Occupy Climate Stories

Ursula Le Guin argued that we live in a crisis of imagination; many have said that it is easier to imagine the end of the world than to imagine another world. OCC! wishes to ignite an imaginative exploration into the future through a creative writing exercise: how would the place where you live look like in year 2200? Here we have gathered entries from across the world, allowing our imaginations to broaden of what are possible, probable, and preferable futures.

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List of experiences: TOTAL RESULTS 54

Quito I Intipunk : A Solarpunk Vision Inspired by Andean Cosmovision

José Mena

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A valley with no more human animals

By Sormani Daniele

After two days it* left the lair. The storm had passed. Its signs were evident everywhere: the barren ground soaked, almost muddy; traces of hail on the ground; rivulets of water running down the hill. The damage was not extensive, on the contrary: the land was no longer suffering the effects of the torrential half-yearly rains, nor wasting the great resource they constituted. 

The woods were bright green, the colours brought to life by the rain. They had reclaimed the mountainsides, tree by tree, tempering the searing heat that now reigned for so many months of the year.

The rivers had taken back what had been taken from them by force: so many decades of human neglect and maintenance, coupled with the exceptional weather events that had now occurred almost two centuries ago, had caused the rivers to destroy those human-made riverbanks that were too narrow for them. The course of the rivers had changed over the decades, partly renaturalised, but not completely.  The Adige no longer flowed through the centre of the city.  The Fersina no longer flowed straight down, instead sweeping across the plain into the areas where human animals had once slept. Now these dwellings had become the homes of other species: as the forest advanced, birds came to nest, taking advantage of the presence of the watercourse, fish wallowed in the water, preyed upon by some mammals and birds. Some animals used the ruins of human houses for their dens, while others kept their distance as if fearing the sudden return of their now-extinct owners.

After this quick reconnaissance, it* headed for some foods, preferably some nuts, or some of the little fruit that still managed to grow in August, rigorously in the shade of the mountain. It* took the way for what the human animals once called GITAV. As it* walked, it* looked around, saw the mountains reinvigorated by the forests that had taken over the slopes that human animals had once torn up with ski lifts, a kind of transport based on metal rope that connected large bare trees; it* saw other non-human animals adapted to that torrid climate grunting in the woods, fluttering in the treetops, living their lives, unaware and perhaps consciously ignoring how much the human one had been canceled, along all the other species that had not made it. 

The absence of human animals had changed the balance of species: with their disappearance, the cows, pigs, and chickens that had been kept in cages for so many millennia had dwindled to the point of near extinction, partly due to their now genetic weakness and inability to forage for food. Over the decades, those that remained had re-acclimated themselves to the forests, grasslands, mountains and hills, and by now had integrated with the other herbivores. The goats were the first to regain their stolen freedom.

In their place, the more hidden and less meek species had reclaimed their space. The woods were teeming with deer, chamois, and fawns; the riverbanks with beavers and marmots; the burrows of moles could be seen; not to mention the insects, reptiles, amphibians, and birds. Carnivores were beginning to return in large numbers after two centuries of slow repopulation.

They said that in the last decades the major effects of the Little Warm Age were easing, giving some respite to an exhausted Earth. But it* looked around, its eyes on the forests and non-human animals, and wondered who and what was exhausted: the Earth, or human rule over it?

The road to GITAV meandered around the river, then broke off and climbed slightly, then steepened in the last part. In that part of the valley, the beating sun could not penetrate the vegetation, and in the undergrowth there were berries and greedy acorns; where there had once been vineyards, there were now firs and larches, while the fruit trees had remained and even multiplied, given the influx of animals that had gone in search of food and, without perhaps knowing it, had scattered seeds.

GITAV was one of its* favourite places to forage. Collective memory said it had been created by humans two centuries before. The human animal had dug it out with ‘machines’, non-living creatures he controlled at will, made of those strange inedible stones. It had hollowed out one side of the mountain east of Trent, destroying the homes of many non-human animals and even a few humans, sweeping away the trees and undergrowth. 

It was said that the idea was to create a kind of path inside the mountain, through which they would pass another machine, different from the others, in which they would put food and other things that humans used. This never happened. They had started, yes, but then more or less left it at a third, caught off guard by the onset of the Little Warm Age. With its arrival, heavy rains had destroyed the banks of the valley’s rivers and flooded the entire plain. The mountains stripped of trees had failed to hold, and landslides had added to the chaos. The human animal had abandoned the valley after a few years of resistance, finding it too difficult a habitat in which to live. Many other species had come to the same conclusion, including chamois, goats, and bears, followed later by wolves.

Wherever we stopped, it was incredible to hear the discrepancy: first of all, silence. It was said that in the time of the human animal, the most prevalent noise was that of its machines and tools. Now, however, silence could be heard. But as soon as one’s ears got used to it, one realised that it was not silence, but a very wide range of many different sounds, noises, and sounds. The sound of water from rivers and streams, the rustling of leaves, the breaking of twigs in the undergrowth as an animal passed by. And then the grunts, groans, moans, snorts, burps, cries, howls. A cacophony of sounds that together created an incredible harmony. And all this in the light of day, or rather to the ears of those who wanted to listen, who had previously been absorbed and dazed by a multitude of negative, dangerous, frightening, and intrusive auditory stimuli. Which was more or less the same way one remembered humans.

When humans fled, they left all their traces behind. Over time, we reclaimed their impermeable paths: mushrooms were the first to penetrate them with their spores, followed by perennial weeds and then, decades later, by scrubland.

The human dams, very different from those of the beavers, were destroyed by algae and rain, and the streams reclaimed their riverbeds. The quarries, on the other hand, remained as an eternal reminder of the wounds left by the human animal.

Back in GITAV, with their exodus, this path was left unfinished. According to the original plan, the water springs from the mountain would have been plugged once and for all. Over time, however, they had eroded the rock and entered this horizontal hole. The cave that was created was therefore full of water, and as the sun shone on it for many hours, a very strong humidity was created at the entrance, which was then diluted further inland. Plants grew in this habitat that could not grow outside because of the heat. In addition, most animals were afraid to enter the cave because of the high humidity. There was always an abundance of berries and wild fruits and great peace.

Had it not been for the sisterhood of the species, it* would probably have made its* lair there. It* would spend hours there eating, lying down and resting, never leaving. It* would arrive early in the morning, at first light, before the humidity could become too enveloping, and it* would not leave until the sky had turned orange, perhaps streaked with pink or violet. At that point, it* would roll in the grass, scratch itself* against the logs, smell all the essences that had changed since morning. It* runs, it* eats, it* urinates, it* grunts, it* growls. Then it* would slowly make its* way back to his den, to its* own kind, safe from predators.

In the silence of the cave it* had time to think, to let its* imagination run wild, to create futures, pasts, and presents. It* wondered what had become of the human animal. Had it become extinct like so many other species of animals and plants? Had it survived? Where did it live and how did it live?

When it had left the valley, the human animal had gone north, away from this increasingly tropical, increasingly dry and hot climate. At first, it was said, it had climbed higher, aided and abetted by the climate that made the Highlands more habitable, but soon it was gone, unable to live in so small a space and so impervious, used to having the world at its yoke.

Who knows what the North was like, what the climate was like, what the different species were like. Who knows what the North was like 200 years ago, or a few decades later, when the human animal went there in search of a future. Who knows what that future was like.

Who knows what the human animal was like two hundred years ago and now, if it still exists. It was said that it was a predator. The worst of all predators: they said it was predatory even towards its own kind, its peers, its equals. Who knows if it had changed. Who knows if it still lived on violence and pain, or if the collective pain had bent it, transformed it, mutated it. Who knows what interests the human animal had? Who knows if a human animal of today would be like a human animal of two hundred years ago and would want to turn its* cave into a path, or if it would want it to become its cave instead.

These thoughts and reflections were its* own; it* shared them with no one else. Leaving the cave and returning home, it* made no mention of them. Its* secret never revealed, its* treasure not shared.

Next day, same life.

FINDING EMMA IN BOLOGNA 2200  

By Lucia Tedesco  

‘A little puzzle my dad taught me when I was ten. When is someone you will love still going  

to be alive?’ What do you mean?’ 

‘You’re twelve years old. When will you turn ninety?’ 

They jot down on a piece of paper: 

2090 + 90 = 2180 

‘Now let’s imagine your ten-year-old grandchild, born in 2170: when will that person turn ninety? When  

would they still be talking about you?’ 

They work out the sums. 

‘Would it be 2260?’ 

‘Yes, can you imagine that? The person you’ll love most in all the world will still be alive in 2260!  

Imagine your time. I was born in 2008 and you’ll know a person who’ll still be alive in 2260. That’s the  

length of time you connect, more than 250 years. The time you can touch with your own hands. Your time  

is the time of the people you know and love, the time that moulds you. And your time is also the time of the  

people you will know and love. The time that you will shape. Everything you do matters. You create the  

future every single day.’  

– Andri Snær Magnason, On Time and Water 

Seven days. Seven very long days since I found in my father’s secret hiding place the safe with my  great-grandmother Emma’s things. Several times I thought of not opening it, of ignoring this  discovery, but I felt the need for answers. I hope that this trip will not turn into a nightmare and that  my stay here in Bologna will go unnoticed at home. I’ve been thinking for a long time whether or  not to tell my father about this trip. In the end, the least complicated solution for everyone seemed to leave without telling him. I know it is dangerous, that nobody would think of going over the border at the beginning of the Crazy Season, but I am sure that for my father the answer would have been the same at any other time: “Ophelia, no, you cannot go”. Too many memories for him, I  understand. Not to mention that in the Crazy Season the weather is extremely variable: some days it  can reach 40 degrees and then suddenly there can be heavy rain for up to 72 hours straight. My  grandmother used to say that it didn’t used to be like this. There used to be half seasons, periods of  transition from too cold to too hot temperatures and vice versa. The Crazy Season, on the other  hand, lasts 40 days and for the rest of the time the temperatures stay around 27-30 degrees.  

Ever since I found that diary, I can’t stop thinking about it. I have fantasised for days about the idea  of taking a trip to old Bologna, to the place where – according to my great-grandmother Emma – a  city stood until not so long ago.  

I have a hard time imagining a city. There hasn’t been one for so long that I couldn’t distinguish it  from any other inhabited place. My grandmother used to say that they were born for the purpose of  distinguishing human from non-human space. 

My brothers and I did not understand at first: how is it possible to live while ignoring other species?  How is it even conceivable to survive without being surrounded by greenery? I probably won’t  understand – we will never understand – yet my curiosity is now uncontrollable. I feel that I can no  longer put off this moment. I feel I must discover my roots.  

I just arrived on the aerotrain. The sky here is strange, constantly changing. I have Emma’s diary  with me, an acclimatising mask, and the satellite in case of emergency. I try to get my bearings with  a map from 2023 that I found among Emma’s things, but it’s very difficult. There is tall grass  everywhere, remnants of buildings from time to time, some clearly visible others less so because  they are swallowed up by a strange form of ivy.  

I open the diary and start reading again:  

There is buzz in the city these days. 25 April is celebrated in a big way here. Via del  Pratello is invaded by streams of people arriving from all over Italy. Few are the citizens of Bologna, many are the out-of-towners, mostly students. Friends from  Florence came up. We sang “Bella ciao” in the square in chorus, as we do every year.  Then we moved to the centre; at Pratello it was almost impossible to walk, talk, and breathe.  We stopped in Piazza del Nettuno, still laughing at the statue’s hand thinking of  Giambologna. They wanted to whisper things to each other under the vault of the  Podestà, but I was too tired, so I headed home.  

Looking around, I see a perimeter of a strange dark stone. What’s left of the marble, I suppose. I  move closer to get a better look at it. I trample the grass to trace a path; I climb over the low wall and find myself in a pool. I begin to be more certain of where I am: it must be the fountain of  Neptune, even though there is no longer any trace of the statue. Now that I have a point to start from on the map I can orient myself better. I pick up the diary again and continue reading at the point  where I had stopped:  

I avoided Via Indipendenza. Everyone knows that on holidays it is a jungle. I preferred  to continue on via Rizzoli and go down via Oberdan. I will miss all the side streets, all  the red bricks of the buildings. I will miss peeking in the doorways and looking at the  inner courtyards. I will miss the taverns, the people in the streets, under the arcades  drinking and talking. When I can, I will continue to enjoy this. There weren’t many  people on Via Oberdan. Only a few tourists stopped at the Prosciutteria, unaware of the  annual magic that is created at Pratello. Almost at the end of the street I noticed that the  canal was full of water and the view was strangely crowded. People are usually  unaware that Bologna’s canals are visible in several places, so they queue up on Via  Piella to get a tiny glimpse. They call it the secret Venice, but it has nothing Venetian or  secret about it.  

I stop at this point, I want to get back on track. Above all, I am curious to see what a canal is like.  The temperatures are beginning to rise. I look around for nearby shade, I don’t want to risk walking  for too long in the sun’s harmful rays.  

The streets are not so well traced and visible now, but I realise I have to go north because before  leaving I read something about the morphology of Bologna and apparently the northern part of the  city is lower than the one to the south. I spot a building with a tower and choose it as a reference  point to shelter from the increasingly hot sun. I hear a noise, a strange thud in the distance, but I  decide to ignore it. I admit that I am starting to feel a little scared, but I am used to sudden  encounters where I live, and above all I have not travelled so many kilometres to run away at the  first doubt.  

I keep walking and arrive at the spot where my great-grandmother said there should be an overlook  to the canal. Yet, of the canal, no trace. A wide clearing now opens up before my eyes, which I  decide not to enter. At this point, according to my calculations, I should not be too far away. I  consult the diary again:  

Via delle Moline welcomes the university area. It still makes me strange to think that the  canals have been covered over and that I live in a house that long before had been a  mill. The first street on the left, leaving Via Oberdan behind, is Via Capo di Lucca.  There, amidst new buildings and brick houses, my nest emerges. A mansard flat far too  big for one person. I will never forget the first time I saw it, the sense of home I felt; just  

as I will never forget when I no longer felt safe. That time when the rain came down for

three long weeks incessantly. That time I was forced to sleep on the sofa in the kitchen,  the place most hidden by the skylights, fearing that I would end up with water  everywhere, just as was happening in the bedroom. Everything that used to give me  security, peace, serenity now frightens me, terrifies me, generates anxiety. I no longer  feel safe even in my own home. I feel I will soon leave this city.  

