Shikasta

by Doris Lessing

  Well, I at least find myself reflecting on this point. A geographical area keeps a certain flavour, which manifests in all its happenings, its events, its history. I cite for instance the lamented Soviet Union, or Russia, where events occur and continue to repeat themselves, over and over, regardless of whether that vast land is called Russia or the Soviet Union, or its dominant ways of thought are this or that or the other. And of course there are other examples we may easily think of.

  I sometimes wonder if this thought may not be usefully taught to children at the start of their ‘geography lessons’. Or would one call it history? If I seem to ramble, put it down to the long night of anxious wakefulness. The dawn is here and I shall not rest yet, for I wish to finish this long letter to you; the courier will leave this evening.

  I return to the amphitheatre: Africa was the agenda for several days.

  Meanwhile, in the camp itself, it is clear that the organization was suffering.

  Everyone was really hungry, lacking sleep, hot, dusty. By now nearly all of them flocked to the coast for the midday hours, and of course this made them even more tired.

  There was by now a feeling of urgency. With the full moon blazing down, so that the thousands on the tiers were fully visible to each other, and the torches almost unnecessary, the contenders dealt fast with: the ruining of the Pacific, the imposition there of alien ways on ancient and peaceful societies, the forcible imposition of Christianity, the destruction of islands in the interests of western industry and agriculture, the use of the Pacific for nuclear weapons tests as if this ocean belonged to Europe. They dealt with: European rule over subjugated peoples in the Middle East, the irreconcilable promises made to Arabs and Jews, the arrogance displayed … ‘contempt, arrogance, stupidity, ignorance’.

  I interpose at this point that those so recent enemies the Arabs and Jews were inseparable, and took every opportunity of reminding us of their common origin, their similar religions, the compatibility of their cultures, and – so they intend – their common and harmonious future.

  The ‘Trial’ then dealt with: the white man in Australia, the white man in New Zealand, the white man in Canada, the white man in the Antarctic.

  You will note that I have scarcely mentioned the Russians. One reason is that there were no Russian delegates, though there were from the Russian colonies Poland, Bulgaria, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, Rumania, Cuba, Afghanistan, parts of the Middle East.

  By then, delegates were following each other every ten minutes, and they were in lines stretching up the aisles and waiting to recite, or to shout, their indictments, and to return to their places.

  We have now reached halfway through the ‘Trial’ – the fifteenth day. Re-reading the agents’ reports, what is striking is the note of frustration – annoyance. You will bear in mind that our agents are all active members of their representative organizations, not dissidents or oddballs. They act for us mostly without payment, and as a token of appreciation for our Beneficent Rule. They are emotionally part of the Youth Armies, and their value is that they share with, and cannot help but register, the prevailing common mood or moods.

  I again have to ask, What was it that all these young people were expecting and that they were not given? For on the face of it, they were getting exactly what they had come for.

  I quote Tsi Kwang: ‘There is an incorrect spirit. The cadres are not overcoming the difficulties of the situation. There is vacillation and also many mistakes. There is an insufficient readiness to boldly grasp the bourgeois distortions that cannot help but negate the true experience of the sincere Youth.’ And so on for several pages.

  All our agents, during those days, turned in similar reports.

  The egregious Benjamin Sherban: ‘The centre cannot hold, mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.’ I am told that these are lines from an ancient folk ballad. (I would like to hear the rest of it, for there may be guidance there in present difficulties.)

  It is clear that the delegates were at breaking point and it was only because of the flexibility and tolerance of the organizers that the ‘Trial’ could continue at all. For one thing, alcohol was now entering the camp and affecting discipline. For another, sex, previously discreet and within the limits of good sense, was now blatant, not only between delegates, but between them and the locals.

  The prevailing mood was one of restlessness, dissatisfaction, a continual movement around the camp, from tent to improvised shelter to mess tents, where debates and ‘seminars’ seemed continuously in progress, and from the camp to the shores – and by now some donkeys had been pressed into service, and derelict army trucks had been located and put into use (petrol being commandeered of course) and parties of delegates moved up and down the coasts entering towns and villages to try and organize food, and individuals wandered about as well, for as usual on these highly pressured occasions, there are always those who seem to spin off, as if from a centrifuge. These broke down, or threatened to, wept, complained of being underrated, discussed the possibilities of suicide, and fell hopelessly in love with delegates whom they certainly will never see again.

  All this did not mean the sessions were not fully attended. The amphitheatre was crammed, attentive, centred on the events in the arena, from four until eight, and from five until midnight. But now they were less silent, intervened often in the ‘indictments’, adding comments and facts and figures. There was total participation between audience and – I was going to say – actors.

