I'm twelve years old. I shouldn't be working in a factory. But here I am. Here I am with all the other twelve-year-olds, with all the people older than that, with people younger than me. There are even seven-year-olds here. They should be out playing. They should be having fun. But they need to make money so that they can eat, so that their families can eat, so that the whole community can eat. I remember when I was seven. How deafening and arduous the process of being at work was.
The seven-year-olds should be at school. I should be at school. But it's not like any of us could afford that luxury. Though I suppose it's not a luxury.
I have no idea how long I've been working for. My mind screams and my soul bleeds and everything in my world is whittled down to the sharp, piercing knife point of the present. I have to do it perfectly. I have to do everything perfectly. There is no room for any mistakes, not even small ones. If I make even the tiniest of mistakes, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid, my people starve.
Not that we aren't starving anyways.
I keep my eyes down on my work. And I keep my whole mind, my whole being, straining against my desires and pushing me forwards. Forwards, forwards, forwards. I do not have even a moment to take a breath. I do not have even a moment to rest. Not the smallest, tiniest, slightest of rests. I have to keep on going. Through all the pain, physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.
I sink each fabric in the glaring, screaming blue of the fabric dye in a vat in front of me. Fabric after fabric after fabric after fabric. Again and again and again and again. Until I am absolutely dizzy with it. I am already dizzy with the fumes coming off of the dye. I am dizzy and my head hurts from the noxious, poisonous smells.
I have to then swirl each piece of fabric in the fluid using my ladle. This part is a lot more technically difficult than I first thought it would be, since I have to make sure that all parts of each piece of fabric is getting soaked in the dye. I have to swirl it around fast, faster than humanly imaginable, because I have to get through all my gargantuas workload, a workload that never lets up no matter how inhumanly hard I work.
After the swirling, I have to take the fabrics out and go hang them on the drying rack, a contraption of curved metal beams with a drainage grate under it. This rack is enormous, and it is constantly bathed in dry air. This is the part that I hate the most. I have to hold the piece of fabric, the piece of fabric filled with stinging, toxic liquid, in my own hands. Sure, I'm wearing gloves, but the gloves are meagre protection as the dye seeps through them and makes my hands sting and burn in pain. I have to then walk, well actually, practically run, to the drying rack and place my load up absolutely perfectly.
My hands are always burning, always stinging, always in horrific pain throughout my whole time working. I'm not allowed to go to the one bathroom that we have in the building, that is far away, in order to wash them. It would take far too much time to walk there, not to mention it wouldn't even help if my hands are just going to get burned again the very next fabric that I have to hang up. Time is money. Literally. It's a meagre little bit of money for me and it's a whole lot of money for the people who own this factory.
I'm barely even allowed to go to the bathroom when I actually need to go to the bathroom. Because there aren't enough bathrooms. Because it's too far away. Because I have to work, work, work and work. I don't drink water, and I end up being so overheated and dehydrated, and that makes my head throb even more, makes my whole body strain. But it's not like I have a choice. This is the life that I am forced to live.
So through my aching, pounding head and my stinging I work on. I keep on working and I keep on working and it's so repetitive and monotonous that it feels like sandpaper on my brain. It feels like sandpaper on my brain and dry, waterless winds in my throat and a slow-acting poison in my heart. It feels as if my whole being is being slowly consumed by some eldritch beast that no-one has a name for. I am a ghost. I am a ghost and that is all I will ever be.
This is what life is for me. This is what I have to do twelve hours a day, six days a week. This is all that will happen to me for years and years and years and years. This is all that will happen to me until the day that I die. This is all that I have to look forwards to, all that I have to have hope for. There is no hope for me. There is no hope for any of my people. Just a fragile, faltering sort of survival that very definitely is not life.
I wish that I was dead.
———
I feel tired in my bones, tired in my blood, tired in my flesh. I feel tired in my mind, tired in my heart, tired in my soul. It's a tiredness beyond tiredness. An exhaustion beyond exhaustion. It's as if I have been hollowed out, as if all my insides have been scraped out, raw and bleeding, and all I am left with is a used-up, burnt-out shell of a person.
But I am a person. I am a person. I am a full, whole, and good person. I have to remember that. I have to remember it. For the sake of my family, my friends, my neighbours, my community, and all the people I have never met before, who toil and suffer just as I do, I have to remember it. I have to remember who I am. I have to remember who we all are.
I am walking home from the bus station, and all around me there are masses of people just like me, masses of people who are all walking home as well. It makes me feel seen, feel known, to be among them all. It makes me feel as if I belong somewhere, as if I belong with someone. And belonging is the best feeling in the world. It gives me a sweet, bright, secret sort of victory tucked away deep in my soul where no malevolent forces will be able to find it, where no malevolent forces will be able to snuff it out.
"How was work today?" an older man who lives a few blocks away, Yoshi, asks me. His eyes are full of darkness. His eyes are full of exhaustion. His eyes are full of concern. His eyes are full of love. And looking into his eyes, looking into the endlessly deep, dark pool of his brown eyes, it absolutely breaks my heart into so many pieces but it also makes me feel more whole and more seen than I could ever hope to convey.
"Oh, you know, horrible," I reply to him. Because it's the truth. And even though it's horrid, even though it's heartbreaking, he needs the truth. He deserves the truth. Of course there are a lot of places and situations where lying is the best thing to do, where it's the kindest thing to do, but this is not one of those situations. He can see the hurt, the devastation, the desecration, deep in my eyes, and no matter how much I try to hide it, he will still be able to see it.
"I'm so sorry, Miri," he replies, voice heavy. "You deserve better. You deserve so much better." There is kindness in his words. And despondence in them. I knew he was expecting my answer. But still, he grieves for me, I know he grieves for me, I know he grieves for all of us. I grieve for him too, and I grieve for all the people, for all of my people, everywhere. We all grieve for each other.
"How was your work day?" My words come out with a deeply sorrowful edge to them. An edge that cuts into both of our souls, an edge that heals us both.
"Difficult. Very difficult. I had to lug bricks up so many flights of stairs, again and again and again for hours and hours at a time." His words are haunted. But I knew that this is more or less how he would answer. I could see the devastation within him the whole time. I can see the devastation within him now.
"Try to get something to eat after you go home," I suggest to him. I know it's not a very powerful suggestion. There might not be food at his little hut. And even if there is, it might need to be cooked first. And that takes time. But still, I know how hungry people are after they come home from work. I know it because I have felt it, day in and day out, for years on end. Although, I'm hungry all the time. We all are. The hunger never really ends.
"I'll try," he responds, "but I'll have to cook first. And I have to make sure there's enough food for all of us. I have to make sure there's enough food for the kids." His voice carries so much love in it. So much selflessness. Self-sacrifice. It's incredible, it's beautiful, it's terrible how much self-sacrifice we all need to have. How much self-sacrifice we all need to have all the time.
"Of course," I answer. And what other answer could I have possibly given. Of course he needs to look after the kids first. We all do. I suppose I'm lucky, for now, since I am a kid myself and that means that everyone looks after me. But still, I try to make sure that the younger kids get to eat before I get to eat. I try to make sure that the younger kids don't go hungry, or at least not more hungry than they have to.
"You should wash your hands right after you get home," Yoshi advises me.
"I will," I tell him. And it's the truth. Thankfully, water is not as expensive as food is. Well, good clean drinking water is expensive but nobody uses that. Nobody washes with that or drinks from that. The tap water that I have at home is connected directly to the river, and I can wash away all the stinging chemicals from my hands using that water.