Emma’s diary stops here. Or rather, what remains of it. The tears make me suspect that there is a  part of her story that I will never know.  

I set off again, but after a few steps I am forced to stop: a not too large pond prevents me from  turning into via Capo di Lucca. The pond is via Capo di Lucca. I look around to see which way to  cross it. Among the reeds I glimpse a roof and something tells me that I am close to what I am  looking for. Suddenly, a strange animal emerges from the water with a hairy, matted coat, a long tail  that they wave slowly and gills on his sides. They become aware of my presence and remain  motionless for a few seconds. You don’t see animals like that in my neck of the woods, so I can’t  quite make out what I’m looking at. Something about them reminds me of a feline: their moving  silently, their attentive, cunning gaze. Felines in my neck of the  woods are not amphibians, so this  confuses me. I keep looking  around in search of a support to cross the body of water, and so I  spot an old abandoned bottega. But as I try to make my way  inside, the animal makes a dash  for it and disappears back into the water. 
The inside of the bottega is partly covered. On the uncovered side, the sun illuminates an object I havenever seen. I decide to curb my curiosity and concentrate on finding the stand; also because it  is getting warmer and soon I will have to shelter in the shade for more hours. Behind me, I notice that the door is not quite firm. I try to pull it off with some force and, after a few attempts, I find it  in my hands, heavy enough to make me lose my balance. I drag it to the shoreline of the pond and  try to climb on it a little awkwardly. I try to push the water with my hands to move from there and  realise that I make this gesture spontaneously. Tired and on the verge of giving up, I stop for a few  moments, when again the noise from before calls my attention: there, among the reeds in the middle  of the pond, I glimpse a small house half submerged. Again, instinct tells me that I am close to my  destination. I am about to pick up the pace, when a force under the door takes over and pushes me  there: I see its tail, I suspect that it might be the creature I encountered just before. I am frozen with  fear, I cannot make a sound. When we reach the front of the dwelling, they stop. I breathe a sigh of  relief. I try to figure out how to reach the interior of the strange island, but my heart is still  pounding. At this point, the animal starts moving more slowly again. I have the feeling that they  have not come to harm me and that, on the contrary, they want to help me in some way. Like a spirit  guide. We pass through a semi-underwater arch and walk down the long corridor. With my hands I  grip the raft tightly. Slowly we approach a more or less walkable staircase. I take courage and jump  onto the first accessible step, hoping it will hold my weight. Now I can see my helper. Our glances  cross. I nod my head in thanks, I’ve seen this gesture in some sci-fi movie, I’m not sure they will  understand. They give me one last look and disappear beneath the surface again. I am alone again –  I think. I start to move from step to step, avoiding the gaps and trying to feel the condition of the  structure with my foot first. The temperature is different now: it is still very hot, but something  seems to be obscuring the sun. I can’t see from there. I continue up the last three steps and at the  sight of the floor, my stomach closes. I have the feeling that I have already been there, that I have  already seen this place. I pick up the diary and hurriedly try to open the pocket inside the cover. I  hear a loud bang outside, but I don’t let myself be distracted. I knew it. I could hear it. Among the  notes stored in the secret pocket, a picture of Emma’s house pops out. The house she loved so much  and then hated as well. I’m in the right place. Now I just have to look for something, to look for it.  Now I can reconstruct my story. Her story. A heavy drop falls on my head. It starts to rain

Psychogeographic map of Bologna made by Ophelia

Psychogeographic map of Bologna made by Ophelia

Sannazzaro de’ Burgondi I Po Valley of herons

By Cecilia Pasini

The Great Plain was a land of cement and ash. The soil was once parcelled out into fields where rooted bipeds cultivated their food- They called themselves “humans”. 

Water was constrained and flowed in canals. The bipeds decided when to release it and for how long. The plain, however, was interrupted by the smoke and concrete towers of the factory, where the bipeds entered and exited. They were like ants when seen from above. 

Time, I have heard, was counted in hours, days, weeks and years and flowed like a line. Humans lived without thinking about the only thing that matters concerning time: death. They lived considering themselves, their artefacts, the cages they lived in, as endless. 

They also thought that resources from mother Earth the Gentle were eternal.

Water was used to put out fires, to cool a world on fire. 

The river Po was closely controlled, because humans were concerned about its power. Water was able to ruin the brick buildings they used to live in.  

Humans used to venerate another kind of liquid: it was called oil, and they considered it as the “black gold”, because, apparently, gold was something precious, for them, and this oil was precious. And it was as dark as the night is.

Once, I met a seagull, they told a story that was passed on by their ancestors: this black gold travelled millions kilometres for the need of humans. It passed the oceans closed in huge floating junks to reach ports where it entered pipelines and, hidden, continued travelling underground.

It was impossible, indeed, to follow its journey from our perspective.

We could just inhale a part of it that was not liquid anymore. A pigeon told me that the black gold entered some strange buildings made of cement, then exited and travelled again towards places where it served to feed the humans’ means of transport. 

You know, they were so slow when they moved, and they found all these means imitating the faster animals.  It’s so lovely-dovey if you reflect about it carefully: humans were unsatisfied and always wanted to overcome their limits. They, poor unskilled animals, felt disappointed. 

They condemned themselves, they approached their end.

And it happened. Earth was suffering, everyone was. The whole multitude of living beings felt thirsty, flushed, hungry. Moribund. Mother Earth said: Enough.

Enough.

Earth asked her siblings to help her. It was time to free ourselves from humans.

Free.

Release.

Rid.

Relieve.

Too much suffering, too much pain.

And then it happened. Suddenly water exited every row it was constrained in. She took everything and everybody, she destroyed, ruined, crashed, demolished, wrecked.

I can’t lie: it was force, power, and violence. Something you can’t –and shouldn’t- expect from the Gentle Earth and the floating Water. But they could no more stand and see the suffering and pain. Enough, it was enough.

But then.

What remained was peace. 

And silence.

And everything started all over again.

But humans weren’t there anymore.

At that time, water was everywhere, and she was able to introduce her two souls to each other: saltwater met freshwater, they barely knew each other from the estuary of the rivers and the rain, especially the torrential ones. Now they met and covered the planet. And our plain. Everything appeared…What did they call it… Sure: swamp. Or wetland. It was wet, indeed. For most of us it was heaven: trees, shrubs, bushes, grew wildly. Insects found their place and proliferated. And for us…I cannot describe the joy, the feeling of deep fulfilment.

Finally, it was home.

Earth became, again, home to everyone.

Of course, these are just tales of things I have never seen and I am not definitely sure they really happened. It can also be that humans never existed and parents tell us this story to make us respect Mother Earth and Sister Water.

These are legends whose origins are lost in the mists of time, and today it seems hard to imagine a land in squares, water obeying a master, the plain interrupted by concrete towers catching fire. 

Nowadays water, water is the only Queen. It could not be otherwise in a world where everything flows. Water is everywhere: it produces and reproduces life. I think that humans, if just they could have understood anything at all, would have called it “the transparent gold”. But what is gold? We don’t sell or buy anything, the preciousness of metals has seen its twilight together with those humans.

Seen from above, the territory, that is land and water, does not seem to have a past, not least because past and present have no meaning for those who inhabit it. The only time that exists is that of the seasons: it is a circle, reborn each spring to slumber in autumn. Death’s power is recognised, anyone understands it and no one fears it. It’s nature: things begin, things end.

Nobody is interested in speed anymore: moving fast is a way to approach death. We do respect death, but we are not impatient to meet it.

My time is not even cyclical, it is geographical. Such is the time for herons: we fly to change the season. I fly and I can travel and see the world as it is, from above.

References

Alliegro, E.V. (2012). Il totem nero. Petrolio, sviluppo e conflitti in Basilicata. Roma: CISU.

Brennan, S. A. (2016). Public, First. Retrieved from: https://dhdebates.gc.cuny.edu/read/untitled/section/11b9805a-a8e0-42e3-9a1c-fad46e4b78e5. 

Clément, G. (2002). Éloge des vagabondes. Herbes, arbres et fleurs à la conquête du monde. Paris: Nil éditions.

Dal Gobbo, A. (2022). Energy and the ethnography of everyday life: A methodology for a world that matters. Ethnography, 0(0), 1-22.

Dennis, K., Donnelly, J. (Writers)  & Munden, M., Yip, W., Garcia Lopez, A., Donovan, S. (Directors). (2013).  Utopia. Wilson, K., Featherstone, J., Kelly, D. (Executive producers). Liverpool, England:  Kudos.

Reclus, E. (2005). Storia di un ruscello, Milano: Elèuthera.

Sepulveda, L. (1996). Historia de una gaviota y del gato que le enseñó a volar. Madrid: Planeta.

CariSun Festival 2231, Trinidad de Cuba

Ysabel Muñoz Martínez

[20.07.2231]

Hey, sorry for the noise… the boat is fully booked, and you know how chatty we can get. You will probably get this message later because I’ve heard that communications are still a problem when entering the Caribe land, something about electric interference, they are saying here on the boat. May is doing alright, but I think she is a bit anxious about getting the hormones she needs in Trinidad. Other passengers recommended we travel to Santiago to get the rest of the pills in case we want to stay longer in Cuba, we’ll see. I know she’s trying to hide any signs of concern from me because I am so excited, she says I’m a little girl again. Everyone else on the boat, especially the Cubans, is excited too. Can you imagine? The CariSun Festival is not only in Cuba, but in my hometown! I guess they are really taking seriously the decentralization of everything this time, LOL… it seems like all the criticism paid off, and the R2.0 (2nd Cuban Revolution, updated in 2180) is really going somewhere. 

I am just a bit tired with all the travelling, but I am still grateful we got a spot on the boat. It might take a couple of days to get there since we didn’t qualify for the flight even with my condition. It’s okay, really, my knee doesn’t hurt as much, and I think that besides worrying about the pills, May is fine. I am happy the flights are reserved for those who really need to be there or can’t endure a trip this long… It is hard to even conceive how people were flying so much back then, especially to the Caribbean every other weekend off just for a holiday. I’ve heard cruise ships were popular too, but nobody would travel to the island in one of those. To think their casual visits were in fact contributing to destroying our islands’ beauty… 

This boat is relatively small, but the 46 people on board are making everything work so efficiently. Speaking of which, we are on kitchen duty tomorrow, so I will probably not be recording any messages, but we’re almost there, so I’ll send you another voice message when in Trinidad. Remember these aunties love you!

[27.07.2231]

Oh, my Goddess! The Sun! So bright, so strong! My skin sensors are showing crazy readings, but the locals say it is normal this time of the year, but they are still recommending staying outside just long enough to recharge one’s battery. They have planned the recovery and organization activities for the early morning or late afternoon, but there is not much more to do, to be honest. We met a volunteer from Boriken, and he said Cuba suffered a bit more from the hurricane Atama, but the response was so quick from the island, its neighbors and nationals in the diaspora who –like us– came soon as they could, that everything was almost completely back to normal in less than a month. In the mornings we are attending the food garden Mama prepared in the neighborhood’s corner, and thanks to her contacts we got nice shifts at the local Archivo descolonial y ecofeminista checking if the documents were damaged by the humidity left by the hurricane. We are actually having so much fun it hardly feels like work, but the archive is so big that you come across with the most different materials, from a 400-year-old newspaper clip announcing the sale of a slave, to a picture album with the latest festival of the queerafrocaribbean collective. Bodies in pain, and bodies in joy, they are all part of the archive now.

The best moment of the day is the afternoon, no doubt. With a milder sun and soft breeze we sit on the stairs in the old city, under the bougainvillea tree. It is so perfect! This is the only fruitless tree that has been permitted because the entire place is supposed to be covered with native fruit trees to provide free edibles, but the flower is so iconic in the city that people agreed on having them in certain places. I have been watching a music video filmed almost a century ago, and that particular spot doesn’t seem to change. They keep playing that electronic version of Compay Segundo’s Chan Chan and it gets me so sentimental every time. We just sit there and relax, catching up with anyone who passes by and wants to join. We’ve learnt so much about the festival, and how challenging the preparation has been, but everyone agrees this is going to be one of the best ones in the last decades since Caribbean cities started hosting this celebration in 2194, honoring the forces of nature, both the energy from sun and the cleansing chaos of the hurricane. 

[29.07.2231] 

I was expecting some security in the streets because Teja Salomon should be arriving soon. For being one of the best well-known minds of the century one would assume it would be a great fuzz, but I always forget how the quotidian and extraordinary walk hand by hand on these islands. I have seen some zines and pamphlets about the super scientist circulating around though, their research in human body transition led to such an impressive discovery regarding our own bodies’ capacity to harness energy from almost everything, especially from the sun. What I like the most is how the information was more focused on how the discovery changed forever the way we perceive energy consumption: we use that which we ourselves produce, and the surplus goes to your nearest community. 

I can’t believe how there are still people trying to make money out of socellar technology, because commercialization is heavily penalized, but you know how we humans are… (rolling my eyes). Salomon is now retired, but thankfully they have made sure nobody can put a patent on this technology, so the greed of both individuals and big corps has been temporarily kept at bay. The problem now has been how to approach the migration situation since many people want to come to Caribe land with tempting offers to the government to export energy. Voting starts next week, but Mama told us Trinidad has already chosen not to open the city, at least not to westerners. Most people here resent them due to the old histories of colonialism and tourism, others argue this is nonetheless discriminatory. In any case, the sun is still the treasure of the tropics, and many celebrate these days that we have been harvesting its energy long before socellar technologies came into the picture.

