Evil existed before 1945, and evil continued to exist after 1945. The Atomic Bomb, Pinochet, Apartheid, Genocide in the Baltics, Pol Pot, 9/11 and Muslim extremism, the war in Syria, and Donald Trump being all over the Internet.  All that had happened after 1945. The problem? Freedom in excess. “Freedom”, she’d explained, “was a beautiful concept. Yet it is sometimes necessary to sacrifice it for the sake of safety, and ultimately peace”.

Whatever the case, and whether evil is inherent to the human race or not, Anansi had declared war on Orwell, and ten years later (thirty years ago), it became its own city. This was the prime reason why Orwell fervently disliked Anansi. It was the embodiment of a vice neither President or anyone else in power would ever dream of encouraging: rebellion.

And her father, Laura knew, was the type of person that refused to be told.

So when he was told that the Prime Minister of Anansi had died in his sleep, he was instantly suspicious.

He snorted and shook his head knowingly, “I have a feeling the Prime Minister’s death was anything but peaceful”.

Mother shot him a warning look. Skepticism was not among the characteristics the government of Orwell valued in its citizens. It bred rebellion.

The blonde woman disappeared after her impromptu breaking news speech and was replaced by what looked like a confused fashion journalist who hastily read the weather report . It was expected to be sunny, he enthusiastically chirped, so get to work, comrade, there’s no time to lose! The man winked, such a bogus move-desperate even-and painfully obvious. By the stoic silence in their one chair make-shift living room, Laura felt safe to assume that no one in the room had been infected by the artificiality of his fabricated pseudo-cheerfulness.

Laura’s skepticism lost strength and she fell into a taciturn depression. She knew first hand that the situation  in her Province was anything but optimistic, and  suspected it to be the same or worse in Anansi, a neighboring city.

The improv weatherman predicted that a storm, most probably a hurricane, would soon hit Anansi. He warned that locals must be evacuated to the surrounding mountains, and announced canned goods and rubber boats were already being shipped to the province by the solidarious President.

He now stood before Laura and her family, his whole province, as well as hordes of photographers and journalists who’d camped outside his house for the occasion. The President was a tall old man with red whiskers tinged with white, and always reminded Laura of a cunning fox. When he spoke, she would always strain her eyes to catch a droplet of true intention in his carefully thought out speeches. But she did so in vain, as not once did the old fox ever seem  to drop his guard. Either he really has nothing to hide, Laura reasoned to herself, or he’s really good at lying. The last thought scared her senseless. Despite being eighteen, Laura still retained the childish innocence to which lies, especially told by those in positions of authority, made her feel extremely betrayed. And for her, finding the red whiskered man to be guilty, meant a chiasm of existential doubt she felt unwilling to contemplate.

Smiling broadly, President Nesuf stared intently back into the cameras. As was one of the perks of being in power, he knew, one could get away with a barbaric amount of lying. But credibility was one rubber band that could only stretch so far, and to assume that it would never snap was a naive mistake. In that respect, Laura was right about him. He was, as cliche as it might sound, cunning as a fox. Because even now, at the height of his control over the province, an important amount of people doubted. And Nesuf knew he had to act swiftly to dissipate doubt as best he could. This meant that he must lie more than ever. To not merely be a politician, promising mirages. But to be the mirage. To believe his lies, make them truths, so that his people could believe with him.

And to complete such a feat, Nesuf pondered uneasily, he must be an optimist: paint a moderately dismal picture, but play the hope card: draw out a plan, joke a bit,and promise to build a few roads (to which he might later point his finger at when the shadow of doubt again recast itself upon his people).

“To hell with it.” he grumbled under his breath. He might just as well call it by what it truly was.  

Political science! Ha! More like Political Performance! Yes... He must perform to stay in power. And they must believe it. The way he saw it, Nesuf had upon himself the task of selling the most hopeless product imaginable: hope itself. And hope was mostly candy-coated crap. Of course, he must not forget to throw in a little truth here and there, that too was necessary.  But to tell the whole truth was not only risky, it was unthinkable. History itself had show that there was nothing people dreaded more than the truth, contrary to what those new-age idealistic “intellectuals” leading Anansi claimed. Well, at least he would sleep easy tonight knowing there was one less of them. And he’d be damned if  ever let one of those b******s die a natural death.

“My message to the people of Anansi is this: Orwell stands with you. That despite your leaders’ insistence to disturb the peace we have built together-our way of life- know that nevertheless you are in the hearts and minds of every Orwellian comrade, including myself” he began, looking slightly stern, like a father chastising a naughty child. “Remember”, he continued in a softer voice, now evidently addressing Orwellians, “that these are difficult times, and not all Anansis agree with the madmen who rule them. Thus, we will not let them who rule Anansi with a careless hand make us into the enemy, and instead extend a hand of friendship and reconciliation. We will not be brought down by those few who preach division, hate and senseless violence as a means to an end. As of tomorrow, every comrade of Orwell will be able to donate money in deposit boxes, situated at your area’s local school. If you have any questions, you may submit your inquiries to my assistant through the government website. Thank you”.

Truth was, Anansi was an incredibly rich region. Unfortunately, an unnaturally high amount of its population seemed inclined to believe that this wealth could potentially secure the supreme happiness of every Anansi citizen. If, of course, Anansi were free to do as it liked with its own wealth.

Freedom. What a poisonous word, that was. The average Anansi citizen loved freedom, to the point of believing himself to have created the concept.