Suddenly I hear a baby crying. It's an incredibly mournful, desperate sound. So young and innocent and searching. It pulls at my heartstrings, pulling me towards its direction. Who is leaving a baby to cry like that? I suppose maybe their caretaker is busy.
"Do you hear that?" I ask Yoshi. He looks at me questioningly.
"Do I hear what?"
"The baby?" I respond, "do you hear the baby crying?"
"I don't hear a baby crying."
"Huh. That's weird. I'm sure I can hear it." This is strange. Very strange. I absolutely have to investigate.
I twist and squeeze my way through the crowd that moves around me, finding any path I can through the dense crowd. I let the sounds of the baby crying guide me. They keep crying and crying and crying on. Strangely enough, for some reason nobody seems to be able to hear them. Or if they do hear the baby, they are showing no signs of it. Which is absolutely impossible, since anyone would go to a crying baby.
My mind thrums with confusion and curiosity. What is happening here? I don't know. But I feel something calling me, I feel something pulling me. Something that feels like the hint of smoke that is in the evening air. Something that feels like the gray-blue clouds of the twilight sky. Something that I can't explain, that is tugging at my heart, tugging at my heart, tugging at my heart. It's beautiful and calming yet deeply melancholy at the same time. I don't know why it's happening but this feeling feels familiar, it feels familiar, it feels so so very familiar.
I find myself in front of a dark alley between two lines of huts. The space is tiny. It is so tiny. I can barely squeeze myself into it. But the crying here in front of the alley is louder than it has been anywhere else. And I can see a tiny basket inside the alley. It must be the baby. Who left a baby in here? Why did they leave a baby in here? This strange mystery is only deepening.
I squeeze myself through the alley, and it's dark in here, so dark. A warm sort of dark. A shielding sort of dark. A protective sort of dark. I have felt this sort of darkness before. But still, there is something strange and unknowable about this dark. As if it is the stillness of life waiting to happen, before the universe was created. The darkness that preceded all life. That preceded and gave birth to the spark in all of our souls.
The crying gets closer as I near the basket. So I was right, the baby is in there. The basket is a worn-out thing, with holes and bits of wood sticking out here and there. It is practically falling apart. So whoever left this baby here, it's unlikely that they were rich or middle class. It's unlikely that they had a better basket to leave their child in. They must be one of us. And more than that, they're probably not mentally well. I don't think a reasonable person could do this, though of course I don't know the whole story. And I must find them so that I can give their baby back and help them with whatever they need so that this doesn't happen again.
Finally, I reach the baby. They are wrapped in a worn-down, threadbare blanket. Poor thing. I pick them up into my arms. The second I do, the entire world seems to shift around me. It seems to grow sharper and more plunging, more aching with life. The whole world seems to be calling out for me, welcoming me, needing me. Of course, I have always felt this way before. I have always felt this way so deeply before. But this is so much deeper, so much more ever-reaching than anything I have felt before. I feel as though I have become one with all the suffering and all the hope the whole world over.
The baby is so sweet. So, so very sweet. Like all children are. Their little tiny face is poking out of the blanket that they are wrapped in. And I look at that face. I look at that face with every part of my mind, my heart, my soul. Because something inside me is singing. Something inside me is telling me that this is very, very important. Of course, all babies are very, very important.
For some reason I cannot make out the facial features of the baby at all. Their face seems to be changing, shifting in front of my eyes. Not in an unsettling sort of way. Just in an inexplicable sort of way. They look like they have the face of every baby in the world, simultaneously. They look like they have the face of every baby that has ever been in the world, the face of every person that has ever been a baby, the face of every baby that will ever be in the world. All at once. All at the same time. I know, I know that as I am looking at this baby, I am truly looking at every baby that is, has been, or ever will be.
And it's inexplicable. It's so inexplicable. It's so very inexplicable. I don't understand it at all, and yet I understand it completely at the same time. I understand that I understand it, I understand that I don't understand it, and I don't understand that I understand it as well. I am feeling emotions that I never thought myself capable of feeling, and that is saying a lot, considering how many emotions I have felt in my life.
"Baby?" I coo softly at the child, who looks up at me with big eyes that are all the colours that eyes can be, simultaneously. "How are you baby?"
The baby smiles at me. And it's such a bright, sweet, saccharine thing. I am beyond amazed by it.
"What do you want, little one?" I smile back at the baby. They look at me. And I get the feeling that they are looking deep into me, deep into me, deep into my very soul.
"Noww, nooow, noww," the baby babbles again and again. In this sweet little baby voice. In their sweet little baby voice that is all at once the voice of every baby in the world. Of course, I know the baby is not really saying "now." The baby is just babbling in baby talk. But that's what it sounds like the baby is saying to me. And these words, these words that are not words, seep into the centre of my very being. I don't know what is happening. I don't know what is happening but at the same time, a strange part of me does.
"Come on, let's get you out of here," I say to the baby as cutely as possible.
I walk towards the end of the alley, the little bundle in my arms. I don't know what I'm going to do with this child. Previously, my plan was to track down their parent or parents and ask why they had been left in the alley. But now. Now, I'm not sure the child even has parents. Unless of course you count every parent that's in the world, that ever was in the world, that ever will be in the world. But still, a baby is a baby is a baby, and they need some sort of caretakers to take care of them.
I emerge out of the alley and onto the dusty road. My arms feel strangely light, though. I look down, and there is no baby there. Just air.
———
I lie on my mat on the floor, my dad on one side of me, my three younger siblings on the other side of me, and my papa behind them. There are more people against the other wall. It's cramped here. Like it always is. But some houses are even more cramped. My aunt died a year ago, so we have a bit of space. But still, she died. She died and she was my aunt. She was practically my mother. And she died too young, too early, like all people do. And I'm still not over it. I'm not over it. I'm not over it at all. I don't think I ever will be over it.
The night is dark and hot around me. Silent, save for the blowing of the wind outside. It almost seems eerie. It almost seems otherworldly. Night is always this way. That's part of why I love it. There is no work at night. No demands. Just rest. A person gets to exist as just themselves, they get to exist just as a person and not as a work machine. Whatever else the rich took away from us, they couldn't take away the night time. It's a time that is just for us.
In this atmosphere, the thoughts of the baby return to my mind. I had pushed that experience away, thinking of it just as some sort of psychosis, as I was talking with my neighbours, with my friends. I had pushed the experience away as I was talking with my family. And I had tried to tell myself that it was nothing, it was nothing, I was just going crazy. Lord knows that many people go crazy in this world. Lord knows that there are a lot of things to go crazy about.
But in the stillness of the nighttime, I realize. The air all around me waits with promise. And I realize. That it was not a hallucination. It could not have been a hallucination. It was too real, too definite, too undeniable. No matter how strange it was, no matter how much it made no sense, there is no denying that it was amazing, and there is no denying that it's undeniable. Because I know what my feelings were at that moment. I know how strong my feelings were, how sure my feelings were. And everyone always says that if your heart is adamant about something, you better follow your heart.
So I'm going to listen to to my heart and I'm going to listen to my feelings and I'm going to let my feelings guide me in the right direction. I am going to let them guide me towards the truth, whatever it is. Because I know there is so much more to this world than what makes sense. I know there is so much more to this world than what can be understood and explained rationally. And this seems to be like one of those things.