[01.08.2231]

I can’t believe that the day has finally come, and the festival will start in only a few hours! May and I were so excited this morning that we decided to put on our wedding suits because they were still in our old wardrobe, and all our other white pieces are dirty until next week, when it is supposed to rain. Everyone will be in white today, the intention is twofold, for maximizing the energy harvest and a reverence to our Santeria heritage. Can you hear the music in the background? They have been playing this anthem all day and we just can’t stop smiling and moving our bodies to Bob’s rhythm. We’re going out now, everyone is on the streets… Wait, May wants to sing a bit for you… 

Sun is shining, the weather is sweet, yeah

Make you wanna move your dancing feet now

To the rescue, here I am

Want you to know, y’all, can you understand?

here I am

Want you to know just if you can

(Tuesday evening) where i stand

(Wednesday morning)

Tell myself a new day is rising

(Thursday evening) get on the rise

A new day is dawning

(Friday morning) here I am

(Saturday evening) want you to know just

Want you to know just where I stand

When the morning gathers the rainbow

Want you to know I’m a rainbow too…

Chihuahua & Granada I Little Reveries of Three Places: A Vision of Harmony and Renewal

Paola Tásai

Introduction

The historical conception of Western society is based on linear time. The original peoples of Abya Yala conceive of time and space in many different ways. In this sense, thinking about past, present and future time as something that is in a constant spiral is something that is repeated in the worldviews of many of them. This creative writing is based on and felt from that notion. These are small thoughts about how I imagine the future in three significant places at different moments in my life: Ignacio Zaragoza, Chihuahua in México, the town where I grew up, where I locate my roots, the city of Chihuahua, México where I spent my adolescence and early years of professional life, and the city of Granada, Spain where I am currently studying a doctorate in History and Arts. These three places are connected by something more than my personal history, they are places that speak of the rural and the urban, the periphery and the center, but they are also places that reflect in their daily symbolism the colonial history that, from many places we are working on from a decolonial approach. To heal that historical wound. This is a contribution to it.

Ignacio Zaragoza, Chihuahua, Mexico

The town where I grew up. In northern Mexico. It is the year 2200 and Hortensia, a 10-year-old girl rides a bicycle in the streets of the town center. Her family works in the collective garden that provides the population with food, as well as in the vegetable proteins factory. That day at school her homework was to explore the town doing her favorite activity, which is riding a bicycle. Hortensia’s classroom, nestled under the shade of ancient trees, was a sanctuary of shared wisdom. The stories of the bear day had been passed down through generations, a reminder of the strength that lay within each individual when united by a common goal. The tale was etched in the minds of young and old alike, a beacon of hope and inspiration. In the heart of the town, a statue of a bear reaching for the sky served as a perpetual reminder of their capacity to overcome adversity.

That day she even rode until the house for her grandmother, with whom she spent hours talking and she told her that in the first decades of the 21st century the town went through a very complicated situation where groups of armed people, drug traffickers and hit men almost destroyed the town. Many people suffered then, but around the year 2030 there was a great awakening among the population that intelligently put a stop to the situation and managed to rebuild the peace they had before this violent process began. It got dark, Hortensia realized that she had a lot to tell the next day at school, she looked at the starry night sky and felt at peace. What a fortune to have a place to breathe fresh air, drink clean water, ride a bike safely. 

The year 2200 found Ignacio Zaragoza bathed in the warm embrace of transformation. Streets once marred by violence now teemed with life and purpose. With each harvest, the townspeople remembered the lessons of their ancestors, fostering a bond with the land that sustained them.

Chihuahua, Mexico

The capital city of the northern province of Mexico. The Sister of Hortensia lives in the City of Chihuahua, although learning is no longer limited to attending universities, because in Ignacio Zaragoza there are, since the people managed to be reborn from the tragedy, places of common study, where the ancestral knowledge of the region is transmitted. There, people build their identity and discover how they can gradually improve their relationship with each other, but above all, how to keep the town in harmony with the environment. Teresa is 20 years old and wakes up in her student apartment with a beautiful view of the self-sustaining park that is located in the complex. Her first class of the day is on the history of the early 20th century. She´s interested on Intercultural humanities studies of the 21st century. Since she was little, speaks 5 languages: Rarámuri, ódami, Pima, Warijó and Spanish and is learning English and French. To get to her class she transports herself in an individual capsule that works with solar energy. Teresa grew up in Ignacio Zaragoza and wanted to move to Chihuahua for study in the free University where she could have free access to a big complex of digital and physical papers of knowledge. As Hortensia realized that day, Teresa learned about the process of revolution of 2030 in Ignacio Zaragoza. The people in 2200 called “the bear day”, because everything started with a bear in the center of the town trying to go high in a three, a lot of people arrive to know the animal, and then, naturally, they started to talk about the scary situation about the town. The “bear day” was celebrated annually, not just in Ignacio Zaragoza, but throughout the region. Festivals brought people together, reinforcing the values of unity and resilience. Folklore and history intertwined, creating a tapestry of identity that honored both the past and the present. Teresa’s fascination with this tale led her to study the interplay between history and collective memory, a subject that resonated far beyond her classroom.

 The forests surrounding Ignacio Zaragoza contain ancestral wisdom that was then hidden from people who lived under constant siege by violent groups. Many lives were lost due to the chaos caused by the struggle between criminal groups to control the illegal sale of narcotics. The peasants were weakened because their ability to produce food was reduced at the end of the twentieth century when bad governments led to the decline of the economy of the region this combined with international treaties that only benefited the neighboring country to the north. Faced with such a scenario, that day, that bear as a carrier of ancestral energy transmitted the strength that people needed to defend themselves. Five people traveled to Chihuahua city from that time and they got some training in human rights, they got strong knowledge for defend themselves and also created a new way to kick out the criminal from the town. It was not an easy struggle, but with the passage of time they managed to build what was thought impossible, a quiet place to live in harmony and peace with nature. Thanks to that day the intercultural teaching started, and she can talk 5 languages. 

Granada, Spain

Far away from México, crossing the transatlantic ocean, the capital city of the province where the Catholic kings signed the capitulations with Christopher Columbus that would give way to what is known as the colonization of America has an anticolonial museum in the center of the city where all the symbols that remained from that past were placed. The intercultural city is connected by green spaces where you can walk car-free and there is a plant and animal integration system that allows a biocentred coexistence. Adela, Hortensia and Teresa’s aunt lives in Granada. Part of his life interest was to know what was on the other side of the sea and understand a little more of the history, understand how people in Europe in 2030 managed to overcome green neo-fascisms, these currents that sought to make energy “sustainable” by filling peasant lands with solar cells and extracting lithium from Latin America as well as Africa for electric power batteries. People in Europe were also very brave when they had to face the colonizing project that at that time had been just over 500 years old. Power groups consumed natural resources under the pretext of economic growth that was leading the planet to self-destruction. Adela deeply admired how the people of Chihuahua and Granada faced racism and the annihilation of migrants. Adela was proud to speak the ancestral native languages that they managed to rescue at that time and also speak the Andalusian language, a mixture between Spanish and Andalusian Arabic.

In Granada, Adela’s journey of self-discovery paralleled the city’s commitment to healing and reconciliation. The anticolonial museum stood as a tribute to the pain of the past, a space for reflection and transformation. Adela’s research delved deep into the annals of history, uncovering stories of resistance and revival. She marveled at the parallels between Ignacio Zaragoza’s journey and that of communities across the world, their struggles and victories interconnected by a common thread.

The interconnectedness of these three places went beyond their narratives. It was a philosophy, a way of life that transcended borders. They had embraced a resource-based economy, recognizing the fragility of Earth’s resources and the urgency of stewardship. Communities flourished by valuing quality over quantity, forging connections that transcended material wealth.

The people in this three places has something in common: they live in peace with nature and they can adapt to the needs of the movement and cycles of the earth. They don´t want to reach other planets but respect the local spaces. The monetary system doesn’t exist anymore. They changed for an economy based on resources where every community use only what they need and spend quality time with the people they care. Nobody knows if this will stay like that always, but at least in this beyond utopic thinking (because this actually can happen), it is a reality, like the spiral time where the past and the future are here. 

As the years marched on, the spiral of time continued its dance, bringing the past forward and propelling the future into the present. Ignacio Zaragoza, Chihuahua, and Granada had become more than physical places; they were embodiments of humanity’s potential for growth and renewal. The generations that followed, inspired by the stories of these places, carried their spirit forward, weaving new chapters into the tapestry of existence. And as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a golden glow upon these lands, the promise of a harmonious future seemed more attainable than ever before.

Kolkata I Homeward

By Dishannesha Mukherjee

I

The hunger of the river- talks of it were afloat in the air even before this generation was born. Their forefathers had seen the signs, but were unable, perhaps even unwilling to face the music. You see, it was but a landmass populated by insignificant outcasts, so, why would it not be insulated from the bad of the world as it was from the good? You see, they had made the land theirs through the toil of centuries, surely they can keep a hold on it. They had fought with a multitude of enemies- one of which was always inevitably the river and its roaring tides.  However, paradoxically, the river was their lifeline- they felt in its waves an extension of the constant throbbing of the blood which flowed within their veins. 

Their connection was undeniable which made these people the people of water. It was a divine river, vested with the powers to wash away human sins, so surely its holy powers would not fail in eradicating the looming evil. Its waters were brought into the earth from the heavens for this very purpose. Here, where the river divided herself into uncountable channels to rush towards the sea, the land was ever moody. Sometimes, it evaded sight, sometimes it showed itself. That is why when the men first decided to claim the land from the tides, they had to create embankments to mark their territory. 

The river wasn’t too pleased with it and always communicated its displeasure by trying to wrest the land back into its belly. Hence, the constant tussle. In a vicious, yet ironic twist of fate, the actions of humans all over the world disgruntled the oceans. The displeasure channelled itself into this riverine estuary via the waves of the rivers. The holy droplets of water were polluted with human greed which turned it to poison. Its heart corrupted with the venom of rage, the waves danced to the tune of devastation. Even in the thinnest of its extensions, one could feel the rejuvenated strength.  Anger, and a desire to conquer back the snatched land surged with its waves. Water. Water. Eating away at the fading landscape. Finally, everywhere. Where do you go when your home refuses to house you?

II

Tushi was ten years old. Her family were fortunate enough to live in an area which withstood the river’s plundering, for now at least. However, the slow land erosion did not safeguard them from the other dangers of the watery invasion. Destitution and diseases hung like miasma over the remaining land. It rained from the clouds and blew with the cyclonic winds. Tushi and her family still clung to their homestead, or whatever remained of it after the annual floods receded. The land was a ghost of its former self, unable to support the dreams- or the corporeal existence of the hordes that claimed kinship to it. You see, even in its heyday, the delicate and complex ecosystem of the land hadn’t been able to yield enough to sustain the population. With the bounty of the forest, the people had somehow made it through, but with almost the entirety of the forests gone, that was no longer an option. The remaining mangrove warriors were too battle-weary to provide protection against the regular onslaught of cyclonic storms.

Even then, Tushi and people like her had clung to the land, for as long as they could, as there wasn’t any other alternative. Cyclones and saline swells ravaged their dwelling, uprooted the homestead, and rooted hopelessness deep in their hearts. Tushi saw the river every day. It was an integral part of her life even in the days it benignly floated her father’s boat. The family depended on the murky tides for sustenance, so the river was almost like a family member, always at the hearth, ever present even in absence. 

However, it was impossible to cling to the illusion of safety now. Their village had become uninhabitable. If they wished to live, they must move. Packing wasn’t all that difficult, a few rag tag clothes to cover their bodies, some utensils to fill their stomachs when they could manage to procure food, her parents and younger brother- Tushi was ready to go. They must leave before this year’s monsoon winds enter the delta.

The journey started. 

III

Over the years, just like the hungry river that flowed through the land, the city of Kolkata had also slowly but surely encroached on the periphery. Such seamless integration made it rather difficult to demarcate its boundary. It was like the Cretan labyrinth, populated by hordes of ashen faces, each more troubled than the previous. To Tushi, it was like looking into a mirror.  Everywhere she looked, she saw an image of utter destitution- like herself and her family. But, even in alike appearances, where was the kindred spirit?

Tushi and her brother Montu took care of each other during the day as their parents were roaming the city, searching for work. Initially, the siblings were intimidated by the strange environment. The only thing that stood out to them about their new home was the filth that laid all around. The “home” they were staying in was a ramshackle one room structure they shared with another family of four in one of the newest and dingiest slum-mushrooms that had cropped up on the body of the city. 

In this potpourri of unfamiliar currents, Bashir Ali became the only island of familiarity to Tushi and Montu. 

Bashir was the same age as Tushi and belonged to a family which, just like Tushi’s, was one of the last to leave their village behind. Even though they hailed from different villages in the same region, now they found themselves struggling side by side for survival in one of the many, many slums of a city which was populated by many millions. What are the odds! In life, poverty proved itself time and again as the greatest equaliser- making people of all creeds and castes and religions brethren in the struggle to live.

While Tushi’s family worked the river, Tariq, Bashir’s grandfather worked the forest. Mauley– honey gatherers is the name for their profession. With the government becoming stringent regarding who gets to rightfully enter the barely surviving mangrove forest, these professionals went almost extinct (just like the tigers!). They believed that the humans and tigers in the delta were brothers who shared the same fate for they were the children of the same mother- Bonbibi1. The animals and the humans of the delta shared the same fate, so it is only right they share the same mother.

In the sweltering heat of the summer noon, Tushi, Montu and Bashir gathered around Tariq Ali to listen to the stories of bygone days. This was how it has always been. Tariq had learnt all he knew sitting at the knee of his elders and now in turn shared with the future generation his patrimonial wisdom. Oh how magical those stories were! Tariq spoke of his lost home, his childhood, the forest, the rivers, the people and the bygone days.

 He told them stories of how they lived back in the days when the river wasn’t so vengeful. He spoke of journeys into the forest, of encounters with tigers and crocodiles, of how their ancestors came and wrestled with nature to win this home-land that was now gone. He spoke of Bonbibi and Dakshin Ray2, celebrations and festivals, and the brotherhood of men that are no more. As he recounted the stories his voice was embittered by the recounting of losses. Tariq spoke with nostalgia but the children heard only love. 

The trio sometimes listened mesmerised and sometimes assailed their Dadu3 with a plethora of questions. Tushi and Montu kept whispering these stories to each other as they laid in the darkness waiting for sleep to come, beside their exhausted parents. Bashir, Tushi and Montu would often in the afternoons meet by the black-watered canal that flowed behind their houses. Here was a place that was completely their own. It is here they would imagine many answers to the supplicatory “Tarpor?4” of every story Tariq told them. It is here, miles away from their delta home, where three displaced children formed a connection to their original home.

