by H M Sealey
This Broken Land
~
©H. M. Sealey 2017
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
~
“We should be too big to take offence and too noble to give it.”
~ Abraham Lincoln
“I want to fight for this broken land, it should belong to all of us who love it,
wherever we come from.”
~ Asim
~ Prologue ~
I remember my mother mentioning America. The land of the free. She spoke about it in quiet, hopeful tones when she thought nobody else was listening. By then everyone listened to everyone else; very few conversations were private, but people had stopped valuing privacy anyway. We barely noticed when it was taken away. Every thought was shared on social media, to be liked and applauded by as many friends and strangers as possible, or else vilified and condemned.
My parents weren’t on social media, and when they discussed our plans to leave, they did so on our long, lonely country walks, where only the trees and the sky could eavesdrop and the trees and the sky were unlikely to inform the government we wanted to escape their world.
“There’s still some sort of freedom in America.” Dad agreed. “In some states anyway.”
“We need to go soon. Before they close the borders.”
Mum laughed in a bitter, unhappy way and snuggled close to him. I remember the way her keen, blue eyes gazed up into his face with an expression I didn’t recognise, not back then.
“We used to complain about the open borders.” She said. “Do you remember? Before the EU became the ESI?”
“The EU would never have become the ESI without their open borders policy.” Dad reminded her. “We were idiots back then, we really were. Why couldn’t we see what was happening?”
Mum gave dad a sharp, warning tap on the arm. Even then I knew it was wrong to complain, it was wrong to say things were better in the old days. That could be construed as offensive, and offensive language carried a prison term. I assume it still does.
So we left at night, all of us. We headed for the docks at Liverpool, tickets bought, everything that mattered in our hand luggage. My biggest regret was leaving David and Goliath, my fancy goldfish, in their tank with a feeding block that would keep them fed for two weeks. That was the best I could do for them. Mum and Dad didn’t even take a bible, just in case we were searched.
“You’re British?” The customs official examined dad’s passport for much longer than he had my mother’s. Dad nodded, he was good at pretending to be relaxed when inside he was as tight as a coiled spring.
“As you can see.”
“You haven’t applied for BSI citizenship?” That was an accusation. Mum cuddled my little sister against her body, I could feel her holding her breath. Rachael was only four, too young to really understand and, fortunately, too young to be held accountable. At nine I wasn’t considered so innocent.
“I’m quite content where I am.”
The customs official looked at me, then at mum. “You know you can take your family?”
“I don’t want to take my family.”
“Look,” The man placed dad’s passport on the desk. “The BSI want everyone of Muslim origin to relocate. You’d think they were gathering an army. All Muslim men are meant to go.” He gave me a curious look. “These are your kids?”
“Step-children.” I’d half forgotten Dad wasn’t my biological dad by then. He’d been with mum for three years and he was the single best thing to happen to her. Nobody made mum happy the way he did.
“Ah. Right. Well, you can still take them.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Sir, it’s not about what you’d rather not do. Part of our trade agreement with the British State of Islam is to repatriate British Muslims.”
“I don’t want to be repatriated.”
I slid close to dad and tucked my hand into his. Baraq Saidah was the finest man I’d ever known, thanks to him I’d settled down at school and was excelling, thanks to him I had a role model of kindness so unlike my real dad.
“Like I said, it’s not about what you want.” Already the official was reaching for his phone. Dad placed his hand over the man’s hand gently.
“I can’t go to the BSI.” He dropped his voice to a low whisper. The customs official frowned, reached to his side and pulled an official form towards him.
“The only exemption is for homosexuals.” His eyes passed over the whole family. “Are you homosexual?”
“No.”
I shuddered, even at nine I knew being gay was a criminal offence in the BSI. That always struck me as peculiar considering it was NuTru that helped negotiate our treaty with the BSI. The New Truth Democratic party built its fearsome reputation on complete acceptance of all human behaviours and almost demolished the church in the process, yet the alliance between the BSI and NuTru endured. They ought to have been natural enemies, yet somehow they weren’t.
Back then I half believed this was proof of NuTru’s benevolence towards all ideologies, rather than their total cowardice when confronted by anyone who might actually fight back against their agenda.
“I’m a Christian.” Dad kept his voice low. “Do you understand? That makes me an apostate.”
Apostate. I’d heard that word a great deal. Apostasy was also against the law in the BSI; we’d all seen the pictures of how apostates ended their lives. Very few of them ever recanted their new faith though.
I always remember the intensity and hope in Dad’s eyes as he tried to explain his reasons for wanting the leave the country to that angry looking man. It was the last time I ever heard him speak.
They questioned us all for days afterwards. What did I believe? Did I think being gay was a sin? Did I think sex outside marriage was bad? Did I think other religions were wrong? Was I aware they’d given me a boy’s name instead of a gender-neutral one? I could sue them for that.
The interrogation went on and on and nobody ever told me what happened to my mother and little sister.