But still, knowing that what happened did actually happen and knowing what that means are two very different things. I can't figure out what it means, though I know that it definitely does mean something. Why was the baby there? Who is the baby? How did the baby get created? Why - and how - did the baby choose to reveal themselves to me, if they did choose to reveal themselves to me? Why were they saying what they were saying?
The more I think about these questions, the more I think about my situation, the more questions I have. And the more questions I have, the more I wonder what the answers to those questions could possibly be. Everything happened but nothing was explained. I have to find out for myself what all of this means. And I have no clues to go off of.
Actually, that's untrue. I do have clues. And there are certain things that I do know. I know for example that the baby represents all of us. The baby represents all the people, past and present, and all of the struggles we are faced with. They represent all the love shared between us and all the ways, big and small, that we resist our exploitation and that we hope to resist our exploitation. That much is apparent. But what now? Why did they show themselves to me in this moment and what does that mean?
Despite my confusion, the pulse of hope thrums in me. A pulse of hope that is so much stronger than hope has ever been before. Because I know that this means something. I know that this has to mean something. And it means something profound. It means that things are happening. Things are finally, finally happening. And maybe we will finally, finally get free.
I try to stay up late thinking. I want to stay up late thinking. But exhaustion and drowsiness settles over me and I cannot fight it anymore as I am pulled down into sleep. Though I suppose that is for the best. I have work tomorrow, and if I am sleepy at work, it will be even more hellish than it already is.
———
I am surrounded by friends both old and new. People I've known for a while and people I've just met. We are all together, gathering after work. We are all crowded together, sitting on the floor of Karlium'a hut. And I'm aching with tiredness. As I always am after work. I'm aching with hurt. And, like always, the steady gnaw of hunger twists in my gut. Twists in all of our guts. But, surrounded by people, surrounded by my people, all of that is soothed. And I feel, I feel at home here. I feel like I belong here. And being a part of this milieu makes me feel like my life is returning back to me, at least a little bit.
There is Daria here, a woman in her mid thirties I haven't met before. She has skin the colour of river clay and hair the colour of darkness. There is Hadashi, and I know him. He's in his twenties and he has thick, curly hair that shines like a halo when the light hits it. There's Valimem, and they're in their twenties too, and they have the darkest, largest eyes I have ever seen on an adult. Arili is in her early thirties, yet she looks so much older. Her eyes do at least. Cambri is in their forties, and they have wrinkles around the edges of their eyes. Mallee is a teenager and she has a beautiful broad nose and round eyes. The two other children that are here are Kallari, aged seven, and Amori, aged five. They're both so incredibly cute. Amori cannot pronounce his Ks and he loves monsters and fantasy creatures. Kallari always tries to make sure that everything is fair, though she's so young. And of course there's little baby Rosalee, with her big eyes and bright babbling, whose face I saw in that mysterious baby.
"If you could talk to any of our ancestors, who would it be?" Mallee asks.
"I want to talk to the people from before. Before the place got all bad." Amori's voice is so sweet.
"Ooh that's cool," Valimem pipes up, "why would you want to do that?"
"Because," the child starts, drawing out the word, "then I could know how everything was!"
"That's nice!" Cambri cheers. "I would love to know that too. Sometimes it feels like this life is all there is."
"Aww don't say that," Daria presses, "there's so much good stuff that we will have one day. I promise."
"How about you, Kallari," Hadashi asks, "who would you want to talk to?"
"I think maybe someone who made the bad people scared." There is something dark and sharp in her words. She is far too young to be thinking that way but she is thinking that way anyways.
"Ooh that's a good answer," Arili exclaims, "we could learn some tips and tricks from them!"
"What tricks?" Mallee asks.
"Like maybe how to steal!" Amori exclaims, "I would love to know how to steal!"
"Ooh, that's a good one!" Valimem's words are bright, with an exhausted undertone to them.
"I wanna learn to break thinks!" Kallari exclaims.
"Breaking things is fun," Hadashi agrees, "but if you do it you'll get in trouble."
"Hey un ... guys," I begin, not knowing how to start. My voice is cautious and fearful. It makes everyone's eyes turn to me.
"What is it?" Cambri asks. "Are you okay, sweet Miri?"
"I think I'm okay. At least, I hope so. But something really strange happened on my way home from work yesterday."
"What was it?" Arili questions, "tell us so that maybe we can help you,"
"Well," I begin, "I heard the sound of a baby crying from an alley. So I go there and pick the baby up, right?"
"Yeah," she responds.
"Well, the baby had the face of like, millions of different babies, all at the same time. I could tell, I knew in my heart that this baby was, it was all the babies ever. I don't know how I knew. I just knew."
"Trust your intuition child," Daria tells me, "it's there for a reason. It's saved us all before."
"Yep. I will," I reply. "So, I start to leave the alley with the baby. To maybe find out where they came from. But, the second I leave the alley, the baby is gone."
Everyone is silent for a while. Well, except the kids, who are talking to each other.
"Do you know the story of how the universe was invented?" Mallee asks me, voice dead serious, laced with awe.
"Of course I do," I tell her, "everyone does."
"But do you really remember it?" she asks.
"What are you talking about?" My voice has a slightly incredulous tint to it.
"Miri. Your name." Valimem's voice is dead serious.
"What about my name?"
"You were named after the Mother of All," they answer.
"Yeah, Mama Miria, what about her?"
"Your Aunt June named you, didn't she?" Daria asks.
"Yeah she did, what about that?"
"I wonder why she named you that way."
"Anyways," Cambri commences, "I think things will become more apparent if we refresh the story.
"Once upon a time there were no people. No animals. No plants. There was no earth, no sky, no fire, no water. There was only Mama Miria, and within Her She held infinite possibilities." I know the story that Cambri is telling. I know it well. But it's always nice to hear it again.
"Miria was lonely," they continued, "She was incredibly lonely. So She thought to Herself that She would create a being that could keep Her company. So She looked deep within Herself and saw the endless possibility that was laid in there. And She became pregnant with a child. She waited many long months before She gave birth to that baby. And who was the baby?" Cambri's voice has a light edge to it.
"The universe!" the children both exclaim joyfully. I smile.
"Yes, the universe," Cambri agrees. "And what was the universe? It was everything that has ever been created, everything that is created, everything that was created. It is everything that will have the Spark of Life within it. And everything ever was coalesced into one thing, into one sweet, precious baby that was every baby ever to come, all together, all at once.
"And Mama Miria, of course, took care of the baby, protecting it and nurturing it and doing everything to help the baby grow up big and strong."
"Like my mama!" Kallari exclaims.
"Yes," I tell her, "just like your mama."
"But all was not well," Cambri continues, "for evil forces found the baby and took it away from Mama Miria's arms. But She spends every moment desperately searching for Her sweet child."
There is silence again after this.
"I think," Hadashi starts, "Mama Maria found her child."
So ... what in the world am I supposed to do now? Now that I have to be the Mother of All? I'm only twelve.
———
I'm in a Resistance meeting. Because this is exactly what I need to do as a mother who wants to protect her child. This is exactly where I need to be. All around me are people who want to bring down the rich, who want to fix the world. People who are hungry, people who are tired, people who are over-worked. People who are angry about it all and would do anything to take a stand. And I have to fix the world. I have to fix the world. I have to heal my child.