IV

Anil, Tushi’s father had been gloomy for some days. Whenever Tushi and Montu asked him about it, he avoided answering them. This bothered the siblings greatly as their father was one of those people who always looked at the silver lining. Although Anil kept mum, the children heard something from the discussions of the adults around their home. 

The gist of the matter was already familiar to them. The city of Kolkata was also besieged by the river just like their old deltaic home. It was bursting at its seams due to the explosive rise in the number of migrants. It simply wasn’t sustainable. The systems of the city barely functioned due to the influx of people. Coupled with that was the constant expansion of the river into the city. Hunger and poverty old companions, but along came disease. It became increasingly evident to everyone that not all of them could continue staying here. In fact, those who had the means had been on the move, but for those who didn’t, a decision remained to be taken. 

Leaving is easy for two types of people- one, who have everything, and the other who have nothing. For people like Tushi and Bashir, the ones who had something, rather an illusion of something, it was a dilemma because hope and care is what kept them rooted in their current place. 

“We will lose all that we have right now”, said Anil. “What exactly do we have that you’re so worried about losing?”, asked his wife Sandhya. Anil did not reply, and kept looking out of the door. “At least we will have the chance to have something”, his wife added in a softer tone.

This is a scene that has been recurring in Tushi and Montu’s home for almost a month now. It has been a year since Anil and Sandhya came to the big city with their children. None of them had been able to find steady work or a means of bettering their lives. They had been able to barely survive due to the solicitude of neighbours. The condition of the city itself was also rapidly worsening. 

It was at this moment the announcement was made. There was a land far, far away here where there was space for them- these displaced hordes. There, the people would have a place to live, and food to eat, and work to do. Actual homes, not dingy slums. Actual food, not just scraps. All you had to do was register your name with the government and wait. Once your turn comes, you’ll be transported there with your family and the other registered people. Some people jumped at the first chance while some people, like Anil, were hesitant. Once burnt, twice shy. 

Bashir, Tushi and Montu would meet at their secret place and imitate the discussions of the elders. “We will have a place to live”, Montu would say, “But, we won’t be together”, Bashir would counter. “It is a foreign land far, far away”, Tushi would add. The three would be silenced by the solemnity of those words and the ominousness of the unknown.

V

The entire colony was suspended in this dilemma when Tariq Ali called his neighbours for  a discussion late one evening.

Tariq was respected in the community not only because of his age, but also because he was a relic of better bygone days. Some people answered his invitation, his next-door neighbour Anil and his family were one of them. 

In a soft, low voice Tariq began his address. “I, just like you, heard about this relocation business some time ago. I was deeply anxious to hear it… I felt the same helplessness that I did when I left home with Bashir. But, during this time, many of those that lived with us have moved and that got me thinking. I am poor and illiterate, I fear the big world out there. I wanted to spend my days in the mangrove forest but that wasn’t possible, Mother Nature herself refused me- us that privilege,”Tariq’s voice moistened as he spoke these words.

He carried on. “When I-we simply couldn’t stay, so we moved here. I often thought to myself why this place? When I could have gone to any other big city with my family. I got an answer to my question as I told the stories of the life I-we lived to these children” he pointed out Tushi, Bashir and Montu among the group of listeners. “It was because I didn’t want to be far away from what I called home even when I was already exiled from it. I wanted to look at the river and pretend it’s the same. I wanted to pretend this is the same…” Tariq gestured to his ill-lit, dingy room and broke down crying.

After a few moments, he recollected himself. “As I was telling my stories I also slowly realised something- just because I moved away from the land I called home doesn’t mean I’ll have to abandon my home. I will keep it alive here” he gestured to his heart. “I moved to give Bashir a better life and I cannot do it here. So, I must move. Just like my great grandfathers had to in order to give me the life I am pining for right now. So, I’ll take my family and go to this new land. No matter how far it is, it is still under the same sky. There, we will forge a home. We will build it with the best of the home we lost.” There was a firm ring of conviction in his voice. “I will not lose my home, instead, I will just transport it elsewhere, where it will be safe.” He had composed himself by now, “But, my forefathers couldn’t have done it alone, they managed to defeat the river and the tigers because they were together. I called you here to ask for help- let not me, or any of us, go friendless to face the dangers of the unknown and the uncertain.”

That night, Anil came back home late. As soon as he did, he sat down beside Sandhya and said, “You were right… we came here to live, and this is no way of living. It will be difficult, but let’s go together. My grandparents created the homestead I pine for, and we will together create a new home for us to thrive in. At least let’s take the chance, whatever be the outcome.”

Sandhya clasped Tushi and Montu to her chest, and turning towards Anil she said, “The first step is the most scary. Alone, we might not have made it, but together, I believe we will. We will somehow manage- just like we are doing now. Our people fought the hungry river and the bloodthirsty tigers, we can do it.”

They rested that night in anticipation of tomorrow. It was an anticipation pregnant with hope, unlike their usual worries.  There were a lot of preparations to be made for it was no longer only a measly number of four people who would be travelling.

Thus, the journey started.

  1. A forest deity exclusive to the Sundarban region. She is worshipped by the Hindus and the Muslims alike.
  2.  Another forest deity of the Sundarbans. He is believed to be the adversary of Bonbibi though both are venerated together and share power over the region
  3.  Bengali, Grandfather
  4.  Bengali, “After that?” is usually a question asked by listeners to urge the storyteller to continue the story.
Skellefteå I Flower under the snow

Balint Kronstein

The warm winter sun blazing down on Áilu’s back made her especially uncomfortable with wearing her ancestors’ thick-layered gátki. She could not wait for the moment to step inside the NEA3 biodome – or how it was called officially by the Northwestern Bothania Sámi-Swedish Republic: Northvolt Ett Arctic Artificial Area – to finally get rid of her air-filtering device and all the equipment reminding her of the “outside” world.

Skellitta-Skellefteå had one of the few green-industry-turned-biodomes, or how the policymakers liked to call them arctic artificial areas, where the original climate after the Tipping Point was preserved and being upkeeped by the joint effort of those who survived. People fleeing to the area generations before Áilu was born, the indigenous people of Sápmi and the descendants of those living in Norrbotten and Västerbotten.

There were always signs that the point-of-no-return might happen, but society disregarded, repressed, or just simply did not care about those who spoke up. Did not matter if they were scientists, climate activists, religious fanatics, average civilians or capitalists seemingly going insane and wanting to destroy their own empires.

“I do not understand how people can survive out here for more than half-a-day” exclaimed Áilu annoyedly when the metallic gates of what once was the biggest battery manufacturing plant on the European continent started to materialize in front of her eyes. That unique matte glow was so familiar to Áilu. The European continent – once the center of colonial powers and the heartland of the European Union – now an almost uninhabitable land engraved with several seas and megarivers. Lowlands in Turkey, Greece, Western Europe, and Iberia all underwater. Southern Italy almost disappeared, similarly to the flatlands of the Balkans, Eastern and Central Europe. Those places that were still relatively habitable were all laid North from the Baltic Sea or located in the higher areas of the former continent, such as the Alps or the Pyrenees.

In the years after the Tipping Point – which Áilu heard so much about from the bedtime stories of her grandfather who was an archaelogy professor specialized in the history of the sustainability transition at the International-Swedish University of Skellitta-Skellefteå – many tried to stay put and fight the natural forces unleashed by Gaia. Most of them perished and those who did not simply had to flee from their homeland and leave everything behind to restart their life somewhere higher or Northern. “Probably the first time those people realized what it feels like to be indigenous and constantly being pushed out from your motherland” thought Áilu several times before. The same idea crossed her mind as the enormous metal gates to the stabilization area – the passageway between two worlds – opened up in front of her after the bioscan identification granted access to enter.

She liked “being one with the Arctic” – how Oula always referred to being born inside the biodome into a herder kinship –, but from time-to-time she could not help it. Somber thoughts took over her mind. “Not much better than those Native American reservations before the Tipping Point. Ugh… wonder when they will start to reduce the area of the dome… it already started… slowly but surely! I hate those ideas of the Renew Gaia project… sure, other cultures and biomes deserve a chance to survive… or a revival.  But why at our expense? Why the same things happen again? And again? Always…”

She felt trapped and free at the same time during these journeys when she needed to run some errands in the “outside world”, as she liked to refer to it in her head. Felt free both by realizing every time how exceptionally lucky she is that she can live the life that her ancestors lived hundreds of years ago. How fortunate to see the grandiose radiance of snow hit by the first shimmering light beams of the sun on a winter morning. And for living in a time when the “outside world” is an improved and more equal place than it was ever before. Yet, happiness and joyous moments aside she could not help but worry. “Like a kingfisher with damaged wings longing after the heights of the sky.” Worry about the dome. Its boundaries. The limits to survive. Worry about people growing distant and indifferent about past disasters with the relentless advance of time. Worry about civilization’s hubris. Humans repeat the same mistakes all over again.

She arrived back from a trip. Visiting distant kin in the Hybrit dome a few hundred kilometers North. These journeys always took days, but drained physical and mental energy to levels as if she would travel for months. The emotions, the thoughts, the different climate she experienced with every single step outside of Northvolt.

Living in the city of Skellitta-Skellefteå was one thing. The road from there to other settlements and domes was another. It was not especially dangerous, or at least the dangers were non-human. An acid rain or a desert hailstorm – even the slight chance of it – meant that the chargeless hovertrain service did not leave the shelter of the mid- or end-stations. These events made the travel times impossible to know, but people get used to the new normal generations ago. “You get there when you get there” Oula always said when Áilu complained about the transport.

Life was slower after the Tipping Point. In Skellitta-Skellefteå you could have lived the accelerated lifestyles of those who came before, but simply people did not want that anymore. The extensiveness of virtual reality for work, leisure, socializing and culture, the artificial nature created in general biodomes, digitalization and above all the local hub – a new form of societal organization based on the Sámi kinship idea and guided by the Árbediehtu – made terms like rush-hour, multi-tasking or burnout obsolete and unfamiliar. Skellitta-Skellefteå, one of the bigger cities of the North, led by the democratic council of the local hubs’ leaders was a living paradise. “Must be somewhat like Eden, I suppose” told Áilu to an “outsider” friend once. Truly, it was an oasis on the border between the calmness of the Baltic Sea and the roughness of the Great Northern Desert.

As Áilu passed through the stabilization area unrushed and entered the small connection chamber – the final stop between home and the “outside world” – a sudden harsh feeling heavily pressed on her chest. “What if it will all happen again? Yes, Renew Gaia might succeed. We, or… they? Might win back territories to extend the habitat… might not… but even if it does, do we need it? Why do we always want more? Why? And why does wanting more means taking from others? Why Northvolt must play the role of a laboratory rat. Will the herd survive that? Will we survive it?” She had so many questions in her mind. And very few answers. “Why do I feel it is happening all over again? Why cannot we just be happy about what we have right now? We have our hubs, our domes, kin around us. We stopped worrying about what does not matter. We are finally equal. Yes, equal in hardship and equal in a world which is almost uninhabitable for our kind… but… finally equal. Our words, our ideas, the Árbediehtu final leads and governs. Everyone is welcome in our city, in our living quarters, in our life. Why cannot we stop craving for more?”

As the door connecting the inside of the dome and the chamber split the late afternoon sunlight blinded Áilu for a moment. “The biodome is life. But it also disregards the will of Gaia. It is not meant to be… this meant to disappear. And why? Because those in charge did not listen… by the time they did… by the time they understood the difference… by the time they started celebrating distinctiveness and realized we should not be another colonial project of equalization driven by white guilt… by that time it all was too late. The only thing they managed to do is this… captive life under a glass cover. Mom always says I should be happy that we have all this and the other domes… she never tells me how.” Her eyes begun to sense the world around.

A light breeze of familiarity reached Áilu as she was stepping into the snowy landscape of the dome. “Perishing. Yes… perishing without a trace is what I am afraid of” a voice remarked in her head. “To disappear… me, the parents, kin, Skellitta, the domes… everything that I know and those things that I am yet to know… some which I do not even know to exist. Perish… like the Azure Window… those during the Tipping Point… or Heike and Lemma.”

When her eyes finally got used to the light after the darkness of the chamber she noticed a Snowdrop blooming below a snow pile under a peaceful and sheltering Norway spruce. And the realization came as sudden as the fear. “Perishing is a part of the circle of life. Death as much as birth. The important thing is that we make out as much as of our life as we can. This is what we all should live for. To prevail regardless of harsh environments and circumstances. To think and feel together with kin, society, and Mother Nature. To not to make the same mistakes again. For making Gaia a better place together.”

Venice I Cities of Water

By Giulia Baquè

The Book of Histories

“Once there was city built on water. A city that stood against the tides and built its strength and power on its domination of the sea. 

Once there a was a city vibrant with life and colors, where the aromatic scents of spices mixed with the morning aroma of fish raising from the canals.

Once there was a city that became too eager and lost its track. A city that slowly saw its inhabitants leave one after the other until there was no one left.

Once there was a city that had been betrayed by its waters and its canals. A city that had coexisted with water and its whims for centuries. The high tides came and went, but when the water started rising too much, the water became frightening. Until one day it came and didn’t recede anymore.

Once there a was a city, and now it is no more”

Year 2223


The sun was shining and the temperature was hot, almost unbearable. The journey from the northern territories had been such a long one that Maaike was wondering why she always allowed her curiosity to get the best of her. She should have thought this through more and maybe she would have realized that this trip so far from home could not have been an easy one. She was not going on holiday, what was she expecting? Nice weather and places to relax and sunbathe? 

