It was on the table when I arrived. A fat blue stripe ran diagonally across it and the words “U.N. Official Business” embossed in gold.
It was addressed to me.
**
Congratulations!
A baby boy was born to the First-World family “the Petersons” of Bethany Oklahoma (US.) We all wish to congratulate the Petersons on this blessed event.
Due to the treaty of 2034 (445-b-223,) between the United States and the State of Eritrea (EA.) the following action(s) must be taken. Unfortunately your community happens to be a sister town of Bethany Oklahoma (US.) and certain contractual obligations must now be fulfilled.
100 adults shall report for processing within twelve (12) hours from 18:30 UST.
The name(s) of those randomly chosen from your household are -
- Moboso Adanna
Those persons listed above must report for processing no later than 4.March.2043 08:30 UST+1. An escort will be provided. Failure to do so or the offering significant resistance may invoke General Order 332 which can force the processing of ALL persons 1st and 2nd familial removed from the above captioned individual(s).
(signature)
Secretary Colonel of the UNHCR garrison — Mai-Mine District.
***
I stared at the letter for a short time, until Ami came bustling in.
“What’s that Pa?” she squealed since paper letters were rare.
“Nothing love — “go get Mam and get ready for supper OK?”
I tried not to look worried when Amia arrived since Ami was still hovering around. She saw the letter in my hand and her eyes said “who?” Then she saw my look and collapsed on one of the benches he made from scrap last year.
“Ami; I said. “Go get water for sup OK?”
The girl looked back and forth between Amia and me — hesitantly.
“What’s wrong with emaye…” she she said.
“Nothing!” I said too sharply, “ emaye got a hurt. Water — git!”
The girl got the two water buckets and minced out.
“When?” said Amia after the girl left. “How long do you have?”
“Tomorrow” I said. “Long enough to put things in order.”
“Don’t” said Amia, she was starting to weep, I took her in my arms — there on the benches.
“Don’t do it ”she said, ” — hide! Leave this place! Leave the country.”
“And become a refuge?” I said. “Shot on sight the moment we cross a border?”
“We…” She said, realizing.
“I’m in my fifties now, a good long life! You and Ami, Hadi and Hael will stay here. You have much to look forward to. This is better than the run, the camps. It’s better than the outside. You know that.” They won’t select from us again, not until Ami is grown.
She was crying fully now and I was too. We sat for a good long time that way. I was dimly aware of Ami staring at us, a bucket in each of her hands, until one of the boys pulled her away.
It was eons later, or perhaps a few moments. I noticed Hael standing outside — waiting. I left Amia; a hard thing to do. I needed to speak to our first-born.
‘You heard?” I said.
“Enough” he replied.
“You will have to be strong — for them.” I said. I could see his eyes were red . A tear leaking down one side making a trail in his dusty face — dirt and sweat from the garment factory.
“You can’t do this this” he hissed, his teeth clamped in anger.
“Stop” I said, “you understand the reason! Because it takes 100 people in poor countries to make up for one in the rich! That’s what they believe. We have to lower our population proportionally. They use so much more than us — We agreed!”
“Fucking college” he muttered. “School did this to you! Made you into one of — those shits. You think like them!”
“Yes” I said. “If it makes you feel better. We have a good life here, better than most! The only rule — when it’s time to go, we go without fuss!”
“When they have a baby, we go!” a hundred of us! How is that fair?” He said bitterly.
“It’s not fair,” I said. “But it is what it is. The world can’t stand more people. That’s what they believe. In the west, the Americas, Europe they try to limit population but most of the time they fail. They fear us! They fear the color of our skin, our religion and the fact that we outnumber them!
“Devils!” he said. “Why should we bow?”
“Because“ I said.” Here, nobody starves, here the bombs stop. The guns are silent. I don’t worry about mam getting killed or you children kidnapped to fight a war or butchered because of who they think we are. You and your brothers and sister will go on and go to school, work hard and you will have a life.”