"We have rights. Our rights go so far beyond merely staying alive. They encompass everything that is necessary for a good life, one of dignity and respect." The passion in Remini's voice is intoxicating. Her eyes are dark and her eyelashes even darker. She's in her twenties, like most resistance members, and she puts so much thought into everything she says.
"Exactly," Kalavi echoes, "they think that they do so much by giving us not enough food, and not enough water, but dear universe, they're the ones who should be grateful. Grateful that we haven't fucking killed them yet." His dark lips purse in disgust as he finishes talking. There are cheers all around us and I join in. It feels rebellious. But it feels wrong, somehow. Incomplete, somehow.
"They should be grateful that we fucking do everything for them!" Kalkiti softly exclaims, "we grow their food, we cut and sort and process and package their food, we make all their fancy clothes and pretty jewelry and nice furniture. We make their books and their toys and their big, big houses. And their televisions and music players and everything else. It's all us. We do all the work." Her skin is light, her face is round like the moon, and her broad nose crinkles in disgust.
"They never look at it that way though," Cakvi states ruefully, "they only see who is getting all the money for all the work that we do. And then that person gets all the credit. That's how it works, for the rich. They see a rich dirt stain in a position of power over everyone and suddenly that rich dirt stain is responsible for all the work their thousands of workers do." Cakvi's tone is dark from their harsh life. Their skin is dark from the harsh sun. And I can relate. I can relate so well.
The conversation swirls around me for a while. People try to get me to talk. I don't want to talk right now. I just want to hear what everyone has to say. There is so much anger all around me. Of course, there is always anger all around me but this anger is so much more flaming, so much more tangible. There is also deep insight all around me. Also not new, but it's all so concentrated, undiluted, all together at once. I don't know if I can take it all or not.
But there is one big problem. For all the insight and analysis and explanation of all that's happening, there aren't any actual plans for how to stop everything that's happening. I knew I wouldn't walk into a revolution on its way to being planned. But damn, there seems to be no hope here. No hope of things getting better. No plans of how to make things better.
"What should we do about all this?" I pipe up. "I know it's not fair. All of it is very much not fair. But how do we change it? Any plans for that?"
"We don't have enough power yet, to start a revolution," Diani explains to me, kindness in his eyes, "we couldn't face them and win. We plan crimes, heists, stuff like that. But all that is pretty small time. It mostly just keeps people alive, it doesn't really change the game."
"We have to lay the emotional and intellectual foundation for a revolution before actually doing it," Favi explains, a hand reaching up to her thick hair. "Revolution can't happen unless people want it, unless people know we deserve it, unless people know that what's happening needs to be stood up against. We have to build anger within people. We have to build rage and resentment and, most importantly, hope."
"What you're doing is very important," I acquiesce, "It's very important and good. We do need to lay the groundwork for a revolution first. But do you guys have hope?" I ask. "Do you guys thinks revolution is actually going to happen?"
"It will." Jai answers, "but we're not sure when."
"I think ... I think the revolution needs to happen now. Or soon. I think that we're powerful enough. That we have what it takes. Right now."
"Why do you think that?" Cakvi asks.
I explain to them what happened to me on that fateful day, coming home from work. I explain the baby. I explain the late night I had thinking it all over. I explain the conversation I had with my friends and neighbours. And I explain the horror and glory of the realization, and of the time I spent going over and over in my mind what this all could mean. They stare at me with awe, with joy, with hope in their eyes. And when I'm done, there is a spontaneous round of cheering echoing through the whole room.
"The Mother found Her baby!" Diani exclaims.
"But what do we do next?" Remini asks.
"We get more people," Favi states. "We get them to join us."
———
"The world will be better only if we all try to make it better," I speak out into the room of people gathered around me. They all heard my story already. And they generally agreed that the experience means something, that it means something important, and that right now is the time when great things will happen.
"Things can only happen if we work for them," an older woman named Ravi speaks out to the crowd, the children looking up at us wide-eyed and the babies crying or cooing from the arms of the people holding them. "We have a chance right now. We have a chance to set things right. But we have to go for it. We have to use this chance and not let it slip away."
"We have to fight!" little Alixi exclaims, their young voice dead serious, "and defeat the bad guys!"
"We have to defeat the bad guys!" I echo, "you're so right!"
"But how are we supposed to do anything?" Maliki asks, his dark curls shining in the dim candlelight lighting up the room. "There's no logical, practical reason for us to have power."
"There doesn't have to be one," I reply. "We will find our power if we all look. If we all have faith. If we all create opportunities out of what we have. Sure, we might not know how we'll win right now. But if we keep looking, if we all work together, we'll find a way to win."
"Exactly," Navai agrees, "we have to try. Because the Mother found Her child again. The Mother found Her child. And we're all the Mother. And we're all the child. We have to do what any mother would do and help the child, help each other, by any means necessary."
"We have to be a good mama," young Jini agrees, "so that all the kids can be happy."
"What's so loving about all getting ourselves killed in a failed revolution?" Balvi asks, his voice tinged with morose darkness but also with repressed hope.
"The future," eleven-year-old Clari explains, "the future people will live a better life. The universe will go back to being good, being fair, being the way it's supposed to be. We'll do it for the future and we will win."
"Yeah," Ravi echoes, "we need the future generations to have better lives than us. The universe will be hurting, will be wanting, will be wrong, if things go on the way that they do. If we can make things better for future generations, if we can get rid of the evil in the world, that would be good."
"Besides," Maliki adds in, "it's better to die on your feet that it is to live on your knees. Standing up against the rich, even if it kills us, is so much better than this desperate, aching sort of life that we're all living."
"Exactly," I agree, "And we will win. I know we'll win."
"And how will joining the resistance help?" A young woman named Nellin asks.
"Because," I answer, "if we're all in the resistance, we can all communicate with each other. We can all plan together, share ideas, share knowledge, and build ourselves up into a force to be reckoned with."
———
I stand on the corner of the narrow, dust-paved road, scores of people passing me by. I have lookouts who can tell me if any cops are coming by. But right now I'm safe.
"Would you like to join the resistance?" I ask the weary travellers as they pass by, "we meet at every house number ending in 4, from 7-9 on Saturdays."
People look at me. They smile. Like I'm a sweet child selling flowers on the roadside. I guess I am a young child. But I don't feel like one. I haven't felt like a child in years. There is a weariness about me and a darkness. My life has never been my own. Of course, I don't want it to be my own. But I don't want to belong to the rich either.
Hopefully I will be able to give my life to the people I want to. Soon.
"Would you like to join the resistance?" I ask.
"Sure," an older woman with wrinkles around her kind eyes tells me, "but only if you tell me why a kid as young as you is out here doing something so dangerous."
"I'm fine, ma'am. I chose to be out here."
"You be careful, though. You're too young to find yourself in trouble."
"Thanks for the concern." I smile at her, and she smiles back, ruffling my hair before she leaves.
I keep on telling people about the resistance meetings. I know that this is dangerous. But I also know that no-one will turn us in. No-one will tell the authorities about us. Because there is a loyalty among all the poor people here, among the people who have to sell their days and and their life's blood in order to put not enough food on the table. We all would die for each other.
The authorities likely won't torture us anytime soon either. Not before we plan our our next action. When the weapons are in our hands, the high-caliber, lethal weapons that can bring the end of the whole system as we know it, then we will be free. We will be free to rebuild a world of sibling hood. And the baby will finally be safe.
"Will you come to a resistance meeting?" I ask the person passing by in front of me. "We meet from 7-9 on Saturdays, in each hut ending with a four. We're going to change the whole world."