She had started her trip in the north, in those territories that were once known, a couple of centuries ago, as the Kingdom of The Netherlands. Now there were only some independent cities left, trying to survive at the edge of a Northern Sea that was warmer and coming dangerously closer with each passing year. And now, because of her damned curiosity she was traveling south, across barren and arid landscapes, where the heat was higher than she had ever experienced. For what? She should have stayed home and be content with the dusty pictures she found in the library, instead of wanting to see it with her own eyes. But now it was too late to go back. She knew she was almost there. If her group kept a steady pace, they would have reached their destination before heat peaked at midday. Her clothes were too warm for the southern climate. She should have changed into a more practical outfit when she had the chance during their last stop. But she didn’t want to linger for too long. Despite her many doubts, the only thing she could think about was reaching her destination as soon as possible. She had heard and read so many wonderful things about the long lost city of Venice that she immediately volunteered for this journey when the opportunity arose. The library where she worked was trying to salvage as many books as possible to prevent further losses. Already the world had lost so much because of the consequences of climate change that books seemed to Maaike a good way to save the past from disappearing completely. And books could also help preventing further losses; by understanding the mistakes that were made and transmitting the knowledge of what could be done better, maybe it was possible to build some kind of future. Maaike had hope. And that was why she was traveling south. She hoped that this research journey, could give her stories to bring back to the library; stories about what was lost; memories that could be preserved and could be accessed to move forward in a different direction. Her purpose was to record as many stories as possible about Venice and then transcribe them, so that the library could have a record of what happened to the city that drowned so many years ago and that was almost fading from memory despite its great history.

It was at the library that her fascination with Venice had started. Right when she was only an intern doing menial tasks to help the staff there. She had seen the few old books – those that survived the rising seas, the fires that raged across Europe, and the various raids that had destroyed several cities when the first governments had begun to fall – with beautiful depictions of Venice; a colourful and crowded city, full with people coming from across the world in the days of carnival. She had seen faded pictures of the once famous calli and campielli. She had heard stories handed down from the first refugees coming from the south when the seas first started rising; the high tides in Venice started to get higher and higher, until they stopped receding altogether. Now, she was almost there. Her journey was almost over. Her guide, a muscular man in his forties, halted raising a hand. The entire group came to a stop. 

“We are there” the guide sighted, almost with a hint of sadness in his voice. 

Maaike was barely able to contain her excitement. Even though she was exhausted by the heat and the long walk, she sprinted to reach the guide on top of what looked like a small hill. 

She had to shield her eyes with her hand, it was so bright. For a moment she could not see a single thing. Then her vision adjusted to the bright reflection of the sun on the water. And then her heart sunk. What was in front of her was not what she expected. The water extended as far as she could see. 

“How can we be here? Where is the city? Is the guide wrong?” thought Maaike dazed.

“We must be in the wrong…” she started saying but the guide started pointing at something in the water. With such a bright light it was difficult to make out shapes and objects and the water was such an intense blue that all the other colors seemed to be drowning in it. 

But then she saw it. Of course they were in the right place. Some shapes were emerging from the water. It looked like a bell tower but from such a distance she could not be sure. “Let’s keep moving, we can’t stay under this sun at this hour”, said the guide. 

And he signaled to the group to follow him. He started descending towards the water, there was what looked like a small camp, and in the distance, it was possible to see older buildings, maybe from a couple of centuries before, high constructions with what probably must have been windows and balconies. Now they were all completely empty and the people seemed to be living closer to the water in makeshift housings. When they entered the camp a crowd of children immediately came to meet them. 

“Maaike, the elders will see you later, after sundown, so you can ask them your questions”, informed her the guide with a polite tone. “I will be there to translate for you”, he continued with a smile. 

***

The afternoon had been agonizing, both because of the heat to which Maaike was not used, and because of the sense of anticipation and curiosity that had devoured her since they reached that small settlement. 

The library she worked at in the northern territories owned a couple of old books about a beautiful city built on water. The pictures had fascinated Maaike for so long that she could not stop talking about how amazing it would have been to once go and see it. So, when finally, the library could obtain some founding for research from the Council of the Free Cities, it was decided that the money would be well spent on a research trip to find more details about the lost city of Venice. Not only because of the wonders that city seemed to have had, but mostly because understanding the fate of such an ancient city could help in finding solutions to prevent even more cities to be lost to the rising waters; Maaike of course was the first to volunteer for the trip. And now she was finally here, waiting to meet the elderly of the settlement, those who, according to Carlo, the guide, still retain some first-hand memories of the city. 

“They are over a hundred years old so they are a bit deaf, please be patient with them”, Carlo told her before they entered the tent of the elders. 

The light was dim inside but the air was fresh, it was a pleasant sensation after the heat of the sun. Maaike could see four figures sitting on carpets at the far end of the tent. Two women were discussing something in low voices while drinking water that was frequently poured to them by a young girl in attendance. The other two seemed fast asleep, with their heads lowered on their chest and their breath regular and calm. 

“Benvenuta” said in a low voice the elderly woman sitting on the left, “my name is Daniela.”

“She welcomes you, she is Daniela, she is over a hundred and twenty years old. No one knows their exact age anymore” whispered Carlo.

“Carlo, is this the girl coming from the north?” asked suddenly one of the two elderly Maaike thought were asleep. 

“Yes, she is the one who wants to hear your stories, Sofia. She traveled all the way from the north just to see you” replied Carlo. 

“Sit down dear”, said a third voice, with a gentle and kind tone. “We are not that young anymore so our memories might be a bit confused, but we will try our best to answer your questions and tell you our stories.”

“Memories are the only way we have to preserve the past. And by sharing them we can somehow learn to live with the guilt of not having done enough when we could and the shame of not being able to preserve our world for the generations to come”, said the fourth voice who had been quiet until that moment. She spoke with an authoritative tone but the sadness in her voice was clear.

“What do you want to know?” asked the gentle voice.

“Everything you can tell me! I want to know how it all started!” said Maaike almost out of breath from the excitement.

“This is going to be a long story”, replied the woman. 

“I will start, my grandparents were there when it all started, so I heard their stories,” said Daniela.

“It wasn’t sudden you know, there were signs for a long time, people knew that the city would disappear, that the sea would devour it but it always seemed something far away in the future. The previous generations did not understand how our actions can affect the future. They only lived in the moment, thinking only about the short span of their lives.”

“Venice was a city of colors; my grandmother always told me. It was a city full of life and beauty. In the summer evenings, you could see the lagoon and the bell tower of San Marco turn red at sundown. You could hear music and singing in improvised concerts, mixing with the chirping of birds and the cries of seagulls. Dogs barking would suddenly be heard in the quiet of the night and the voices of elderly people sitting at bars and speaking in the Venetian dialect would fill the hot summer air. It was a city full of life, but also silent and peaceful; at night you could walk in small calli and campielli hearing only your footsteps. You could breathe in the soul of Venice. Its unique way of living, at its own pace and with its own small idiosyncrasies. But to this beauty there was a dark side. Venice had existed for centuries in a very delicate and complex environment, but when this balance broke, Venice was doomed. Plans were made to develop the mainland, huge factories and shipyards were built, but in order to do so, canals were interred while new ones were dug to channel the water and dry some part of the land. Those areas however lost their soul. Birds, fish, and insects died. The water was polluted. The lagoon became silent.”

“Oh come on Dani, while all your stories have this poetic tone? I bet this young lady does not care about the ‘soul of Venice’” said mockingly Sofia. “She wants to hear the facts! How the generations of our great-grandparents allowed the big cruise ships to sail through the Canale della Giudecca, of how the tourists would crowd those cramped calli sometimes even preventing people from walking at all. I have heard that sometimes it looked like everyone was queuing around the entire city from how full the city was with tourists.”

“But didn’t the city drown because of the rising seas?” asked Maaike confused.

“Yes it did” said the fourth elderly woman. Her voice sounded younger than the others but her tone made clear that she was probably in a position of authority. 

“Her name is Rosa” whispered Carlo, “she is the head of the council.”

“But as Daniela and Sofia said, the lagoon was delicate and in danger all along. The previous generations did not think about the consequences of their actions. They wanted to build shipyards and factories at the edge of the lagoon, and they did without thinking how this would affect the rest of the ecosystem. They did everything in the name of profit. Profit was their goal and as long as they reached that end, they thought they could solve all the problems. It was the same with the rising seas. Not only Venice, but everyone knew that people’s desire for profit would bring about catastrophes, but they did not do enough to prevent any of it from happening. The worst was always to come, they pretended not to see that the end was nearing already, creeping up on people at fast speed. They were blind, they wanted to be blind and ignorant, pretending that nothing was changing. But everything was different.”

“People forget too easily.” Continued Rosa “one time, before Venice disappeared, there was a flood; it was not a normal high tide, one of those to which the people were used. It was an extraordinary one; the water was so high that it was called aqua granda, the great water. It was a tide so high and unexpected that left the city prostrated. So devastating that people kept remembering it, pieces of art were created to preserve its memory and the effects it had on the city and the people. But then again, everyone forgot. People did not worry anymore about the signs the lagoon was sending. The lagoon was suffering, and with it the rest of the world, but no one wanted to listen.” 

“Come”, said Rosa, “Let me show you something”

The elderly lady slowly got up and walked outside the tent. Maaike and Carlo followed her surprised. Rosa was walking quite briskly for her age and she reached the shore, where a small rowing boat was waiting. The three got on and the boy sitting at the oar began to row.

Slowly, the buildings slightly emerging from the water started to get closer. The sun was almost setting and now the heat was not that unbearable anymore. It was almost pleasant, thought Maaike, and the view reminded her so much of home. The old Kingdom of The Netherlands partly occupied territories that were under sea level, they had built a complex system of dykes, pumps and sand dunes that made up an extremely sophisticated anti-flood system. But not even such an advanced planning saved the old kingdom. The cities closer to the coast such as Den Haag had been abandoned and people moved further inland. The central government broke down but cities managed to create a system of self-governing cities that were still somehow holding on against the waters. Maaike had seen how restless the sea could be. 

Maaike’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Rosa spoke. “You see, Venice was a city built on water, in a similar way to the place you are coming from. But the past generations did not want to understand how much care was needed to make such a fragile environment not only survive but thrive. Venice was never the city alone, nor the people. It was also the birds, the fish, the trees, the water and every other small part that composed the lagoon. Venice was never only human, but we forgot that. And when we forget how closely tied to nature we are, we also lose track of the importance of care, if we don’t care for nature, we also don’t take care of the people who live in it and with it. Centuries ago, when people started realizing how human actions were affecting the world, Venice could have represented an example of creating an environment that accepted both the human and nature, and in which people were used to accept nature’s whims without fighting, without having the arrogance of wanting to change it. But this city also became an example of the shortsightedness of people. They did not care about the future, and so they lost their present. And now this is all that is left”

Rosa pointed towards what was in front of them. 

“That’s the belltower of San Marco right?” said Maaike pointed to a green roof protruding from the water. “I have seen its pictures at the library.”

“Yes, most of the buildings you are seeing coming out of the waters are belltowers, Venice used to have a lot of them” said Rosa with a laugh. “But this is not why we came here”. And the boat crossed easily across the sparse towers emerging slightly. They reached a construction that looked newer. When they arrived, Rosa gestured Maaike to get off the boat.

“Carlo, you wait here with the boy”, she said in an assertive tone. Then she gestured to Maaike to follow her.

They entered the building; it was white and definitely newer than the old buildings they just sailed through. They entered an elevator and starting going down. Rosa didn’t say anything so Maaike just followed her silently. 

When the doors of the elevator opened, they went out. 

“We must be underwater now”, thought Maaike. 

They walked across a narrow corridor and entered a room. To Maaike’s surprise books were stored there, and they looked old. Older than any book she had ever seen in her life. If she thought that the pictures they had at the library were old, these must have been many centuries older. 

Rosa slowly walked to a shelf and carefully selected two books. She wrapped them with a cloth and gave them to Maaike.

Then she started to walk back where they came from. When they reached the boat, they got on without a word. Rosa murmured something to Carlo, but he didn’t translate; Maaike did not understand what was happening.

Rosa seemed happy and relaxed on their sail back to the shore. She seemed to be absorbed in contemplation, looking at the sparse buildings that could be seen in the water.

When they reached the coast, Rosa suddenly spoke. “Ti auguro un buon viaggio di ritorno! Ti prego, tieni al sicuro questi libri per noi, qui probabilmente andrebbero persi, ma sono parte della nostra memoria e vanno conservati. E poi, anche i due autori sono stati grandi viaggiatori, in tempi diversi ovviamente, ma come te hanno esplorato posti lontani e misteriosi. Buona fortuna!”, and then she disappeared back into the tent. Maaike started to follow her but Carlo stopped her. “We should get ready, tomorrow we travel back to the north” he said. “But I didn’t get what I wanted” exclaimed Maaike, almost angry.

“You got something more precious, you got the memories of Venice, its stories and also the stories of those who left it to travel far away, to visit new countries, but who always longed for it. Marco Polo and Nicolò Manucci wrote the books you are carrying. They are part of the memory of this city. Save them and with them, save the stories that the council of the elderly told you. They told you of a city that was complex, beautiful but difficult, full of contradictions, but also of hope and curiosity, a city that even when lost sight of what was important kept fighting. There were always people who tried to be the conscience of this city, reminding the people in charge how delicate it was and how quickly it could be destroyed. No one listened to them, they were not the majority, but they were there and they tried with all their strength to save not only the people, but the lagoon and all its beauty. Now you can bring back not only the story of how Venice disappeared but also their stories, and stories much older than those. Memory is the only way we have to keep thinking about the future. Saving the past means building the present and imagining a future that will be different. I also have something to give you, come!”

They walked silently to a low building of red bricks. Carlo pushed the door and entered. The room was small with a low ceiling. Carlo walked to the table and took a copy of a book whose pages were yellowed and whose back was discolored by the scorching sun. “Take also this. It is my copy of The Book of Histories. It is a poem written by the people who witnessed the rising seas and were forced to leave Venice. In here the tell their fight to make people realize that the city and the lagoon were in danger, and they tell of how they saw the water coming and not receding anymore. Take it, these are also the stories you came for.”

Maaike looked confused. She could not accept so many important books, why were they giving them to her? They were the memories of Venice. But listening to Carlo she started to understand, the memories needed to be saved and preserved, and shared in order to make a difference. Those books represented the different souls of the city, of the lagoon, and she was entrusted to keep them safe. 

“Thank you”, she said to Carlo, “I will keep them safe, and with them, the memories of Venice, of its people and the lagoon. They will never fade from memory again.” 

