No Man's Land

You will enter no man's land. A siren call from a foreign nation will beckon to you. But you will fear it. Neptunian escapism will try to comfort you, all to no avail. "I'm scared about what will happen to me after you die," you will tell your friend.

"You will go to war soon. We all have to. All around me I see omens of hard times and death."

"We can't let fascism win," you will say.

"Everyone thinks they're on the right side of history. But once we start excusing atrocities, we run the risk of normalizing such brutality."

"Please, save me from the fascists."

Your friend will try to console you: "You think you're the only one who's afraid. Everyone's scared. Everyone's afraid. And sometimes fear can drive people to madness."

"We need to save people; we need to save souls," you will exclaim.

"You are the scapegoat, the whipping boy."

"I don't want to be the whipping boy of the zodiac or whatever. They're all just archetypes and symbols. I want to start a new script."

"You will start a new story, a new chapter," your friend will say. "But first begins the hard work of psychoanalyzing fascists, potential fascists, and fascist sympathizers."

Your first fascist patient will enter the room. You will ask him what he has been struggling with.

"In addition to all kinds of fluctuating pains," the fascist will reply, "I've sometimes struggled with sudden and intrusive feelings of fear or frustration regarding certain minorities. It seems irrational and neurotic and I can't explain it. And it's not like I love all of the majority either. I sometimes wish I wasn't me."

"You will have to try to disengage from people who might have similar childhoods as you but are obsessed with rules and dogmas. You need peace and quiet to meditate, to journal, even to write about your dreams if you want. You can't allow (Web of Maya) politics and news to drown that out."

Then the siren will sound.

You will look toward the door.

Your patient will be gone.

The room will be empty except for a chair, a table, a glass of water, and a small blue light blinking somewhere behind the wall.

You will realize that you are no longer in the clinic.

You will realize that you are somewhere you are not supposed to be.

There will be a sign above the next door:

NO MAN'S LAND — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.

You will open it anyway.

Beyond the door there will be no battlefield, no soldiers, no barbed wire. There will only be a long corridor with white walls and hundreds of closed doors.

You will hear voices behind them.

Some will be praying.

Some will be shouting.

Some will be whispering the names of people who died a long time ago.

You will want to turn around.

Instead, you will put your feet flat against the floor.

You will feel the pressure beneath your shoes.

You will say quietly, "Floor."

Then: "Wall."

Then: "Door."

Then: "Light."

Then: "Table."

There is no table.

You will realize that you have carried the table with you from the clinic.

You will laugh, but the laughter will frighten you.

At the end of the corridor you will find a room with no door.

Inside, you will find your friend sitting on the floor.

"You shouldn't be here," your friend will say.

"I know."

"You aren't supposed to save everyone."

"I know."

"You aren't even supposed to understand everyone."

You will sit beside your friend.

For a while neither of you will speak.

Somewhere far away, another siren will begin.

You will hold the glass of water in both hands. It will be cold and solid and real.

"What if fear is the fascist?" you will ask.

Your friend will shake his head.

"No. Fear is fear."

"What if anger is?"

"Anger is anger."

"What if I am?"

"Then you are you."

You will look toward the corridor.

Behind one of the doors, someone will begin screaming.

You will want to run toward it.

You will want to rescue whoever is screaming.

You will want to diagnose them, understand them, forgive them, condemn them, save them, save yourself.

Instead, you will remain on the floor.

You will notice the repeating sound of the siren.

You will notice the pattern.

You will notice your feet.

You will notice the glass.

You will notice that nothing is required of you in this particular moment.

And for the first time, you will understand that entering no man's land does not necessarily mean crossing every boundary.

Sometimes it means discovering the boundary.

Sometimes it means stopping before you cross it.

Sometimes it means admitting that you are afraid.

The door behind you will slowly close.

You will not chase it.

You will not open it again.

You will sit there in the forbidden room, listening to the voices beyond the walls.

You will not save them.

You will not destroy them.

You will simply remain.

And somewhere beyond the walls, the war will continue without you.

For once, you will let it.