"How are you planning to change the whole world, little girl?" they ask me.
"We are planning to bring it all down."
"Bring it all down? But how will we do that? We have no power."
"We have more power than you think. A miracle has happened. Come to the resistance meeting and you will find out what it is."
"Okay, okay. I'll go to the meeting. But you guys better have the strength to back up your words."
"We'll be able to back up our words, just you see."
"Okay. I really hope it's time to finally change things. But I don't think we'll be able to, unfortunately."
"I know how you feel. I've felt that way before. We've all felt that way before. But you have to have hope."
"Hope is good," they agree, "but recklessness is not. I would advise you to be careful and to know what you're doing before you try anything dangerous."
"We will be careful, I swear. We know what the stakes are. We know what the consequences of failure are. We know all the lives that are on the line."
"I want to join you. I really do."
"Then do it. Then join us."
"I will."
They shoot me a tired, enamoured sort of smile, and I shoot them a strong, confident smile back. This day is going well.
"Do you want to join the resistance?" I ask the next passers-by. "We are planning something huge, and we need for everyone to get involved."
———
I'm coming home from work again. I am beyond exhausted. I do not feel like a human anymore. I never feel like a human after work. All I feel like is an empty vessel, a hollowed-out, spectre-thin thing that exists to suffer and for nothing more. I smile at the people around me. And they smile back. But all of our smiles are harrowed. All of our smiles are haunted.
All at once I hear the same sort of crying that I heard before. Many-voiced and woeful. Young and fragile. I follow the sound through the twisting alleyways again, just as I had done before. And once again I find the world baby, the baby which is everyone and and all of nature, all at the same time. The baby which is beautiful, beautiful, so infinitely beautiful. The baby which I want to give everything to.
Immediately, my heart is overcome with more love than I can fit into my body. It seeps out of me, and into this baby, this baby with so many features, so many faces, who I take into my arms and cradle gently. I feel as though my entire being is exploding out into the entire universe, and I am becoming one with everything everywhere. I want to protect this child. I want to protect this child. I so very desperately want to protect this child. But I can't.
Not yet at least.
I cradle the small being close to me, until they stop crying. They are much quieter now, at peace since I picked them up, since I held them close, since I let my love and my proximity and my intimacy seep into their tiny, needy form. They were lonely, so lonely out here in the alley, uncared for by the world, left on their own to suffer. But now they have me. Now they have all my family, all my neighbours, all my friends, all my coworkers, everyone in this world. Now we will all look out for them.
The young one is in my arms, and reaches up to grasp my nose with their tiny little fingers, with their tiny little hand. This is so infinitely adorable. I cannot help but laugh. It's sweet. It's so very infinitely sweet. Sweeter than anything could ever be and my heart is soaked through with glory, is heavy from my joy. Just looking at this child gives me so much joy.
"Are you going to stay with us?" I ask softly, looking at the bundle of joy my arms. "Or are you going to disappear the moment I walk out of this alley again?"
The baby flaps their hands in response.
"Stay with us," I plead with them, my voice gentle and full of love. "Stay with us, and let me show you to everyone, so that we all can see you and believe."
The baby makes an "aah" sound in response. I don't know how much they are understanding, but the big, round eyes look solemn, look thoughtful, look sad.
"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go." I get up from the ground I am kneeling on, slowly standing up and making my way to the sunlight of the streets. The baby is playing in my arms, babbling some adorable nonsense. I hope they'll be here when I leave the alleyway.
I take the final, tentative step into the main street. And still there is a light heaviness in my arms. And still the baby is cooing close to my heart. I break out into a beaming smile, and I go to the nearest person I can find.
"Do you see this baby?!" I exclaim in joy. And his ghost-like features light up in awe, and in hope.
——-
"Look at this child!" I proclaim to the resistance fighters gathered around me. I am not in the resistance meeting that I am usually in, the one in my neighbourhood. Instead, I am two neighbourhoods over, telling the people there of what I heard, what I witnessed, and what I experienced in my life.
The baby is in my arms now. But I pass the child on to Amine, who will pas them on to other people. It is important that everyone sees the child, that everyone holds the child. Not just the people in the resistance, but all of the people of the world. I realize that it will probably take about a year of constant travelling, a year of tired hunger, of new faces, in order to give everyone a chance to interact with the child. But it will be worth it. It will be so very worth it.
There aren't even that many people anyways. I'll be able to come home to my family after each day of travelling. And my family is okay with my "decision" to not work, even though that means that my whole community will be hungrier than they would have been if I did work, because they know that right now, everything is changing. The whole world is changing.
"I ... I'm amazed," a person named Davelo tells me.
"I am too, believe me, so am I," I respond.
"This is a sign. It has to be." Teenaged Arcadia's voice is full of joy, full of passion. She's holding her own baby, but looking at both the babies in this room, babies which are actually the same baby.
"So ... what does this mean? Does it mean that we will win?" Fig asks. He is trying to not get overly excited. He knows how dangerous that can be. But he can't help himself.
"Well," Amari starts, "we all know the legend. We all know that when the baby and the mother are reunited, it means that the world will go back to being fair again, being together and being free and being equal."
"Are you the mother, Miri?" Biri asks me, eyes full of wonder. "You are named after Mama Miria after all."
"I used to think that," I reply to him, "but I don't think so anymore. These past few weeks, I've been going around and seeing everyone. And the way everyone interacts with this child, the way that everyone loves them, I'm starting to think we're all the mother."
"That's very poetic," Davelo speaks out to us. "We are all the mother are we are all the child. And now that we are reunited with ourselves, now that the mother is reunited with the child, a new age will come."
"Are we sure, though?" Kamima asks, eyes darker than storm clouds and more solemn than the twilight. "Are we sure that we are on the verge of a prophecy?"
"We all know the stories," Manoni tells us, wrinkled eyes gazing into our souls. "We all know how they come to fruition."
"But how?" Mamon asks. "How are we going to take on the whole system?"
"With effort," Arcadia answers. "By trying our best and doing everything that we possibly can in order to create change. We all have to try our best. All of us. Because the prophecy can only come to fruition if we work towards it."
"How right you are," Biri pronounces.
———
I am with my family. My dad, Amerni, my three little sisters, Cala, Rashi, Tessa, my papa Yonas, my "aunts" Marvi, and Carla, my three younger "cousins" Sali, Baro, and Lai, and my twin brother Davi. We are all sitting close together, on the floor of our hut, sharing in each other's warmth. We are passing the baby around, the baby that the community has taken to calling Uni. They are reaching their arms out, wanting to be held by all of us. It's cozy. Really cozy. It's sweet. Really sweet. I can almost forget about how hungry I am, how aching I am, or how my throat hurts.
"Are we going to be able to fight, too?" Sali asks.
"You can if you want to," my dad replies. "But it will be difficult. It will be beyond difficult. War is no place for a child."
"But why can Davi and Miri go?" Cala asks.
"Because," I reply, "We're much older than you guys."
"You can fight if you want to," Aunt Marvi tells the younger kids, "but war is not fun. It's not fun at all."
"But I want to fight!" Lai whines.
I think about how horrifying it would be if my younger siblings and cousins, and all the little kids all around actually, fought. They're just babies, really. They don't belong in a war. They don't belong in all the horror and danger that accompanies war. They don't deserve to die, they don't deserve to have to kill people, they don't deserve any of the brutality of war.