Imphal City

By Sochuiwon Priscilla Khapai

Click the document icon to see this creative story

 Palermo 2200 

Silvia Lavanco Livreri 

Italian version below

Palermo, July 14th, 2200 12 pm 

A glance at that map hanging on the wall: it depicts a city that, although it is her own, looks like another. There is no nostalgia in her gaze; after all, for a girl born in 2186 Palermo always appears as she sees it outside her bedroom window: the corner of Via Roma and Corso Vittorio Emanuele, only one street separates her from the port. 

She leaves the house with a quick step, still angry with her parents, who knows for what futile reason –but, you know, despite the mugginess and the turbid sea looming menacingly, adolescence is stilladolescence and, indeed, perhaps today it is an even more difficult adolescence: there are not many peers to share it with. 

She walks. According to the map, there was supposed to be a long road before the seafront; she thinks about it as if she were thinking about a legendary place: she has seen pictures, but they seemed to her neither more nor less than drawings of a utopian place, so far away that she could not even dream of it…but then again, it is July and it is too hot even to sleep, let alone dream. Air conditioners had been banned, As if that’s enough, if that changes things, she thinks in a dismissive tone. She is fourteen years old, young, but not stupid; she is fully aware that, at this point in history, any action taken by the city government is just a way of wiping her conscience clean, a cure for a disaster that has long since occurred. They should have acted earlier, before the raging floods of the season began to alternate with extreme heat, with no middle ground left. Before the rain became just a memory. Before the sea gained positions on the coast while the inhabitants lost them. 

The beautiful sea of Palermo, a friend of the people of the city. She had heard of it and stood there instead of that murky, stinking aquatic enemy. People from Palermo had not saved him, the sea. He had not saved them, the people. Perhaps that is why she is so angry today, she reflects on it as she rounds the corner of what used to be the “Cala”[1]: a few boys and girls around, in the 2200s, and she also has to look for what is needed for today’s “festino”[2]. Feast, feast, but what more will they have to celebrate? She collides with a small stall and gets angrier. 

«Watch out!» 

«Excuse me» 

«Where are you going, so angry?» 

«I was looking for snails for today», and, as if she is trying to distance herself, she mechanically uses the Italian language, which immediately clashes with the old woman’s dialect.

«The “babbaluci”[3]! They are here, this is an old tradition…all year long everyone says these things should not be sold anymore, that no one remembers them. Then the patron saint’s day comes and they look for the snails…people from Palermo, always like that!» 

And indeed, all around them was a buzz, at every corner were sweaty, busy humans: moving garbage, pushing water off the street. Tucked away inside the old Royal Foundry, in what remains of the homonymous square, some people put the finishing touches on the star of the day: the “carro”[4]. 

«This year they put so much effort, it was not easy to build it, with this heat…but you can’t give it up, you know». 

«What do I know? I know you couldn’t have the feast and instead I see they do it every year, but what’s the point?». This time she answers in dialect too, she got nervous: all this attachment to the festival, why? It’s just a procession, it’s just a popular thing, there’s so much else to think about, but she doesn’t say that. 

«Darling, it’s to remind you who you are, because if you remember this, we will still have hope…» 

4 pm 

The sun filters through some openings on the roof of the old Foundry and beasts down hard on the noses bent over to work: the night session was not enough and, covering themselves as best they can, the volunteer people are now finishing the wagon before the parade. A young man of about thirty, although big gloves on his hands, handles lightly the tools, which the afternoon heat had made incandescent – weak refrigeration systems, evidently, are not too useful –. Looking at him from a distance, the tools looked like nothing more than an extension of his hand, such was the familiarity: a near-perfect apparent fusion of the human body and matter. Neither suffered, and neither was inert. The hand knows which screw to tighten, but the screwdriver knew which movement to make. An alliance is what the boy is thinking as he watches with his eyes what takes place at the end of his limbs as if they were not his own. It is the same synergy he sees around him. The busy people were almost dancing around the wagon in synchrony – who knows how consciously – of movements: their steps and gestures weaving a web. 

Now he shifts his gaze to the nearly completed work: it is towering. The structure is made entirely of wood, is colorful, and is at least five meters high. It resembles a boat resting on four wheels; the lower part is so large that it can hold at least ten people facing the parapet and all the material needed for the parade. A pulpit from which someone was supposed to give his annual speech was carved on the forward part of the boat. At one time, many years before, the mayor of the city would stand there for a brief greeting, and then much space was given to actresses, actors, and people telling stories, reciting poetry, and cheering on the crowd. Today it is different, no one wants to expose themselves so much, and no one knows what to say to encourage people. People in those popular areas don’t have much hope for the future, the little they have has to be taken care of, it’s not an easy task when you don’t 

have confidence even for yourself. Behind the pulpit, from the center of the wagon stood a large tower, a kind of mast, at the top of which would rest the statue of the patron saint: Saint Rosalie. [5] It is on this structure that the saint would parade along the streets of the city, all the way to the sea. Let me be clear, this was not a grand tour – and at this thought the boy, who has meanwhile stopped working, ironically smiles –. The lower part of the city, which once overlooked the sea, had shrunk considerably, and in the few streets that had not yet been completely submerged there was always a bad smell and wetness on the road, which is why they had decided to remove them from the parade route. 

The discussion on how to end the parade had been long: from one side some said to stop before the sea, from the other side some insisted on keeping the tradition and hoisting the structure on a boat at midnight and taking it out to sea. Eventually, it was decided on a middle ground: raise it on a boat but without going too far, otherwise, it would be tiring and dirty. In any case, the will had been to try to respect tradition as much as possible (except for the fireworks, which by then had been banned for years): a miracle had to be asked for this time, and, as we know, a great miracle requires great dedication. 

«The wagon is beautiful this year», he says. 

«It’s always beautiful» a nearby woman echoes him. 

«This year it’s more beautiful because we thought we couldn’t make it, because of this heat…and no money…and the administration not supporting us anymore» comments her friend. 

«They tried, but they know, if the people here want to do something…» by now there is a small huddle of people admiring the wagon and chatting. 

«Enough of this rhetoric, the wagon has to be finished…rather where is the one who has to speak tonight?», who speaks is always the most practical person and brings the others back to order. 

«He is strolling along the harbor…» says the boy feeling almost guilty for communicating the whereabouts of his friend who wanted to be alone for a while. 

Who knows what he will say tonight, he thinks, but, beside him, his friend seems to intercept his concern and asks him in a whisper: «Will he make it?». The boy responds by looking far into the emptiness. 

8 pm 

One person decides to stop behind the cathedral, to keep in mind to look at things from another point of view. The huge church seen from behind is just as beautiful as seen from the front, if not more so because it has the flavor of hidden things, of things that try not to let you see and that you see anyway. Better yet, you purposely turn the corner to look at them. The problem is that in the corner where urban planning hides them, other things get piled up as well. So, the person sits down, looking from

the outside at the part that corresponds to the apse of the Church and takes a seat between a dry bush and a heap of waste. The person sits down and thinks we should all do that: not stop at first sight, not look at a beautiful front and think that’s all there, but go around it, ask ourselves: where does it end? Does it end up in a nice place? We will be amazed to discover that sometimes it does, but very often, unfortunately, it doesn’t. And then sometimes we should sit among the dry leaves and the garbage and perceive ourselves as small and big at the same time, try to feel on our shoulders the problems of each being living on this planet and embrace the awareness that there can be no one-size-fits-all solution to save the earth, but that everyone has to do his or her part, and that would be more than enough already. 

What is my part? the person asks herself, and again the stomach tightens, Get on that wagon? And say what? Is it going to be all right? Everything seems already gone wrong. 

«You don’t have to do it if you don’t feel like it» the friendly voice comes from behind. 

«I promised» 

«I know» 

They look into each other’s eyes and hint at a weak smile. 

«Have you been here in the square long?» 

«Not long enough. It’s hot». 

«I know». 

«How is it going over there? Are they having fun?» 

«Yes, nothing stops them» 

«Are they waiting for me?» 

«Less than they wait for the rain» 

«Do you know how many centuries have passed since the Santuzza worked a miracle and defeated the plague?» 

«I don’t remember…» 

«Almost six, I looked it up to prepare the speech…five hundred and seventy-six years. And now they ask her for rain, they challenge the city, they challenge the heat, they challenge the uncertainty, and they ask her for a few drops. No matter if they are religious or not, they do it. And I am a grateful person for what I see, for their dedication, for the city they create, for the resilient community they have been able to hold together». 

«There’s always someone who gets pissed off…», the face smiles with weariness. 

«And my gratitude also goes to them, to the ones who pout but get busy, to the little boys and girls who blame the adults, suffer loneliness but always lend an ear to those who want to talk. To the old

men and women who ruminate, but then know how to relieve you. One cannot be perfect, to each his own, as seen during the preparations». 

«You insisted that they should have the fest again this year, I thought you did not agree, that you wanted to invest time to do something else, to repair the small harbor, for example, instead of decorating the wagon and streets, why?» 

«Because there is a drought, but also because they can’t take it anymore and because people are looking for a miracle and they need to look for it». 

«But are you a believer?» 

«Not in a religious way». 

«What do you believe in?» 

«I believe in them, I believe that they will find a way to cope with the lack of water if it doesn’t come. They prepared a big party under the scorching sun, they must have realized at least that». 

Clapping can be heard, the procession must be close by now. 

«Come on, it’s my turn». 

The person regards the sheet of confusing notes taken and puts it back in his pocket: it is no longer needed. 

11:59 pm 

The wagon has concluded its short tour, surrounded by heads dancing along the seafront’s streets. “Evviva Palermo, Evviva Santa Rosalia”[6] shouted like a mantra, a chant, or a prayer: even the most skeptical person sometimes prays and even the most believer sometimes repeats only mechanically. 

The little girl takes her place on the ground, tired of walking. She sits on the “balate”[7] and does not seem to mind the heat that the stone gives off at night, after a day of beating sun. No adult could sit on it, but, since generations, that’s how thing go: young people sit on the balate, they don’t care how much hot they are. After all, they don’t care even to imagine them cooler than they are now. She sees a boy near the boat giving directions on how to hoist the wagon onto it, and she is amazed at the care he takes in that process. 

She will not look at the wagon walking on the sea, she will watch the human beings who have worked to coordinate the day, wondering if it is not all in their gestures that is the meaning of so much hope. 

The boy is sweating more now than in the afternoon heat under the sun; when the wagon is finally hoisted onto the boat, he notices that he has thrown his shirt on the ground. He bends down to pick it up: it is dirty, but he will wash it later. He wears it now if only because he feels the gaze of a little girl across the street on him, Who knows what she is thinking, he turns his back on her but still feels her gaze.

He will not look at the wagon walking on the sea, he will look at the sky because he believes it. 

His friend in a moment will come close to him and take him by the hand, keeping her eyes firmly closed, because she is afraid of not believing enough. 

The person who spoke from the wagon to the crowd around is now walking home, has turned back to the sea, catches a breath, giving in to weariness. The person will not look at the wagon walking on the sea but will soon stop the steps and will be stuck with a foot in the middle air, like one who does not know whether to go or stay, with his eyes fixed on Porta Nuova. 

Between turned-away looks and pointed glances, between raised eyebrows and wet eyes, everyone looks or not at what they want to look at as if it were the last time…will it be? 

Then a unanimous gasp, a single phrase in the murmur: 

«It’s done».

Notes 

[1]Today the “Cala” is the little touristic harbor on the border of the city center.

[2]In Italian “Festino” (“feast” in English, as we’ll call it in this story) is how people from Palermo refer to the celebrationsin honor of Santa Rosalia (Rosalia Sinibaldi, Palermo 1130-1170), patron Saint of the city since 1625 when, as history tells us, she saved the city of Palermo from the plague. 

[3]In the Palermitan dialect “babbaluci” stands for a particular little type of snail, it is tradition to eat it during the summerin general and, most of all, during the feast for the main Saint. 

[4]The Santa Rosalia float is built differently every year, carried in procession on the night of July 14-15; the rest of theyear it remains on exhibit in the city center. 

[5]The wagon that the writer had in mind while writing this text is the one built for the July 14, 2022, parade.

[6]This is in Italian the common phrase repeated by people during the feast, I preferred to keep it in the original languagein the text. You can translate it as “Yay/Hurray Saint Rosalia”. 

[7]“Balata”, from the Arabic word “balath” (“stone”) is the term for the large square bricks typical of the paving ofPalermo’s streets. It is made of black stone and, even today, it gets hot during the summer nights. 

References

Giarrizzo S., Dizionario Etimologico Siciliano, Herbita Editrice, Palermo. History of the Feast of Santa Rosalia: https://www.comune.palermo.it/storia-festino-santa-rosalia- palermo.php.

Pasqualino F., Rocca R., Dizionario Siciliano – italiano, compilato su quello del Pasqualino, Giuntini, 1859, consulted on https://archive.org/details/dizionariosicil00pasqgoog/page/n69/mode/2up. 

ITALIAN VERSION

Palermo 2200

Silvia Lavanco Livreri

Un rapido sguardo alla cartina sul muro, raffigurante una città che, pur essendo la sua, sembrava un’altra. Nessuna nostalgia nel suo sguardo; d’altronde, per una ragazza nata nel 2186 Palermo è sempre stata come la vede fuori dalla finestra di camera sua: via Roma angolo Corso Vittorio Emanuele, solo una strada tra lei e il porto.

Esce di casa a passo svelto, è ancora arrabbiata con i suoi genitori, chissà per quale futile motivo – ma, si sa, nonostante l’afa e il mare torbido che incombe minaccioso, l’adolescenza è pur sempre l’adolescenza e, anzi, forse al giorno d’oggi è un’adolescenza ancora più dura: non ci sono molti coetanei con cui condividerla.

Cammina. Secondo la cartina doveva esserci una lunga via prima del lungomare, lo pensa come se pensasse ad un posto leggendario: ha visto delle foto, ma le sono sembrate né più né meno che disegni di un posto utopico, talmente lontano da non riuscire neanche a sognarlo…ma d’altra parte è luglio e fa troppo caldo persino per dormire, figuriamoci per sognare. Da quando avevano vietato i condizionatori poi…Come se questo potesse bastare, potesse cambiare le cose, il suo pensiero ha un tono sprezzante. Ha quattordici anni, è giovane, mica stupida: è perfettamente consapevole che, a questo punto della storia, ogni azione intrapresa dal governo cittadino è soltanto un modo per pulirsi le coscienze, una panacea per un disastro ormai avvenuto da tempo. Avrebbero dovuto agire prima, prima che le alluvioni fuori stagione iniziassero ad alternarsi al caldo estremo, senza mezze misure. Prima che, infine, la pioggia diventasse soltanto un ricordo. Prima che il mare guadagnasse posizioni sulla costa e gli abitanti le perdessero.