Do you realise your parents have taught you lies?
I wept for my family alone, separated and terrified. They’re mentally ill. They’ve been abusing you all your life. Making you as intolerant as they are. But we can help you Joshua. We can help you unlearn this poisonous doctrine. Trust us.
And all the time I wailed at the white walls and the smiling faces. I want my mum! Where’s my mum!
Your mother’s forfeited the right to be your mum. You have to understand there’s a reason Christianity is frowned on in society. Hateful ideologies need to be stamped out. You have to learn to love and celebrate everyone, no matter what they do or think or believe.
I sat, slumped at the table, eyes blurry, heart aching for mum.
Loving everyone isn’t the same as accepting everything they do as good. I remember saying. Had I been less sleep-deprived I would never have said it.
It’s exactly the same Joshua. If you don’t accept that everyone has the right to live their lives their way, then that makes you a hater. And nobody wants to be a hater, do they Joshua?
And I said, shortly before they moved me to another, more permanent facility. You don’t accept that my parents have the right to live their lives their way. Does that make you a hater?
I don’t remember very much at all after that.
~
~ One ~
Josh
The alarm rings way to early just like it always does. I swear they’re frightened we might be having inappropriate dreams they can’t control, and so they limit our s
leep. It’s working, most of us are too exhausted to dream any more.
I wash in my little cubicle and try not to wince at the dirty water in the sink. It’s funny, but when I was very little I remember my mum complaining about the rain. I can’t imagine anyone complaining about rain today, if we had any. The water we do have is drying up and a lot of it is pumped into the BSI, even though they have most of the Thames, the Trent, the Ouse, the Great Ouse, the Tyne and the Tweed.
The dividing line runs north to south across the country, a bit like how it was with Mercia and the Danelaw over a thousand years ago, only the British State of Islam gets more land than the Danes ever did. Then again, the Saxons fought the Danes for land, they didn’t just give it away with a smile to prove a point about how loving and giving they were. The Saxons were proud of their country. We were never allowed to be proud of ours.
I wince at my hostile thoughts and try to reject them, the way Geoff says to do. The longer it takes for me to complete the programme here, the longer it’ll be before I can actually have some sort of life. And living in the Rainbow Centre is not any sort of life.
I pass along the covered walkway towards my first lessons. The sun is already climbing in the sky, hidden behind a hazy sort of white cloud. Five flags flutter rather listlessly on their flagpoles and I count them as I pass by, the blue and green combined crosses of Old Britain, the Scottish Saltire, the Welsh dragon, the green and white stripes of the BSI, the Cornish cross, and the blue and white stars of the European State of Islam. I often wonder why there isn’t an English flag there too, although the red and white cross has been consigned with the swastika to the dustbin of history. We could have another flag though, England does still exist, even if it’s now surrounded on all sides.
“You’re late Kessler.”
Carl Scott is teaching this morning; he’s a vicious bastard. The Rainbow Centre seems to employ either softly-spoken, patronising new-age nutters who get us to meditate for half an hour every morning, or else freaks like Carl Scott who clearly have a grudge against everyone here.
“Sorry sir.”
“That’s the third time this week. Come here.”
I don’t hesitate to obey. I need a trouble-free report. Nobody leaves the Rainbow Centre without every faculty member agreeing they’re safe to release. I can’t ever tell Mr. Scott what I think of him.
“Why are you late Kessler?”
“I don’t know sir.”
“Were you daydreaming again? Don’t think I haven’t seen you, when you think nobody’s watching. You stare away into space like a drooling moron. What were you daydreaming about?”
Hell, what can I say? What’s it acceptable to daydream about? My parents? Not a chance. My old life? I can’t imply that I preferred being at home with my parents to living here. I bite my lip. Mr. Scott is waiting for an answer.
“I was looking at the flags outside sir.” Can it be bad to look at the flags? Surely it’s not intolerant to look at flags?
Mr. Scott gazes down at me though pale, sapphire blue eyes. He’s a horrible man to look at, all hard edges and angles, like he’s been drawn using only straight lines. His hair is very fair and very short. He looks like what he is, an ex-army sadist who clearly resents the fact that Old Britain no longer has any armed forces.
“What were you thinking about the flags?”
The rest of the class watches with blank expressions on their faces. From this angle I can’t tell male from female from the ones who are neither. We all wear the same loose uniform, green tee-shirt and shorts to the knee, and we all have our heads shaved. If any of us managed to escape, we’d find it hard to blend in to society for several weeks.
“Um….I was just wondering…..just for a minute….why there isn’t an English flag.”
Mr. Scott’s face noticeably pales. “For the same reason there is no longer a recognised English race Kessler.” He snaps. “Because the English have too much blood on their hands. I thought this had been covered? England doesn’t exist any more. The Welsh, Scottish and Cornish boarders were redrawn when the British State of Islam was formed.” He leans over me, a pale stormcloud. “Do you still think of yourself as English, Kessler?”