Truth was, Anansi was an insane province. Rebel groups kept cropping up and not going away. Which meant they were lead by people as clever if not more than himself, he thought, disgruntled. If it weren’t for its overflowing richness, Nesuf would have ordered the city nuked by now. And politics, obviously. No, to destroy an idea, one couldn’t simply nuke it.

Truth was, he could not nuke Ananasi, especially not after that advantageous trade deal he’d struck a few years ago. Besides, it would make him look bad even among his most hardened colleagues, and be incredibly stupid. No… if he did nuke Anansi, Anansi won the battle having proved what a terrible human being President Nesuf was. And they knew it. That was where their power lay. And why they were still rebelling in utter freedom rather than burning in the Ninth Circle of Hell.

Truth was... he was a politician. Not a preacher, shielded by the the word of God. Not a soldier, armed with guns and bombs. Politics were a lot sneakier than that… less straightforward but more adept at solving… problems, a whole population of them. And sometimes, just sometimes, the wind blew in one’s favor…

A hurricane did hit Anansi. Hard. The entire province flooded. Millions were displaced. A couple hundred died. But in the days that followed, more died. Food was scarce, many were still severely injured, and eventually a virus spread through the population. A few of the conspiracy theorists that ruled Anansi jabbed angry thumbs at Nesuf’s government, accusing it of artfully withholding food and supplies. Yet not even the most wary ended up doubting the claims. They knew him to be ruthless yes, but he was in essence, a politician. No way he would stoop that low. Besides, they had objected, he had tried to help. However vivid imaginations the leaders of Anansi had, and however much mistrust there was between the two cities, they just could not believe Nesuf would cross that line.

“They don’t want to either. Not with the PR hailstorm that’ll come with it” Laura’s father had protested.

“But why? Don’t they want to know the truth regardless?” Laura had asked. But her father had shaken his head slowly and answered vaguely, “Sometimes it’s easier to live by a lie than the truth”.

Laura attempted to research the subject online. Most of what she found was censored, labeled as controversial content. How could she? Even the little she’d found about the whole business was shady. All she had were contradicting facts, but no answer.

The majority of the supplies promised and collected by the President never made it to Anansi, for one. Blame was assigned to bandits from a neighboring province, which was also seized by famine. Laura’s father remained skeptical on this point. How was it possible that so many supplies were stolen? Hungry people had more than enough motivation to steal some, he argued, but not the strength to steal much of the sizable bulk of supplies, guarded by the heavily armed and well-fed province police with guns at their disposal. Corruption and incompetence were liable explanations, but not enough to account for everything. Whatever the case, the few supplies that made it to Anansi were insufficient, and most of it ended up on the Black Market (and sold to the lucky few who were still rich enough to afford it), and by the end of the year, �" of Anansi’s 7.32 million people were dead.

Later on, Laura would find that these were widely held beliefs in her community. There was no palpable evidence to indicate them right, but mistrust was still present. Even her mother, hardly one to speak about her political affiliations, described Nesuf as crooked.

***

Her mother…

All that had been a lifetime ago.

“And I’m still here”, Laura mused.

She was sitting at the same kitchen table where her parents had contemplated leaving their cabin. But she was no longer a fresh faced eighteen year old. Time had scarred her once smooth skin and soul, taking her hopes with it.

Thus she sat, sipping burnt coffee and dreaming of the past. Her parents were long dead now. So was Jonathan, she hoped. Either that or he was hidden away in some obscure clandestine prison, paying for the crime of wishing to be free and doing something about it. Bitterness stung Laura, and she gripped her mug tighter, feeling for warmth. But that coffee was gone, presently circulating in her bloodstream. Yet given time, it would leave her also. Terrible world, she thought as she fought back tears, that has such terrible people in it!

Diego Torres’s song, “Color Esperanza” started playing.

“Se que lo imposible se puede lograr,

Que la tristeza algun dia se ira,

Y así sera la vida cambia y cambiará,

Sentirás que el alma vuela,

Por cantar una vez más,

Saber que se puede querer que se pueda,

Quitarse los miedos sacarlos afuera

Pintarse la cara color esperanza

Tentar al futuro con el corazón…”

“Hiiiiii Moooooom!”

It was Georgia, her eighteen year old daughter. Not terrible, Laura thought, relieved. Mostly.

“I know you told me not to ditch my last day of school, but in this case, the Bard’s words of wisdom apply, ‘Much ado about nothing!’ That’s what it is, my ‘last day of school’. Lots of noise, no punch”.

“Oh honey, but didn’t you want to say goodbye to your teachers?”, just maybe, Laura prayed, she could get her daughter to stay till 3 pm.

“I already did, mom. And the entire class. Everyone is still hugging and crying and promising to keep in touch. Now, either I continue to sit alone and awkward in my desk, or hug and cry and promise Paul to keep in touch, one hundred more times. Having evaluated my options, I have to say Mom, both choices are cringeworthy”.

Laura sighed. When it came to making and keeping friends, her daughter had been burned, and had since barely bothered to make new friends.

“How about going to the library?” she suggested after some thought.

Following a short stretch of silence, her daughter answered, “Uggh mom, how dare you use the book card against me?”

“I’m sorry George, but I really have to go to this meeting. I’ll be there at 3”.

“Alright mom, I’ll visit the books one last time. See you later then, te quiero mucho!”.

 

Author's Note