Il bel mare di Palermo, amico dei palermitani. Ne aveva sentito parlare, stava lì, al posto di quel nemico acquoso torbido e puzzolente. Non lo avevano salvato, il mare, i palermitani. Non li aveva salvati, i palermitani, il mare. Forse per questo è così arrabbiata oggi, ci riflette mentre gira l’angolo verso quella che una volta era la Cala: pochi ragazzini e poche ragazzine in giro, nel 2200, e le tocca anche cercare il necessario per la festa di oggi. Festino1, festino, ma che avranno ancora da festeggiare?. Urta una piccola bancarella e si incupisce più di prima.

«Accura!»2

«Mi scusi.»
«Unni va, accussì mutriata?»3
«Cercavo le lumache per oggi…» e, come per darsi un tono e prendere le distanze, utilizza meccanicamente l’italiano, che subito si scontra con il dialetto dell’anziana signora. «I babbaluci4! Ca su, chista è tradizione antica…tuttu l’annu ricinu ca ri sti cose un si n’avissiru a vinniri chiù, ca un c’interessa chiù a nuddu. Poi arriva u fistinu e vannu circannu babbaluci…palermitani, sempre accussì5!».
E in effetti intorno a loro era tutto un fermento: ad ogni angolo, esseri umani sudati e affaccendati spostano l’immondizia, spingono via l’acqua dalla strada. Nascosti all’interno dell’Ex Real Fonderia, in quel che resta dell’omonima piazza, alcune persone danno gli ultimi ritocchi al protagonista della giornata: “u carro6”.
«St’annu s’apprecaru assai, un fu facile a fallu, cu stu cavuru, ma un si po’ arrinunciare, u sai7».
«Ma io chi sacciu? Sacciu ca un si putia fari u fistinu e invece viu ca u fannu tutti l’anni, a chi serbe8?». Stavolta risponde in dialetto anche lei, si è innervosita: tutto questo attaccamento alla festa, perché? È solo una processione, è solo una cosa popolare, c’è tanto altro a cui pensare, ma questo non lo dice.
«Picciridda, serbe pa arricurdariti cu si, picchì si t’arricordi chistu, avemu ancora spiranza…».9

Ore 16:00

Il sole penetra da alcuni buchi sul tetto dell’antica Fonderia e picchia sulle nuche chine intente a lavorare: il turno notturno non era bastato e, coprendosi come meglio possono, adesso le persone volontarie danno gli ultimi ritocchi al carro. Un ragazzo sulla trentina maneggia con leggerezza, nonostante i grossi guanti, gli attrezzi che il caldo pomeridiano aveva reso incandescenti – a poco evidentemente servono i deboli sistemi di refrigerazione. A guardarlo da lontano, gli strumenti non sembrano altro che un prolungamento della sua mano tanta è la dimestichezza: una perfetta apparente fusione tra corpo umano e materia. Nessuno dei due subisce, nessuno dei due è inerte. La mano sa quale vite stringere, eppure il cacciavite sa quale movimento compiere. Un’alleanza, questo sta pensando il ragazzo guardando con gli occhi quello che avviene all’estremità dei suoi arti, come non fossero suoi. È la stessa sinergia che vede intorno a sé. Le persone affaccendate quasi danzavano intorno al carro in una sincronia – chissà poi quanto consapevole – dei movimenti: i loro passi, i loro gesti intessono una tela.
Adesso sposta lo sguardo verso l’opera quasi ultimata: è imponente. La struttura è tutta in legno, variopinta e alta almeno cinque metri. Ricorda una barca poggiata su quattro ruote; la parte inferiore è così grande da contenere almeno dieci persone affacciate al parapetto e tutto il materiale che serve per la parata. Sulla parte anteriore è stato ricavato un pulpito da cui qualcuno avrebbe dovuto tenere il suo discorso annuale. Un tempo, tanti anni prima, vi si affacciava il sindaco della città per un breve saluto e poi molto spazio era dato ad attrici, attori e persone che raccontavano storie, recitavano poesie, incitavano la folla. Oggi è diverso: nessuno vuole esporsi così tanto, nessuno sa cosa dire per incoraggiare la gente. Le persone in quelle zone popolari non nutrono molta speranza per il futuro, la poca che hanno va curata, ma non è un’impresa facile, quando non se ne ha neanche per sé stessi. Dietro il pulpito, dal centro del carro, si erge una grande torre, una sorta di albero maestro, alla cui sommità sarebbe stata poggiata la statua della patrona: Santa Rosalia. È su questa struttura che la santa avrebbe sfilato lungo le vie della città, fino al mare. Sia chiaro, non si trattava di un grande giro – e a questo pensiero, il ragazzo, che intanto ha smesso di lavorare, sorride ironicamente –. La parte bassa della città, che un tempo si affacciava sul mare, si era notevolmente ristretta e nelle poche strade che ancora non erano state del tutto sommerse il tanfo e l’umidità rendevano poco piacevole il passaggio, motivo per cui avevano deciso di eliminarle dal giro della parata.
La discussione su come concludere la processione era stata lunga: chi diceva di fermarsi prima del mare, chi insisteva sul mantenere la tradizione e issare la struttura su una barca a mezzanotte e portarla a largo. Alla fine, si era deciso per una via di mezzo: issarla su una barca ma senza spingersi troppo lontano, altrimenti sarebbe stato più che altro faticoso e sporco. Ad ogni modo, la volontà era stata quella di cercare di rispettare il più possibile la secolare usanza – eccezion fatta per i fuochi d’artificio, che ormai erano stati banditi da anni –: si doveva chiedere una grazia e, si sa, per un grande grazia serve una grande dedizione.
«È bello quest’anno, il carro» dice.
«È bello sempre» gli fa eco una donna vicina.
«Quest’anno è più bello perché pensavamo di non farcela, con questo caldo…e senza soldi…e l’amministrazione che non ci appoggia più», commenta l’amica.
«Ci hanno provato, ma ormai lo sanno, se il palermitano vuole fare qualcosa…», ormai si è formato un piccolo capannello di gente che ammira il carro e dice la propria.
«Basta con questa retorica, il carro si deve finire…piuttosto dov’è chi deve parlare stasera?», chi parla adesso è sempre la persona più pragmatica e richiama rapidamente all’ordine.
«Passìa10 verso il porto…», dice il ragazzo sentendosi quasi in colpa per aver denunciato la persona che voleva soltanto stare da sola per un po’.
Chissà cosa dirà stasera, questo è solo un pensiero, ma l’amica a fianco sembra intercettare la sua preoccupazione, «Ce la farà?» gli chiede in un bisbiglio. Il ragazzo risponde guardando nel vuoto.

Ore 20:00

Ha deciso di fermarsi dietro la cattedrale11, per ricordarsi di guardare le cose da un altro punto di vista. L’enorme chiesa vista da dietro è bella tanto quanto vista da davanti, se non di più, perché ha il fascino delle cose nascoste, di quelle che cercano di non farti vedere e che tu invece vedi lo stesso. Anzi, giri appositamente l’angolo per guardarle. Il problema è che nel cantuccio in cui l’urbanistica le nasconde, vengono ammucchiate anche altre cose. Così siede, guardando dall’esterno la parte che corrisponde all’abside della Chiesa, tra un cespuglio secco e un cumulo di rifiuti. Si siede e pensa che dovremmo fare tutti così: non fermarci alla prima vista, non guardare una bella facciata e pensare che sia tutto lì, ma girarci intorno, chiederci: dove finisce? Finisce in un bel posto? Ci stupiremo nello scoprire che a volte sì, ma molto spesso purtroppo no. E poi a volte dovremmo sederci tra le foglie secche e l’immondizia e sentirci piccoli e grandi nel medesimo tempo, provare a sentire su di noi i problemi di ciascun essere che vive su questo pianeta e abbracciare la consapevolezza che non possa esistere una soluzione univoca per salvare la terra, ma che ognuno debba fare la propria parte, e questo sarebbe già molto più che abbastanza.
Qual è la mia parte?, si chiede, mentre di nuovo lo stomaco ha una stretta, Salire su quel carro? E dire cosa? Andrà tutto bene? Sembra già andato tutto male.
«Non devi farlo se non te la senti», la voce amica viene dalle sue spalle.
«L’ho promesso»
«Lo so»
Si guardano negli occhi accennando un debole sorriso.
«Sei qui in piazza da molto?»
«Non abbastanza. Fa caldo»
«Lo so»
«Come va di là? Si divertono?»
«Sì, non li ferma niente»
«Mi aspettano?»
«Meno di quanto aspettino la pioggia»
«Sai quanti secoli sono passati da quando la Santuzza12 ha fatto il miracolo e ha sconfitto la peste?» «Non mi ricordo…»
«Quasi sei, l’ho cercato per preparare il discorso…cinquecentosettantasei anni. E ora le chiedono la pioggia, sfidano la città, sfidano il caldo, sfidano l’incertezza e le chiedono qualche goccia. Non importa se siano religiosi o no, loro lo fanno. E io sono una persona grata per quello che vedo, per la loro dedizione, per la città che creano, per la comunità risoluta che hanno saputo tenere unita» «Anche se c’è sempre qualcuno che si arrabbia…», sorride di stanchezza.
«E la mia gratitudine va anche a loro, alle persone che mettono il muso e però si danno da fare, ai ragazzini e alle ragazzine che danno la colpa ai grandi, soffrono la solitudine e però porgono sempre l’orecchio a chi ha voglia di parlare. Agli anziani e alle anziane che si rummuliano13, ma poi sanno come darti conforto. Non si può essere perfetti, a ciascuno il suo, si è visto durante i preparativi». «Hai insistito perché facessero il festino anche quest’anno, pensavo non fossi dello stesso parere, che volessi investire tempo per fare altro, per riparare il porticciolo, per esempio, invece che per addobbare carro e viuzze, perché?»
«Perché c’è la siccità, perché non se ne può più, perché la gente sta cercando un miracolo e ha bisogno di cercarlo»
«Ma tu sei credente?»
«Non in senso religioso»
«E in che senso?»
«Io credo in loro, credo al fatto che troveranno un modo per far fronte alla mancanza di acqua, se non dovesse arrivare. Hanno preparato una festa in grande sotto il sole cocente, si saranno resi conto almeno di questo».
Si sentono schiamazzi, la processione deve essere vicina ormai.
«Andiamo, tocca a me».
Riguarda il foglio di appunti confusi che aveva preso, lo ripone in tasca: non è più necessario.

Ore 23:59

Il carro ha concluso il suo breve giro, attorniato da teste danzanti tra le vie del lungomare. “Evviva Palermo, evviva Santa Rosalia”, urlato come un mantra, una cantilena o una preghiera; che anche il più scettico a volte prega e anche il più credente a volte ripete meccanicamente.

La ragazzina ha preso posto a terra, è stanca di camminare. Si siede sulle balate14 e sembra che non le importi il calore che la pietra emana alla sera, dopo una giornata di sole battente. Nessun adulto vi si siede su, ma, da generazioni, è così che vanno le cose: i ragazzi e le ragazze si siedono sulle balate, non importa quanto siano calde, d’altronde non c’è alcun interesse nell’immaginarle più fresche di così.
Vede un ragazzo vicino alla barca dare indicazioni su come issare il carro e resta stupita dalla cura che dedica a quell’operazione.
Lei non guarderà il carro passeggiare sul mare, guarderà gli esseri umani che si sono adoperati per coordinare la giornata, chiedendosi se non sia tutto nei loro gesti il senso di tanto sperare.

Il ragazzo sta sudando più adesso che nel pomeriggio sotto il sole; quando finalmente il carro è stato issato sulla barca si è accorto di avere gettato in terra la sua maglietta. Si china a raccoglierla: è sporca, ma la laverà più tardi. Adesso la indossa, anche soltanto perché sente su di sé lo sguardo di una ragazzina dall’altra parte della strada, Chissà che pensa, le volge le spalle ma la avverte ancora. Lui non guarderà il carro passeggiare sul mare, guarderà il cielo, perché ci crede davvero.
L’amica tra un attimo gli si farà vicina e lo prenderà per mano, tenendo gli occhi saldamente chiusi, perché ha paura di non crederci abbastanza.

Chi ha parlato dal carro alla folla intorno s’incammina verso casa, volta le spalle al mare, tira un sospiro, si arrende alla stanchezza. Arresterà molto presto il suo passo, ma rimarrà fermo, con un piede sospeso a mezz’aria, come chi è indeciso tra andare e restare, gli occhi puntati verso Porta Nuova.

Infine, tra sguardi distolti e sguardi puntati, tra sopracciglia alzate e occhi bagnati, tutti guardano ciò che vogliono guardare come se fosse l’ultima volta…lo sarà?
Poi un sussulto unanime, una sola frase nel mormorio
«Fatta fu».

