Enslaved Freedom: Echoes of a lost world

The rhythmic singing of crickets used to lull me to sleep; perhaps now even that music is banned. I used to sleep in pitch-black darkness, and now it's everywhere, but I can’t sleep. I stay awake almost all night, dive into my memory lane, and think about the past, where there was life. 

     I sit on the couch, torn and old, that once greeted guests with its shiny velvet at parties. I took the book from the side table again. The book's original cover was stripped away, replaced by a crudely handwritten label, 'Nursery Rhymes,' masking its true nature—a collection of revolutionary poems. It's so innocent to put it on the fireplace. Where my mother almost donated all suspicious things that could cause us trouble. 

     Especially everything about my elder brother’s, this book also belongs to him. I opened it again, in the dim light of a table lamp, I could hardly read; as my left eye got injured after the mistaken attack. Oh, don’t bother, we're not under attack, we're the privileged here, VIP. But, that was a mistake, as they said.

     I tried to read the caption: e-n-s-l-a-v-e-d f-r-e-e-d-o-m. Suddenly, I heard its mocking laughter, and the fireplace was laughing at me. I looked a little furious, but it didn’t stop. 

“Why are you laughing, you moron?” 

“If you read bread, wouldn’t I laugh?”

“This is not bread.” 

“Not to you, but to me” it smirked, making a sound like licking its lips for something yummy.

     I tried to ignore it, and looked at the book, trying to read the poetry. But, I failed because of my poor eyesight. I recall the mistake, the first mistake.

     That day, I was talking with the braided girl next door. She was expressing her dreams to travel to the land of green mountains and rivers once the attacks end. 

     Suddenly, it was a heavy sound and no one found her again. It was a blink of an eye. I believe she went to her dreamland. I often see her in my dreams. She's dressed and covered with flowers. She's by the riverbank, asking me, 

“Don’t you have any dreams?” 

“Yes, I do” 

“Tell me please” 

“I want to get accepted…” 

“Oww, accepted by whom?”

She laughs at the last word, feeling like I want to get along with a charming boyfriend. But, these do not exist. I sighed and the fireplace again started its nonsense. 

“I know you want to be with me” 

“Who told you?” 

“I know, it's written on your eyes. All you wanted was to be by my side.” 

“Well, then will you accept me?”

“Sorry, but you and I are worlds apart.” 

“You think you're superior, but you're mistaken.”

“C’mon girl, I am hot and glowing. Look at you, skinny and pale.” 

“Not only are you greedy, but you’re also judgmental . I am leaving” I’ve opted for the balcony. 

     Our house once echoed with laughter under the morning sun. My mom tended to the balcony plants with special care and love. Now, the balcony is half gone and covered by a metallic sheet. Some of the trees got damaged, and some my mom threw away with her own hand, once cared for them. When living a simple, safe human life is a luxury, trees hardly get a chance to live. I never thought, seeing the sky would be a luxury one day. I never thought they were enormous ‘blessings’. The list of things I had never thought about was long. 

     First, they had started innocently. They banned "seditious" content on the ethereal wires that connected us all. We had accepted it as necessary, a measure to prevent disorder and disagreement. But over time, the difference between provocation and truth blurred.This was a sign of our collective ignorance. Or maybe it was our choice not to see it.

     We lost the ability to tell the difference between "hate speech" and "true speech." We treat both with the same mix of disgust and respect, depending on who said them. We did not see others wounds. Then, we have been attacked. Our name, identity, or region don't matter anymore. We've all been divided into two groups. Oppressed and the Oppressor.

          Once, I had been a student of sociology, studying theories of crime, deviance, and labeling. I had learned that, once a label was stuck to someone, like "thief," "deviant," or "enemy," it became a self-fulfilling prophecy. It shaped identities and destinies perfectly. Now, it seemed, we had labeled ourselves as the oppressed. We normalized our suffering until it became a badge of honor, a mark of our endurance. Now the repeated rhythm of machinery becomes our night music. My younger brother slept peacefully in them. I asked him, 

“How do you sleep in this?”

“You will get used to it, they are just different rhythmic sounds”

     I thought I would adjust, but I can't. When I search within, all I find is a void, an echo of lost hope and redemption.I think most of us are like this, our soul died long ago. I wanted to scream to them, telling them not to work needlessly, We are all dead already. 

     But then I remember my elder brother. Deep inside, a voice tells me that there are more like him, and there always will be. It is so tiring to wait for eternity for a happy sun. To play outside freely.  

     Again, I stepped into the drawing room, trying to find the book I was holding. But, my mother has thrown it into the fireplace. Once, it was an innocent book. Absolutely, she is acting like them. They started by being suspicious. Now, all are going into the fireplace. Still, it is greedy. I see it chewing the book while laughing. 

“I told you, stop reading my bread”   

“When will your hunger die, you greedy?” 

“Don’t blame me, I just help you though. Stop being jealous of me.” 

“Jealous my foot” 

“Who wants to get accepted?” It started to laugh again. 

     Deep inside, my empty heart longs for peace amidst the glowing embers. Yet, I cling to a faint hope that one day, this waiting will end, and freedom will dawn anew.