But then again, none of us deserve the brutality of war. And yet, we're all getting ready for it anyways. We're all looking forwards to it even, despite the fact that we're dreading it also. We are all anxiously awaiting the day when the pot finally boils over.
Why?
Because it's a chance to stand up against the rich.
They've been working us to death for years, giving us not enough to survive, making us waste all of our precious energy at their precarious jobs. I have seen so many deaths over the years. My aunt. My neighbours. My baby brother. People at work, who get into accidents. Unhoused people who freeze in the cold winters. I'm sick of it. I'm so sick of all of it.
But now, here, we have a chance to make the rich finally, finally see us. We have a chance to make them finally, finally fear us, instead of us just fearing them. We have a chance to show them that we are human beings, we always were human beings, and we are far more human than they will ever be. We have a chance to show them that we are much stronger than they ever thought we were.
And we have a chance to create a better future. A future where all of this suffering will not happen. A future where nobody has to suffer anymore. We can create a future where each child grows up healthy, grows up strong, grows up well-educated, and with time to play and have fun. We can create a future where everyone looks forward to happiness and peace in their lives. Where no child or adult has to work like a slave. Where we all take care of each other, we all really and truly take care of each other no matter what.
And that's worth fighting for. It's worth killing for. It's worth dying for. It's worth anything and I understand why I want to join the war. I understand why the children want to join the war.
"It's important to have people who live, who take care of the new generations," my papa tells the kids. "It's just as important for you guys to save yourselves so that you can create the future."
"I'll miss you guys!" Tessa moves to hug me, and I cry as I hug her back. It's horrific, how much sacrifice this is going to take.
———
I'm walking along the streets, streets only occupied by young children, by toddlers, by a couple of babies. Everyone else is at work. The adults. The teenagers. The older children. There's no-one left to take care of the young ones. They have to take care of themselves. It's horrifying. But it's a horror that we've all been forced to grow used to, over the years. It's a horror we are forced to deal with.
I carry baby Uni. And their weight is not heavy in my arms. Their weight is never heavy in my arms. I say hello to the groups of children who I pass by. They say hello to me back. I'm going to the far end of the city, where the agricultural workers have their huts. I'm taking baby Uni to them, so that they can spend time with the baby and see what the child is like. Uni is sucking their thumb.
I think as I walk. More specifically, I think about how I haven't seen a single police officer during the whole year that I've been with Uni. Why is this the case? Usually I see police officers here and there as I walk through the streets, as I go on with my life. Usually it's a terrifying experience, but an experience that I am accustomed to dealing with nonetheless, as anxiety-inducing as it always is. But there have been none anywhere near me this past year. While I cannot help but be grateful, I also wonder, why is this the case? What is going on?
"Hi," I sing-sing kindly to a five-year-old boy. "How are you?"
"I'm okay. How are you?"
"I'm good. I have a question though. Did you happen to see any police officers here?"
"A time ago there was a police, but there's none now."
"Okay. Thank you. How long ago?"
"Maybe ... more than 15 minutes?"
"Okay, thanks so much. Good luck, buddy."
"Good luck!"
Okay, so, fifteen minutes or more ago there was a cop. But not right now. So, there was a cop before I showed up here, before Uni showed up here. But they left just as I came to this area. Interesting.
———
I take baby Uni to scrap yards. It's a horrible place for a baby, filled with so much garbage and jagged metal. But then again, what isn't a horrible place for a baby? I make these trips daily, and I am always accompanied by different kids. We have heaps of blankets with us, blankets borrowed from neighbours. We are confident that no guards will be after us. Because Uni is just such a loud baby and the guards can't stand their loudness.
We can also get through the gates of the scrap yard easily, gates that are otherwise closed to all the public, because the people who stand vigil by the gates leave once they hear the baby for too long. The child is our key. Our key to anything. And for this we are incredibly grateful to them. For this we thank them everyday.
In the scrap yard, we find pieces of metal that are shiny, that are new, that are not rusted. More importantly, we look for pieces of metal that have sharp edges and could be easy to cut. These will make our weapons. Weapons that the rich do not want us to have. Weapons that we make from the garbage that they throw away, from the incredible waste that they generate.
We wrap these medium-sized pieces of metal, usually about the length and width of my forearm, in the blankets that we borrowed. We understand that it looks suspicious, walking through the city with a bunch of blankets wrapped up in our arms. But we also know that as long as baby Uni is with us, no guards will accost us, for they'll all be too afraid.
Day after day after day after day, this plan works. We build up piles and piles of metal sheets. We find stronger bits of metal, with sharp edges. We cut the sheets of metal with the pieces of stronger metal, after using precious candles to soften the spots we want to cut along. We bend the newly-cut pieces. And we distribute them as spears for the people to use and get good at.
——-
Now is the moment of truth. I am walking towards the armoury, with a handful of other children. Cassi is seven, Racha is nine, Amio is six, Lai is eleven, and Olem is thirteen like me and has baby Uni in his arms. I have baby Clara in my arms. Nobody will suspect a group of children like us. Of course, the rich hate poor children like us, they suspect poor children like us, but they do not think us capable of of any great deception, or anything that requires a lot of thinking. And of course, they don't know about the World Baby. They don't know the power that the baby has. The power that all babies have.
I am fizzing with excitement. It is bubbling up hot and sweet in my chest, in my belly, in all parts of me. My mind is racing with equal parts anxiety and anticipation. Anxiety is a cold stone in my insides. Anticipation is making my soul light and in flight like a bird. And I feel as though I have the weight of the entire world on my shoulders. Though I guess I do. We all have the weight of the entire world on our shoulders. But we all have each other. And we can carry the load together. We can share the load together. And that makes the heavy weight so much lighter.
I am buzzing. I am buzzing. Everything inside of me is buzzing. I am overjoyed. There is so much that could go right. This might be the beginning. The beginning of the end. The beginning of the start. The end of our poverty, our brutal, degrading, dehumanizing work. This could be the start of true freedom, a freedom that we could all share together, that we could all share with each other. It could be the start of a world where all people are seen as equal, are treated as equal, are seen as one. We all hide in each other.
And yet. Yet. There is so much that could go wrong. We could fail. We could be killed. We could all be killed in punishment of our actions, in punishment of our rebellion. This could be the end of our people as we know them. This could be the end of everyone who's lived and died and worked and yearned and loved and hurt and cried and smiled and laughed under the heel of the rich. This could mean the end of our whole class as we know it. And with it, the end of all of our stories, the end of all of our songs, the end of all of our teachings and our histories and everything we pass on to the new generations. It all might be gone. The new generations might be gone.
Yet I don't think that will happen. I don't think we will fail. None of us think that we will fail, though the possibility looms in each of our minds, pressing us to make sure we put our full effort into this plan. I have faith. I have faith in baby Uni, I have faith in myself, and I have faith in all my people. All my people have faith in the baby, all my people have faith in each other. We have seen the signs, and we know that the time is now. The time to rise up. The time to change everything.
The children all around me have determination hidden deep in their eyes. They have rage. They have hate. And they have love. They all have a deep, untethered, primal, and all-reaching love in their eyes. A love that encapsulates themselves and is so much bigger than themselves at the same time. A love that has existed for as long as their souls have existed in the place beyond life, which is to say time without beginning. A love that will exist for as long as their souls will exist in the place beyond life, which is to say a time without end.