  There seemed no reason why the supply of witnesses should ever end, but already it was being asked when the old white, who was sitting there hour after hour, day after day, silent, on his chair, was ‘going to defend himself'. But meanwhile, of course, he had been continuously in conversation with everyone interested – and this by now was everyone – whether hostile or not, during the hours of leisure, if that is a word that may be used for such a frenzy of restlessness. In short, he was not being thought of as enemy, and the epithets (correctly of course) used of him by our informants seemed to me to lack the fervour they had had at the beginning.

  It was being openly said that the ‘Trial’ could not run its course of a full month, for conditions were becoming impossible.

  It was at this point that something new happened. Aircraft appeared, evidently keeping watch. The first was on the night of the full moon: a helicopter hovered over the amphitheatre for some minutes, and proceedings had to be stopped until it decided to go. This attentive, unmarked machine made its effect: our agents report fury, exasperation, a pent-up rage – if the machine had been within reach it would not have survived. There were ‘jokes’ about surveillance from the Russians. Also by us. (I report, merely, without comment.) On the next night, a different craft appeared, also unmarked, and remained over the amphitheatre until its point had been made. Again the reaction was fury. An almost hysterical rage. Do you think it is possible that in some quarters it is not appreciated what horror and loathing are felt by many for the products of our human ingenuity and technological progress? Various and different craft kept appearing in the skies at all hours of the day and night from then on, some very low, some so high as to be almost invisible, most unknown to the – very expert – youngsters watching them. ‘Jokes’ were made about spacemen, flying saucers, international police forces, flying squads of vigilantes, guided spy satellites.

  And the imminent war became suddenly the chief topic. If this was what the surveillant craft wished to achieve, they succeeded.

  Now the moon was past its full, appearing later each evening, the torches were again exerting their strong emotional effect on everyone.

  Abruptly, on the ninth night, George Sherban, who had said practically nothing at all during the actual sessions, came forward to remark, and in a casual way – which annoyed some of our agents – ‘that it seemed to him time that the prosecution rested its case.’ This had not been expected, or at least, not then. But no sooner had he said it, than at once it was felt by everyone that he was right, for wh
at could be added to the indictments they had already heard!

  They had, however, been expecting a summing up, but all he said was: ‘I rest my case, and call upon John Brent-Oxford to speak.’

  At first there was a strong reaction. But it changed from disappointment to approval, and the young people were saying to each other that this was a correct, if daring approach.

  The silence was absolute. The old white did not stand up. No one expected it: all knew his health was poor. Sitting in his chair, from which he had not moved for all those sessions, he said, clearly, but with no effort to be heard:

  ‘I plead guilty to everything that has been said. How can I do anything else?’

  Silence again.

  He did not say anything more. Muttering began, angry laughter, then a stirring, and indignation.

  This tension was broken by some young man calling out in the peering but good-humoured way which was, it is clear, very much the note or style of the ‘Trial’: ‘Well, what are we going to do? Lynch him?’

  Laughter. Some of our agents report that they did not find the moment amusing. There was lacking, claimed Tsi Kwang, a proper respect for ‘the healthy verdicts of history’.

  There was also considerable confusion, and a good deal of anger.

  After some minutes the old white held up his hand for silence and spoke again:

  ‘I want to ask all of you present: Why is it that you, the accusers, have adopted with such energy and efficiency the ways you have been criticizing? Of course some of you have been given no alternative: I refer to the North American and the South American Indians, for example. But others have had a choice. Why is it that so many of you who have not been forced into it, have chosen to copy the materialism, the greed, the rapacity of the white man’s technological society?’

  With which he stopped speaking.

  There was indignation, and a loud murmur of talk, which became a clamour.

  Then George Sherban called up, ‘Since it is nearly midnight, I suggest we call a halt and resume the discussion at four a.m. as usual.’

  The tiers emptied fast. That night very few people left the camp. It was seething, and pervaded by a spirit which, after very carefully perusing the reports, I am going to take the liberty of describing as jocular.

  The four hours were spent in energetic discussion. Everywhere they were speculating about the defence they were about to hear. They were joking that it was obvious that the white man, always in the right, was about to accuse them, particularly those nonwhite nations which had taken efficiently to industry and technology – which I am happy to say includes us – of many of the crimes he had been accused of. In a spirit of part anger, part burlesque, in hundreds of conversations between couples, among groups, in ‘seminars’, these probable accusations were being framed and elaborated, and even offered to the old white for use.

  Our agents all expressed indignation at this turn of events, calling them frivolous and insulting.

  Towards dawn it rained: another heavy shower. Just as there was a movement to the amphitheatre to light the torches, it rained again. It was a wet, and even chilly dawn. The word went around that the session was cancelled, to give the amphitheatre time to dry out. A great many went to sleep where they were, because of the easing of the tension due to the drop in temperature – and due also, to the general feeling of anticlimax.

  As they woke again, through the morning and early afternoon, the conversations and debates began anew, but on a lower note, more seriously, with less laughter. But the mood was one of amiability.