“What kind of a life?” said the boy. “Our freedom, our very lives bargained away for those — ”
“Do you think this is worse? In the old days, many went hungry.” I said. “Many starved to death. We were killed by the millions. Little children torn apart by bombs. My sisters and brothers, my wālidān — do you know what it’s like to cradle your small sister’s body in your arms, try to comfort her when she cannot eat, she is too weak. Do you know what a young lady looks like after being burned by fire? A child? Their limbs torn out. Begging for death to stop the pain. They used to cut off our hands — you know? Killed us for bounty. Baskets of hands! Some from still living children. Millions!
“That was a long time ago.” Said Hael quietly.
“Most have forgotten” I said. “Most have forgotten how the Caliphate was pulled down. Her lands distributed among the winners during the 19th century. Our holy places defiled by the boots of the conquerors. Our land given over to the Bani Isrāʾīl.
Then later, when treasure was found under the sand, they made war for it. Against themselves, against us. It didn’t matter! Ordinary people — crushed for generations over zait. When some tried to fight they called us barbarians and killed many more. It’s done now. I have to go and do what I must.
“You won’t!” he said, His eyes like fire with anger.” You will go there and just leave us! You’re going to go meekly and let them” —
— “Yes, praise God” I said. “For you and mam, for your sister and your little brother. I go. We can’t fight them and if we do, we all die! Others tried to fight and look what happened to them! Syria; Iran, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, here in Eritrea — even Egypt! Afghanistan! Nobody can go back there for generations. The land — poisoned. Half a billion people uprooted and the only guarantees are more suffering, more wars.“
“ It’s better this way.” My voice had gotten quiet , I was trying to convince myself and he knew it.
“You and your sibling, will have a chance.” I said.
“A chance — for what? he hissed.
“ I don’t know,” I said, ”but you won’t have a chance if you die.”
He was silent for a moment. The anger still in his eyes and also fear.
I clapped him on his thin shoulder “Come, we have a good sup tonight, I go before the sun rises and you promise that you will look after them?”
He didn’t answer, I could still see the anger. But Hael was the oldest.
Tonight he looked far older than his fourteen years.
***
I got up early the next day, dressed — not in my best because Hael will soon fit my old stuff. There were men standing outside my tent, gloved and masked. They had weapons. To be used if I didn’t go quietly. I looked at the pair, then started down the dusty road. This surprised the men and it took a moment to follow. One tried to take my elbow and I shrugged him off.
“Fuck you!” I said in their language. “I know the way.”
We walked past the tents of my neighbors, my kin. There was a short line at the water pump. One of the women raised a fist to me in solidarity. I ignored them. It was too late for that. Too late for defiance. They knew it. Some had survived the horrors of the early years. The endless fighting, the attempts of escape to Europe or the Americas. Finally the second use of atomic weapons. Praise God — the millions of burned and broken bodies!
It was better this way I told myself.
I came to the camp border and the electrified fencing. I showed the letter and a bland faced guard let me through. My minders went back into the camp. There were more coming out today. Another pair was waiting for me. Masked and silent.
The Outsiders watched me with curiosity. Children, so many! Some were sick with radiation, many were starving. I thought of my daughter and could see her eyes in the faces of the Outsider children. A line stretched around the intake building. The interviews and the contracts. A place to live, education work and food in exchange for — 100 of us every time one of theirs is born.
The gleaming UN center was up ahead. I was let into the compound gate. A sign read “no return after this point.” I felt a chill. Fenced in on both sides. I could only go forward through several sniffers and X Rays — gigers. We passed single file through a 90 degree turn, masked men with pneumatic injector guns shot something into our arms. Finally into a waiting area. I sat for a while with a number of others. Most were the same age as me. We avoided looking into each other’s eyes. None of us felt like talking anyway, I just felt weary.
My name was called. My letter was handed over and I was ushered into a room. There were more masked men, wearing thick gloves. When I saw the chair I froze. My limbs turned to ice. I suppose I didn’t believe it until this moment.
I could hear a snapping-crunching sound from the other rooms and shuffling. Gurneys rolling down a long corridor. no words were spoken. Other than the voice calling names. A hundred of us — .
Finally — two of the masked men helped me sit. I was like a puppet. I couldn’t resist. My arms and feet were clamped. Here was the head clamp and the captured-bolt. They strapped it down. I hoped it wouldn’t hurt too much….
It was better this way I told myself.
At least the children will live….
***
G Allen
Albuquerque New Mexico — US. 2024