I look into their eyes and that gives me strength. I look into their eyes and it gives me hope. If soothes the sharpest edges of my cutting fear and leaves me able to go on, able to do all that I am meant to do, all that we are meant to do together. They are so determined. So determined. And I echo their determination. And I echo the power that they have. The power that we all collectively have, within ourselves, shared amongst ourselves. The power that will set us free.
The babies coo in our arms. They are adorable. And, looking at them, it makes the whole thing worth it. It makes our whole mission worth it. Because if these babies can have a better life, then that's all that we need, then that's all that we need from anyone. And it will make everything worth it. Besides the babies cooing, there is no sound from any of us. We all communicate in looks, in long-held eye contact, in the dead set of our mouths. Because we cannot give our plan away. We cannot let anyone know what it is that we are up to, besides all the people who already know and will keep the secret with us. We cannot let any of the rich, any of the guards, anyone with power in this society that we live in know what we are really up to. So we keep our silence, we keep our silence like a promise, and we walk together to the armoury.
We stop a slight bit aways from the armoury, away from the guards on all the many watch stations of the armoury. We sit down on the road, the dusty road that is unoccupied at the moment, except for us. It's not suspicious. It's not suspicious at all. Many children play in the road. It's the one place we have that is outside and under the sky. Even adults gather in unused roads often, gossiping and chatting about small things, things that the guards would not be suspicious upon hearing. It's slightly strange that we're doing this in the evening, when most children are much closer to the residential part of town. But there are huts near us. We're not straying too far away.
We sit down on the road, our worn, dirty clothes sitting on the dust. And we pass the babies around to each other. They giggle and coo, happy at being given attention and cuddles. And this is good. This is very good. We smile at them, and coo back. And, seeing our smiles, they giggle even more. It's adorable. It's so adorable. And it's so purposeful. So incredibly purposeful. These kids are helping us fulfill our destiny.
"Peek-a-boo!" Amio exclaims, and the babies scream in delight. We all join Amio in their peek-a-boo game. We each take turns covering our faces and uncovering them. The babies absolutely love it. They have no sense of object permanence yet, so they literally think our faces are disappearing and coming back into existence. This is adorable. Clara copies is, putting her face in her hands and then moving her hands away. Uni sees this and squeals. Perfect. This is so very perfect.
We continue playing our game for a while. It feels like it has been forever. Because the pressure digs into us, grates against us. It feels like it has been forever but I know that realistically, it probably has been only a few minutes. As the minutes go on, the babies get louder and louder. They get more and more excited. And I don't know if they're doing this on purpose or not. I don't know if they understand the gravity of this situation, I don't know if they understand the importance of what they are doing. But, looking at their faces, I think they probably understand, in their own, special, childish baby type of way.
I look around, as if in mild interest, at the scene all around me. The guards are getting increasingly agitated. All of them. I can see it in their faces. The growing trepidation. The discomfort. The way they adjust the expensive collars of their expensive black guard suits. The way that they look at each other as if wanting an explanation. They way that they fidget with their hands and pace in front of the doors that they're supposed to be protecting, getting up from their chairs. They'll be gone soon. They'll be gone so very soon. And so will all the guards resting inside, where the windows carry in the sounds of our merrymaking.
Lai takes baby Clara and lifts her high in the air, and then brings her back down in a swift motion. Oh my gosh, it must be exhausting doing that. She's hungry. She's tired. She doesn't have the energy for all this. But anyways she does it, because babies love it, because nothing can make a baby scream like doing this. She goes to baby Uni afterwards, and lifts them up in the air and brings them backdown. The young child screams so loudly.
At this moment, the guards all walk away hastily. They do not say a word to anyone. They do not even look each other in the eyes. They simply speed away as fast as a walking feet can carry them, looks of deep disturbance in their faces. Lai is still lifting the babies. I don't look at the guards straight on. That would be too suspicious. But I do keep track of them through the corner of my eye. We all do, trying to keep it all as down-low as possible.
I take over Lai's job. She must be exhausted by now. She needs her strength for the battle to come. I play with the babies and yes, yes it is very tiring. But also, it's very rewarding. Seeing the babies happy, seeing them so full of life, so full of life despite the fact that they're immersed in death, it's beyond joyous. It's beyond worth it. And I understand, now, how parents put so much effort into their children even after being bone-weary from their long days of work. I understand now how seeing your child smile is worth anything and everything.
The guards inside the building now also leave. I don't see how many of them go, since I'm still busy with the babies. But I trust that the other children are looking into it, that they're seeing how many guards left and are ensuring that there are probably none left inside the building. I trust my friends. I trust my people. All of them. The guards on the roof also climb down and walk away.
I pass the babies to Olem, and he plays with them as well, making them scream and laugh and giggle and coo. All the other kids keep a lookout for any of the guards coming back. Right now we are all not even trying to hide the fact that we're looking. Cassi and Racha get up and walk all around the building, peering down all the streets surrounding the building.
"They're gone," the two young children tell us.
Amio then whistles, a sharp, piercing sound. A sound that is not too out of place in the busy, chaotic world that we inhabit. If any of the guards heard it they would simply attribute it to a child being loud. Which is exactly what this is. It's a child being loud. But the people lined up in the huts all around, who are standing close to each other, crowded and awaiting, they know what this whistle means. They know the many layers of deep, simple, complex symbolism behind it. They know that this is our signal, the one we all agreed upon for its simplicity and unassumingness.
The first thing that happens is that people hang up blankets to dry in front of all the streets, a few blocks away from the the armoury, blocking off sight of the armoury from the streets on all sides. Hanging up laundry in and of itself is not suspicious. But this is suspicious, to have so much laundry handing up at the same time, at such a precise location. Fortunately for us, if any of the guards who patrol the streets try to investigate this strange occurance, they will get too close and hear baby Uni, and then they will go away. Of course, they could call for backup. But we all doubt that they would do it, because then they would have to report to their superiors that they were afraid to go investigate because they heard a baby. They would not do that, because it makes no sense, because of the embarrassment, because of the blow to their ego. They would probably rather save their own skins and ignore it. That's the hope we're all hedging everything on anyways.
People flood out of the huts that encircle the armoury. It was really rather stupid of the rich people to make their armoury right within the poor neighbourhood. Well, what's stupid on their part is a godsend on our part. Perhaps literally a godsend, by the way. The Mother of All has been sending us a lot of blessings as of late. Blessings that we would do well to make the most out of. Blessings that we are making the most out of.
All of us kids keep on playing with the babies, making them be as loud as possible, as the adults and teenagers around us are walking up to the armoury. The strong doors are locked with strong, sturdy locks. But my people have a secret. The art of lock-picking has been passed down through the resistance for generations. And now, everyone who is in the resistance has their piece of wire, and has unfettered access to the locks, no worries of guards coming to arrest them.
When they finally get the doors open, there is an audible sigh of relief from everyone. So far the plan is working. So far the plan is working perfectly. I dreamed that we would get this far. I dreamed that we would win. But there was always a part of my mind that always told me that no, we would not make it. We would not make it. We would not make it. Now, that part of my mind is weaker than it has ever been. It is more quiet than it has ever been. And centuries of oppression which hammered into me that I am nothing are being lifted right in front of my eyes.
