Winds of Change

I was only seven when my mother smuggled me into the Authorized Safe Zone. Normally, someone like me would never end up with a roof and a bed on this side of the divide. Let’s be honest, I wouldn’t have stood a chance of seeing my eighth birthday if my parents hadn’t sacrificed themselves. They knew their hope was lost, but they saw a glimmer of it in my young eyes. Now it takes absolutely everything in me to remember what hope feels like. Most of the time, everything I have still isn’t enough.

But sometimes -- sometimes I can vaguely remember living in peace on the other side. Sure, by the time I was born most of the territory in the United Alliance was decimated by years of incessant fire bombings and all settlements larger than a few thousand people had been dispersed through famine or force. My mother and father were among the fortunate few who were resourceful enough to keep the opposition alive, though.

They are why I’m here today, albeit under the reign of the same brutal regime that starved and murdered my people. And their efforts are why I haven’t met the same fate. Not yet.

Of course, I never went to an actual school before I ended up in the ASZ. Those had all been destroyed before my parents’ time. But my dad would routinely tell me the stories he heard from his father, passed down from generations before him. They would speak of America, a long-lost and united nation occupying the same land onto which we were born. It was a place where citizens could engage freely in commerce and recreation, without even the fear of inadvertently committing a capital infraction.

Most of the official records from this period had been erased before anyone I ever met was alive, but idealized stories became folklore long ago. Since the 23rd century, when the land mass was separated once and for all, those living in UA territory clung to fragmented tales of freedom and democracy -- and a semblance of hope along with it.

Over here in the east, they’ve done everything conceivable to erase any notion that such a time ever existed. This is the propaganda that passes as education in the New Republic, which rules the ASZ with an iron fist and no room for disloyalty. Almost all of the kids I came to know throughout my adolescence had no idea that there was another way of life. And I knew better than to mention anything that might lead them to question the Chief Commander or any of his arbitrary decrees.

So I was left in solitude with my memories. But even those grew dimmer by the year, replaced by the vivid realities of a brutal government defined by oppression and conformity. I haven’t seen the unobstructed sky since I was 14. That must have been a decade ago, as if the passage of time even matters anymore.

The constant announcements here in the zone remind us that the impenetrable cells we call home are reinforced for our protection “and in the interest of the community’s security.” Administration officers frequently use the word “community” to describe each ward, but no one here truly understands its meaning.

No, community is something we had out west. It was a treacherous and deadly existence, but we looked out for one another. My father instilled in me from a young age the importance of protecting the weak -- a stark contrast to the unwavering emphasis placed by this society on strength at all costs. He said that we were put on this planet to contribute to something larger than ourselves. I carry that advice with me even today -- long after I’ve had any opportunity to put his words into action.

His voice is no longer familiar. The precise language he used is no longer accessible in the dark recesses of my mind. But his unfailing compassion somehow lives on as evidence of true bravery, not the bastardized concept put forward by the Administration.

My father died when I was six, just a few months before my mother. He was killed by New Republic forces conducting a raid on the makeshift camp he helped build in the southern quadrant of the UA. The night before he was hauled off in front of my mother and me to face untold torture, he shared a story from his childhood. It was not the first time I heard the tale, and I probably tuned most of it out, dismissing it as the repetitive rantings of an old man. There was no way I could have known it would be the last time I would ever sit by his side and picture a life so unfamiliar, so pristine, so far out of reach.

“Hear that?” my father asked. It was how the story always started.

Prompted by the unmistakable scream of the nocturnal bird of prey, he started off on a recitation of the legend imparted on him by my grandfather. Historically known as the barn owl, these largely solitary animals were among the most prolific creatures in nature after the collapse of civil society. They must have outnumbered humans at least 100 to one, but they mostly kept away from any inhabited area. That meant we would often go for weeks or months without hearing the familiar hoot. Almost every time the sound amplified and echoed through the surrounding trees, though, my father would repeat the same basic narrative.

He assured me that they always glide high on winds of change, soaring above the turmoil that defined the world below them. They remained steadfast in the face of all adversity, pressing forward with clear vision and an unbreakable spirit. Although they were designed to hunt alone, each owl remained connected to its core group through a fraternity that spanned any physical distance necessary and could not be severed by any obstacle.

It was incumbent on each of us to make those traits our own, my dad stressed. He knew the opposition was quickly losing its grip on any claim it once had on the last bit of remaining land in the west, but he knew that fighting in the face of tyranny, even when futile, was a fate preferable to acquiescence.

My mother must have trusted that those words sunk in deeply enough to sustain me even in the midst of an oppressive existence here in the ASZ.

Since children didn’t receive their identification implants until their ninth year back then, she knew it would be possible for me to slip through the cracks with some crudely forged documents and a convincing backstory. Complete with an approved haircut and clothing deemed acceptable by the Administration, she put her plan into action. Such a bold mission could never succeed under the infinitely stricter standards currently in place to identify and neutralize any unauthorized presence within the zone. But mom knew what it would take to save me, and she didn’t hesitate.

Even as I began to vanish into a crowd of children my own age amid what would become my new reality, I looked back to see her dragged away by three Administration guards. She gazed back with the same steely determination I had seen just months earlier on my father’s face.

Those expressions burned into my memory with a more indelible heat than anything either of them had ever told me. That clear resolve despite knowing their fates had already been sealed spoke louder than a thousand tales of bygone eras defined by peace and freedom. And tonight, it will be the final glares of my parents that will supply my courage, the bravery needed to make it through one more lonely night here in the zone.

Tomorrow, the fighting-age men and women in my ward are heading out on a mission in the UA territory. We have been ordered to perform a sweep of one particular area said to be inhabited by more than two hundred people working the land and building structures in a fledgling community -- an actual community. Reports in the zone paint these settlers as rebels intent on bringing down the power structure here in the east, and I’m likely the only one in the entire ward who doesn’t believe it.

That’s why I feel the need to put this all down on paper tonight.

I don’t know if anyone will read this. If so, I’m sure no one will believe me after being force-fed the Administration’s lies throughout their entire lives. But I’ve got to explain my intentions -- if only to myself. The mission tomorrow cannot succeed. I cannot serve in a complicit role of any type in destroying what could be the last vestige of liberty on the entire continent.

It pains me that those around me will not survive. After all, they’re just following orders. They truly think anyone on the other side of the divide represents a mortal threat. If I had been born here, I’m sure I’d believe the same. But I wasn’t -- and I’m the only one in a position to do anything.

So when tomorrow comes, may the bravery and boldness of my parents be reflected in my final moments. May the smoldering embers of freedom be granted one more gust of oxygen. May I overcome the paralysis of my surroundings to glide high on the winds of change.