I shake my head. I don’t know what I am. Between NuTru and the BSI and the Welsh Assembly and the Scottish Parliament this little piece of land has been butchered and divided up like a carcass.
“I hope you don’t.” He mutters, “But just in case,” He turns to the chalkboard and picks up a piece of chalk. “New assignment, and you can all thank Skye Kessler for this,” He scratches words in quick, angry strokes. “Explore the moral demise of England from the Transatlantic Slave Trade to today, and the role of the now defunct Church of England, the Conservative party and the last years of the Monarchy before the rise of NuTru and the establishment of a country with true equality for all.”
Mr. Scott turns and throws the chalk so hard it stings my ear when it hits me. The class groans. Mr. Scott will expect us to remember every fact he’s ever mentioned. And every lie. He tells a great deal of those although we’re not supposed to realise that.
“Try to remember you’re part of the freest, most tolerant country in the world.” He addresses the whole class now and I rub my ear. “This country gave the world democracy, the rule of law, and tolerance for all colours, sexual orientations and beliefs.” He begins to pace and I know the speech he’s about to break into; he gives it at least once a week.
“You’re all here because your parents tried to bring you up with dangerous ideas. Deadly ideas. Ideas that run counter to this great, united country of ours. And that wasn’t fair on any of you. But because we care for all our citizens, each of you has been offered the chance to heal the wounds inflicted by your parents, to teach you about British justice, British diversity and British tolerance.”
British? Really? I wonder exactly what he means by Britain? There’s a huge, bloody boarder between us and the BSI, England’s been wiped out the way they keep trying to wipe out Israel. I wonder what’s left of the country that once had an empire that comprised of a third of the planet.
No, I catch my thoughts, that was England. That was bad. Britain never had an Empire. Britain only ever had a commonwealth. Old Britain is a country to be proud of now it no longer includes England.
“Be grateful that each of you has been rescued from appalling abuse. I’m aware some of you don’t even recognise it as abuse, but it was, and we’re here to help.” Mr. Scott’s big, heavy hand pats the top of my head in a sickeningly affectionate gesture. “Come to my office later please Skye.”
I freeze. I know what that means and I wish he’d just beat the hell out of me instead, like he’s allowed to do. The laws of physical abuse don’t apply to any of the Rainbow Centres, although two staff members have to sign a form agreeing that there’s no other way to deal with the infraction, then the victim has to sign and agree not to sue anyone later on. Then there has to be a doctor present too. It’s all a big pile of red tape so actually, there aren’t all that many authorised beatings here at all.
But that doesn’t mean they find find other ways to hurt us.
~
Elsie
It all kicks off after class when I’m on after-school duty. Why me? I needed a peaceful day today, and a dispute with Social Services is never peaceful. Lack of sleep and the muggy, summer heat combine to leave me feeling slightly detached from reality. I can’t remember the last time I slept the whole night through, not unless I take the tablets Doctor Barr prescribes.
Inter Cultural Social Services have a difficult job to do; I appreciate that. But all the same, I don’t think anybody really feels comfortable working with them. They’re scary and sometimes, when they come for one of the children, I find myself wondering whose side they’re really on.
Which is a dangerous thought to have, so I berate myself for my warped thinking and promise to bring it up at my next self-betterment session.
So when they come for twelve-y
ear-old Noor Blackwood, nobody intervenes. It’s always for the best. Noor’s grandfather was from Pakistan originally. She belongs over the border in the BSI. She’ll be happier there. It isn’t fair to separate a child from her roots. I learned that on my first day at university. Children of Muslim descent must be placed with a suitable family in the British State of Islam as soon as is possible. It’s part of our trade agreement.
Noor screams and calls for her mother; the sound cuts through my already pounding head and I wince. Adelaide Blackwood has been contesting Noor’s placement in the BSI for years, that’s why the child’s reached year eight at Red Lake School. Social Services have two policemen with them, that means the decision’s been made.
“You can’t just take my daughter!” Mrs. Blackwood is a thin woman of forty-five with straw coloured hair and skin that turns cherry-red in the summer. She clings onto Noor in the middle of the playground while Noor howls in terror, her knees cut and scraped from the ground, her arms clutching her mother with desperation as one of the policemen endeavours to unhook her hands. Noor is much darker than her mother, with thick, ink black hair coming undone from her red checked ribbon and huge, chocolate-brown eyes.
“Are we just going to stand here and do nothing?”
I sip my coffee and wince; it’s going cold.
“There’s nothing we can do.” I shrug. “Noor belongs with her own kind.”
Dai screws up his face into a frown. “Her own kind? Have you any idea how that sounds?”
“Hey, those aren’t my words!” I snap, hurt that he might think me racist. “The BSI says that. They don’t want their kids getting used to a secular way of life. It’s offensive to them.”