The kids and I continue with our jobs as the older people around us continue with their jobs. They grab gun after gun after gun from the many racks. They grab bulletproof armour and shove it on. They grab crates full of ammunition and tie them to their backs. They prepare for the war that will be started within moments. And they succeed. They succeed. They keep on succeeding until there are almost two thousand armed people, scattered within the armoury. I can see them through the windows. There are also many people scattered around the armoury as well, on the streets and in huts.
They move silently. They work silently. They load their guns silently and make sure that Uni's voice can be heard all around, so that no guards come near us in this moment of truth. And no guards do come near us. They hear Uni's childish voice, as faint and distant as it is, and it strikes fear into their hearts. They think that the armoury guards are already seeing to this part of the city, they don't need to go there as well. And they leave us all alone.
We are armed. About two thousand of us are armed. That's about three percent of the population. But at the same time, we have as many guns as the guards have. We have as many guns as them, we have as many bulletproof vests, and we have way more people than they have. Everything is working towards our advantage. The rest of the people have spears. Spears carefully crafted of scrap metal that the people stole out of the scrap yard and cut with the resistance's stolen factory equipment and expensive candles. We have been practicing with them in secret.
The war has begun. The war that I never thought I would live to see in my lifetime. The war that I have dreamed of all my lifetime. The war that I will fight in.
The older kids take the younger ones to the safety of the huts. The safety of the special dug-out huts that we prepared to help the especially young shelter and stay safe during the war. And we go get ready.
———
The street is covered in bodies. The bodies of the people. The bodies of the guards. There are far more bodies of guards than there are bodies of people who fought. So many people who fought. Some of them are decked in armour, that they stole from the armoury, that fits them in a ramshackle kind of way. Some are decked in the common rags that my people wear, worn and thin and like the earth. They all are covered in blood, are dark with it. Some of the blood is new, fresh, red. I imagine that it would be warm to the touch. Some of the blood is old and darkened.
It's a horrific sight, one that makes me deeply sick to my stomach. I've known death. I've known death. I've seen so many loved ones pass away. But death of this caliber, thousands of people in the span of a few hours, bodies paving the streets, it's beyond anything I've ever known before. And it's gory. It's so, so gory.
Yet I'm not mourning the murdered martyrs the way I've mourned other people who left this world. Everyone who died here, everyone who died like this, they died on their feet. They died fighting for a better world. They didn't die because of neglect, because of poverty. They didn't die due to horrific working conditions or prejudice against their class. They died because they stood up. They stood up for what they believed in, they stood up for future generations, they stood up for a better world. And at the end of the day, that is so, so, so incredibly much better than dying quietly, than accepting your fate as a lesser person and letting death take you on the floor or at work.
Everyone who is dying here will be able to walk into the afterlife with their heads held high. They will be heralded as heroes, and they will be able to tell all their ancestors that they did not go down passively. They went down fighting, with their teeth bared, looking their oppressors dead in the eyes. And oh how deeply, deeply glorious that will be. And how deeply cathartic too, how satisfying to be able to come to the end of your life's story and to have it end with such bloody, bloody triumph.
Not that they deserve to die. Not that any of them deserve to die. Besides the guards of course. Just because they got murdered for standing up for what they believe in doesn't change the fact that they got murdered. It doesn't change the fact that each loss is a horrific loss. Each person on the ground had friends, had family, had neighbours. They had children in their lives. Children who will miss them to no end.
But the future generations will never again have to know the loss of their loved ones. And they will never again have to live lives worse than death, where their only hope is death. That is why all these people are fighting, all these people are giving up everything. And that is why I'm fighting too.
I've been lucky so far. My dark skin hides in the night, a night that is only illuminated by the glaring yet dispersed street lights. I'm young, so people are protecting me. And I've been able to get my hands on a gun, since I was so close to the epicentre of the robbery. But still, my heart thuds in my chest and fear flows in the rush of my veins, coating each molecule of my blood. I am more awake than I have ever been in my life. I am more alert than I have ever been in my life. And I am terrified.
There are gunshots all around me. From friends, from enemies, from unknown sources. The guns all sound the same but the shouts of the people do not. There are those shouting in rage, the sort of rage that only comes after living your whole life under the heels of those who think of you as less than an insect, who don't think of you as a living thing at all. There are other people also shouting in rage. The rage that comes with living your whole life thinking other people are beneath you. There are people screaming in pain, wailing in grief, and even laughing in victory. It's a cacophony of chaos and I hate it and I love it. But more than anything, it makes me feel alive.
I get shot in the chest. But my bulletproof vest protects me. It's a close call nonetheless. I've been shot many times before. Each time has sent a jolt of fear racing through me. I shoot back in the direction of the black-clad soldier whose gun the shot came from. I can tell that he's a guard from the superiority glinting sharply in his eyes. The bulletproof glass on his helmet has long since been shattered. But he's still heavily armed. But my bullet hits him right in the jaw, horrifically disfiguring his face. He gives off a garbled scream. I shoot him again, in the head to make sure that he's really, properly dead. And then I cheer loudly. This is my second kill tonight.
But it's a broken sort of cheer. As much a scream of anguish as it is a cheer of joy. This is my second kill tonight. I'm only thirteen.
I guess I shouldn't have done that though. A hail of bullets comes flying at me from the right. I run to go duck behind a hut. And, thank the gods, my armour got everything. I thank the Mother and Her Child for just a moment before I scan my surroundings. I cannot ever let my guard down, even a bit. Because they're out to kill me. They're out to kill all of us. And I cannot let them. There is chaos all around me. Bodies falling. People screaming. I look for who to shoot next. I'm half cold blooded killer, half screaming child. But I do not know which half is which.
I see a guard shoot at an unarmed man. I guess he lost all his spears. The man falls to the ground, a fountain of blood gushing out from his thigh. I almost throw up. I do not even know this man. I do not know him, but I have to avenge him. I shoot at the guard. It doesn't pierce through his armour, but it does get his attention. Which is not good for me. I duck back behind the wall, catching my breath. If I go after him again I might die. Is that worth it? Of course it is. I cannot be a coward. Not now. Not after we have collectively done so much. I whisper a short prayer before leaning back out to shower him in a hail of billets.
Unfortunately this leads me to be showered in my own hail of bullets, which he fired as soon as he saw me. My armour holds strong, but it doesn't protect me this time as a sharp, burning, tearing bullet digs into the bottom of my rib cage, between two of my right ribs. I scream. I burns. It burns. It burns so much. White hot, searing pain that flows from my wound out to my whole body. I look at the man who shot me. He looks smug. None of my bullets pierced through his armour.
But right before I pass out, I see a woman impaling the guard with her spear, from behind. His face flashes with surprise, then horror. I guess I distracted him enough for her to be able to sneak up on him. I smile, and that's the last thing I ever do. And the last emotion I feel in this life is a sweet, hot, darkened sort of vengeance. A vengeance borne of pain. A vengeance bearing victory. It was worth it, it was worth it, it was all so very worth it. We will be free. We will all be equal.
———
I awaken to a realm made up completely of something intangible, something untouchable, something deeply intimate, something intimately beautiful. I wake up and this is the first time in my life where I have felt at peace, felt free from the horrors plaguing me. I am holding baby Universe close in my arms. They are infinitely beautiful, as they always are. In their eyes I see each person, each creature, each plant and rock and piece of soil. I see the sky and the water and the ground and the fire. And I see love. Universe is happy in my arms. Happier than I have ever seen them. They smile, and there is no brokenness behind that smile. They are happy. Everything is right. And I am about to enter a new beginning, along with the world.
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