  It is clear now, reading the reports, that the ‘Trial’ had in fact ended. At the time though, there was a certain eagerness to know what would happen next.

  It was lucky that it rained, but if it had not, I feel that events would have petered out in much the same way.

  By five the amphitheatre was dry, and the delegates crammed the seats.

  Everyone was looking towards the old white, with many ironical speculations as to what line he would take, but it was George Sherban who went into the centre, held up his arms for silence and began:

  ‘Yesterday the accused made a counteraccusation. It is one that I know has been thought about and discussed ever since. But today I want to put forward a self-criticism, which I feel we may agree is not outside the spirit of this gathering of ours.’

  This was unexpected. Not a sound from anybody. The woman Sharma Patel came forward to stand beside him.

  ‘We have heard for many days now, accounts of the ill-treatment by the white-skinned races of the Dark Races – to which, as you know, for purposes of this Trial, I have the honour to belong …'

  This was greeted with a great roar of sardonic laughter, and from various places around the vast gathering came singing. ‘I have an Indian grandfather', ‘I have a Jewish grandmother'.

  He held up his hand, the noise stopped, and he remarked, ‘As it happens, a Jewish grandfather, from Poland. And of course it now seems at least possible that this ancestor of mine originated with the Khazars and not in Israel or anywhere near it, so that gives me two non-European grandparents out of four. But otherwise, of course, I am that common mix, Irish-Scotch, both of them subject races.’

  Another roar of laughter. There was a danger the singing would start again, but he stilled it.

  ‘I want to make a single observation. It is that for three thousand years India has persecuted and ill-treated a part of its own population. I refer of course to the Untouchables. The unspeakable treatment meted out to these unfortunate people, barbaric, cruel, senseless, – these words were thrown up, one after another, with pauses between, like challenges, up into the tiers as he turned slowly around to face every part of the audience – ‘this unspeakably cruel treatment is matched for baseness by nothing the white races have ever done. At this time millions upon millions of people in the subcontinent of India are treated worse than the white South Africans ever treated any black – as badly as any white oppressor ever treated a black man or woman. This is not a question of a year’s oppression, a decade’s persecution, a century’s ill-treatment, not the result of a short-lived and unsuccessful regime like the British Empire, not a ten-year outburst of savagery like Hitler’s regime in Europe, not fifty years of savagery like Russian communism, but something built into a religion and a way of life, a culture, so deeply embedded that the frightfulness and ugliness of it apparently cannot even be observed by the people who practise it.’

  At this he stepped aside and Sharma Patel took his place.

  ‘I, an Indian born and bred, ally myself with what our comrade has said. I am not an Untouchable. If I were, I would not be standing here. Because I am not, I am able to stand forward now to say that I heard nothing during the days we have sat here listening to the indictments, that cannot be matched by what I know – what we all know – is true, of the treatment of Indians by Indians. Thousands and thousands of years it has been going on, and still it seems that we are unable to put an end to this monstrous wrong. Instead we come here to criticize others.’

  With which she went back to stand with her group, and George Sherban followed her.

  A long silence. Nothing was said. Then began the restless stirring and muttering which always means a crowd is going to express itself in some way.

  John Brent-Oxford now raised his voice, but not very much, so that everyone was forced to silence themselves so as to listen.

  ‘We all know that at this time, now, there are nations, nonwhite nations, which dominate and subjugate by force other nations, some equally nonwhite, but other nations that are white.’

  Silence again.

  Then: ‘Do you want me to remind you of the many instances in history when black, and brown, and light brown, and gold-coloured and cream-coloured nations treated themselves, or other nations badly?’

  Silence.

  ‘For instance, it is not news to any of us that the slave trade in Africa was conducted largely by Arabs and was made possible by the willing
cooperation of black people.’

  At this point, a latecomer, running down one of the aisles between the seats, called out, ‘It seems we are in for a seminar on man’s inhumanity to man.’ Various people near him enlightened him on what had been happening, he called down an apology, and during this little stir, it was noticed that people had begun to leave the stadium.

  Then a girl stood up and shouted, ‘I’ve had enough of man’s inhumanity to man. What is the point of all this anyway?’

  She was German. A Polish girl stood up from the opposite side of the amphitheatre and shouted across, ‘I’m not surprised you have had enough. You can leave if first you stand up like others have done and do some self-criticism. I want you to tell us of the crimes committed by the Germans in the Second World War.’

  ‘Oh no!’ ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ ‘Let’s get out of here,’ was now heard from everywhere.

  The old white was trying to make himself heard. Other people were calling out that anyone who wanted to make similar points should come down to the floor of the arena and make them properly, clearly, and correctly.

  The German girl, pigtails flying, was running down into the arena to face her opponent, who was already there: the Polish girl, a large young woman who was wearing a costume our agents one and all found ‘disgusting’ – dirty white shorts and a brassiere. But by then all the costumes had become a matter of individual whim, and often exiguous.