  1. “Festino” è il modo in cui i palermitani si riferiscono ai festeggiamenti in onore di Santa Rosalia (Rosalia Sinibaldi, Palermo 1130-1170) patrona della città dal 1625 quando, la storia ci dice, salvò la città di Palermo dalla peste.
  2.  It. «Attenzione»
  3.  It. «Dove vai, così imbronciata?».
  4.  It. “Lumache” tipiche del palermitano. È tradizione mangiarle durante l’estate in generale, ma, soprattutto, la sera del festino in onore della Santa Patrona.
  5.  It. «Qua sono, questa è un’antica tradizione…tutto l’anno dicono che queste cose non si dovrebbero più vendere, che non interessa più a nessuno. Poi arriva il giorno del festino e cercano lumache…palermitani, sempre così!».
  6.  Il carro di Santa Rosalia viene costruito ogni anno in modo diverso e portato in processione nella notte tra il 14 e il 15 luglio; il resto dell’anno rimane esposto in centro città.
  7.  It. «Quest’anno si sono impregnati molto, non è stato semplice costruirlo, con questo caldo poi, ma non ci si può rinunciare, lo sai».
  8.  It. «Quest’anno si sono impregnati molto, non è stato semplice costruirlo, con questo caldo poi, ma non ci si può rinunciare, lo sai».
  9.  It. «Bambina, serve per ricordarti chi sei, perché se ti ricordi questo, abbiamo ancora speranza…».
  10.  It. «Passeggia».
  11.  Oggi la piazza dalla quale si può ammirare dall’esterno l’abside della Cattedrale di Palermo si chiama Piazza Sett’Angeli.
  12.  “Santuzza” è il modo con cui comunemente i palermitani si riferiscono a Santa Rosalia. 
  13.   It. “Si lamentano”.
  14.  “Balata”, dall’arabo “balath”, pietra, è il nome delle lastre di pietra nera con cui sono costruite le vie del centro storico.

Bibliografia e sitografia

Giarrizzo S., Dizionario Etimologico Siciliano, Herbita Editrice, Palermo.


Pasqualino F., Rocco R., Dizionario siciliano-italiano compilato su quello del Pasqualino, Giuntini, 1859, consultato all’indirizzo https://archive.org/details/dizionariosicil00pasqgoog/page/n5/mode/2up.


Storia del Festino di Santa Rosalia: https://www.comune.palermo.it/storia-festino-santa-rosalia- palermo.php.

Srinagar in 2200: A Paradise or Paradise Lost?

Mumtaz Ahmad Numani

(Post-doctoral fellow, Moturi Satyanarayana Centre, Krea University)

Email: mumtaznumani@gmail.com

“Although, this atlas entry titled, “Srinagar in 2200: A Paradise or Paradise Lost?” explores the possible futures for Srinagar city in 2200 while exploring its past and the present ecological histories, I would like to introduce first to the readers Kashmir’s history, with a particular focus on Srinagar’s landscape gardening development culture. This, I hope, will engage readers to understand Srinagar—previously known as the city of gardens. Moreover, after reading this essay, the readers should develop a better understanding of the current landscape dynamics, and will learn about Srinagar’s inspirational ecological past in such a way that they can provide imaginative answers to the two following questions: if ideas and practices from the past were adapted, how would Srinagar look like in 2200? And, if unplanned urbanization continues apace, how differently might Srinagar look in 2200?”

1. Introducing landscape gardening culture:

Although there are several historical accounts that one might rely on to explore Srinagar’s ecological past, however, this essay mostly draws its analysis from Tarikh-i-Hassan[1] which engages its readers to think of the Kashmir’s ecological past, particularly the Srinagar’s landscape gardening culture and its various histories. With that literary substance in account, it [Tarikh-i-Hassan] provides us a lesson on, how historical knowledge can help us understand the ecological past of a city; and also help us imagine more precisely the kinds of futures that the city might have—given the present landscape view and/or unplanned urbanization.

Tarikh-i-Hassan reports that the Rajas (Kings) of Kashmir had developed gardens from the early period (Hassan Khuihami, 1954; Shamsuddin Ahmad, 2003).  Therefore, the concept of garden culture in Kashmir goes back to early times before the advent of Islam in the 14th century. A variety of gardens mostly in the form of orchards created in the valley were actually influenced by the concepts of Vatikas (or wooded pleasure gardens) of early India (Mughal Gardens in Kashmir, 2010). These orchards, endowed with a variety of plants (flowers, herbs and fruit plants), were to act as refreshing visiting places for people as are the today’s gardens. For example, among the earliest of such gardens (orchards) in early Kashmir, was the Bagh-i-Toot (Mulberry Garden), first laid out by a Hindu saint Maya Swami and later developed by succeeding Muslim rulers. Maya Swami was a hardworking saintly person living in solitude on the mountain side of Takht-i Sulaiman, who laid-out a wonderful garden on the edges of canal ‘Chounti Kol’, named Takya Maya Swami. The people of the city were visiting this place for refreshment purposes. It is said that, Hazrat Mir Muhammad Hamdani purchased the aforementioned landscape area later on. The landscape area passing through the edges of river Jhelum was first maintained and then connected from Amira Bridge to Takht-i Sulaiman. Afterwards, Hazrat Mir Muhammad Hamdani grafted mulberry trees in large numbers in it, which was endowed as a pasture land for the city animals. Some trees continued to exist until the period of Durrani emperors[2] (Hassan Khuihami, 1954; Shamsuddin Ahmad, 2003).  However, the gardens developed and maintained by the Hindu Rajas of Kashmir in early times extinguished over the passage of time. Given the current morphological structure of the Srinagar’s landscape, today, one cannot even locate the original places where these gardens were built in Kashmir. But one might want to know then, how the idea of landscape gardening culture flourished in Kashmir’s Srinagar with an artistic perfection?

It is an established fact that the art of landscape gardening was very much familiar to the Persian people from early times. Here, it bears to mention that, with the establishment of Muslim rule in Kashmir, some knowledgeable leaders from Persia kept coming to Kashmir to be in the court of the rulers. With the passage of time, these innovative immigrants created a great impression among the common people of Kashmir, as well as on the court of the rulers. Among other dozens of things that gradually flourished in Kashmir with the coming of Persian people, the art of landscape gardening stood out as the best.

With these creative Persian immigrants on their courts, the sultans of Kashmir had become very fond of laying beautiful gardens. For example, Sultan Zain-ul-Abideen, lovingly called Bod-Shah[3] (The Great King) among the locals, was a pioneer in creating the most notable gardens in the Valley. He is credited with developing a large beautiful garden on a four-mile square piece of land at Zainagir.[4] To the one side of it, he built towering buildings and on the other side, he planted rows of trees and flower beds; and between these buildings and plants, fountains, water canals and water-falls had been successfully set up. The environs of the garden had become so great that the king and his close aides were frequently making visits to charm themselves. Sultan Zain-ul-Abideen had also built some more beautiful gardens, one of which was built at Na’la-bal[5] (Image 1.1), of Naushera (Images 1.2 and 1.3). To the water arrangements of this garden, a royal canal was dug out from Sind-lar which flowed through the middle of this garden. Hassan informs that the garden was in stable position up to the Sikh rule.[6] (Hassan Khuihami, 1954; Shamsuddin Ahmad, 2003).

The other notable gardens during this period were built by Hussain Shah Chak and Yousuf Shah Chak. Hussain Shah Chak developed a large garden in village Nauhata, which was adjacent to the Shrine of Hazrat Khawaja Moinuddin Naqshbandi (Image 1.4). A water canal by the name of “Lachma-Kol”[7] was brought into the garden; and also, some waterfalls and fountains were built into it. Similarly, Yousuf Shah Chak on the edges of river Jhelum developed a vast garden of different flowers and plants from Fateh Kadal (bridge) to the ghat of Dal hasan yar. This garden consisted of thirteen compartments/stages; and its traces were found till the rule of Afghans in Kashmir (Hassan Khuihami, 1954; Shamsuddin Ahmad, 2003).

Image (1.1): View of the Na’la-bal (watercourse) of Naushera, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Image (1.2): View of Naushera Srinagar from the side of road. Photograph by the author.

Image (1.3): View of Naushera graveyard. According to the local residents, this is the place where Sultan Zain-ul-abideen had built the large garden. Photograph by the author.

Image (1.4): View of Nauhata chock (adjacent to Jamia Masjid) near Shrine of Hazrat Khawaja Moinuddin Naqshbandi, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Thus, the foregoing description (of the gardens built in pre-Mughal period), derived from the historical accounts, makes it clear that the art of landscape gardening with artistic perfection started with the coming of the Persian immigrants to Kashmir. Those gardens were almost similar in pattern to the Persian gardens. But, what perhaps the Mughals did later, as a report on the Mughal gardens of Kashmir remarkably observes, “was to work on a refinement of the set pattern and thus taking the art of landscape gardening to a new height” (Mughal Gardens in Kashmir, 2010). Thus, one might ask then:Did the Mughals take the art of landscape gardening in Kashmir to a new height for self-gratification only? And, what important lessons those past regional landscape gardening projects communicate to the human cultures across time and space?

Although, nature in any form has always been attractive and gardens of any type contribute, “not only to the look of our landscape, but also to the wisdom of our thinking about the [landscape ecology] and environment” (Mark Francis & Andreas Reimann, 1999). Thus, gardens, particularly in our age, act as a safeguard to the environmental crisis emerging locally and globally. Therefore, scholars wrestling with the core environmental issues consider past and present-day landscape gardening projects as a significant subject of study.

From an environmental perspective, the ruler’s (and/or emperor’s) ecological landscape engagements have been given less attention as far as intellectual wisdom is concerned. Current environmental issues have given us a reason for exploring the ecological landscape engagements in the past for our general understanding. Here, it is noteworthy that the Kashmir’s ecological landscape engagements as a cultural practice have been perceived mostly as an act of leisure and pleasure. This perception emerging from previous scholarly interpretations of the landscape gardens completely negates the richness of human intellectual wisdom shown in the past. This perception also underplays the human character involved in past sustainable development practices. The rulers in the past did not look upon the province of Kashmir just as a pleasure ground; rather their persistent ecological engagement with its landscapes provide a somewhat deeper concern with what now constitute core environmental issues. 

2. Srinagar-the city of gardens, lakes and rivers:

Nowadays, “one can hardly think of a natural system that has not been considerably altered, for better or worse, by human culture” (Foltz et al; 2003). And, if one has to look at the regional level, those landscape changes had occurred in the valley of Kashmir, mostly in the urban city of Srinagar. Srinagar (See Map below), the summer capital of Jammu and Kashmir, an ancient city with a rich history and culture, situated in the centre of the Kashmir Valley on the banks of the Jhelum River, cannot be imagined without the lakes (For example, Dal lake. Image 2.1), rivers (Jhelum. Image 2.2), and particularly the marvellous landscape gardens (Shalimar and Nishat gardens. Images 2.3 and 2.4). These natural assets and the hundreds of other gardens were planned and commissioned by various rulers, but mostly by the Mughal emperors[8] and their governors in Kashmir. For example, according to Hassan Khuihami[9], not less than six hundred (600) gardens were developed in the Kashmir valley particularly during the Mughal period.Hassan records a short biography of not less than a hundred gardens.However, it is very unfortunate to notice that only a few landscape gardens have survived in the city of Srinagar, which begs the following questions: How did this huge transformation in the landscape of the Srinagar city happen? And/or, how were these landscape gardens extinguished?

As mentioned earlier, in the total number of gardens in Kashmir valley, the maximum number of gardens were developed in Srinagar, mostly around the Dal Lake. Therefore, much like Lahore of Punjab, Srinagar of Kashmir, too deserved an appellation of being called ‘the city of gardens.’ Hassan Khuihami, gives a strange reason for the extinction of most of the landscape gardens in Kashmir. He records: “The animosity between two opposite communities/ groups (or, individuals) often ended up in destroying the valuable properties of each other.  In Kashmir, the gardens having an abundance of fruit trees, flower plants and a few beautiful inner buildings were considered the valuable properties. Unfortunately, while taking the revenge against each other, these gardens often became the main target of destruction. For example, a large beautiful garden with several arrangements built at Zainagir by Sultan Zain-ul-Abideen was set on fire during the night by the Pandow Chaks of Trehgam. With this incident, the garden of Zainagir was completely destroyed and never became a garden again” (Hassan Khuihami, 1954). A couple of more incidents of the same nature have been recorded by Hassan.

What Hassan records above might be one of the major reasons for the extinction of the landscape gardens in Kashmir. However, I would like to suggest another reason for the extinction of the landscape gardens in the Srinagar city, particularly around the Dal lake. Srinagar from the very beginning constituted an epicentre of business/trade for the local communities of Kashmir valley. The landless communities who had been temporarily living in the adjacent areas might have been the first of the communities[10] who had settled down on the peripheries of the Dal lake. Moreover, with the decline of the Sultanate, Mughal and other dynastic rulers in Kashmir, the local but comparatively rich communities—who had money and access to businesses opportunities in the city—had also started settling in Srinagar. Therefore, over time, Srinagar had started becoming more populated and urban, which had gradually become the reason for landscape encroachments, and landscape transformation into commercial and permanent residential colonies. For instance, the very nomenclature of Naseem Bagh (Images 2.5 and 2.6),[11] Nageen Bagh (Image 2.7), Aisha Bagh (Image 2.8), Kothi Bagh (Image 2.9), Ram Bagh (Image 2.10), Illahi Bagh (Image 2.11) and Badami Bagh,[12] here I only mention a few, clearly suggests that these were past landscape gardens which had been transformed into the well-established commercial and residential colonies, with large roads and markets inside in the capital city of Srinagar. Such a radical transformation over the years would be cited as an example of ‘development’. But, simultaneously such a ‘development’ has also become a process of ‘erasure’ in which the past landscape gardens have been completely extinguished.  Thus, other sets of questions call our attention: What impact does such landscape transformation have on the city ecology and climate? And, what appellation the Srinagar city will deserve in 2200, a paradise or paradise lost?

Over the years, conversion of the garden landscapes along with the agricultural and wetlands around the Dal lake into residential and commercial settlements might have benefited the select communities of Kashmir; but, on a large scale, it appears that this transformation has produced a negative impact on the internal morphology, ecology, and climate of the Srinagar city. Although, the chroniclers, from ancient to early modern times, presented the valley of Kashmir as “Paradise on Earth” and/or “Switzerland of Asia”, particularly around the Dal lake which was often happily referred to by the European chroniclers as “Venice of the East”, however, it is important to note that the present morphological structure and ecological functioning of the waterscapes and landscapes of the city speak volumes against the depicted reality. 

Besides, the landscapes around Dal lake (and within the reaches of Dal lake even) have been consistently coming under new unplanned residential and commercial settlements. These new settlements are the direct cause for the decreased size and volume of the city’s green and water landscapes. For example, out of the hundreds of the flourishing green spaces, only a few garden landscapes exist today across the whole of the city. Formerly and around 1200 AD, the world-famous Dal lake-(which is the lifeline of the city), “covered an area of 7500 ha. But now, the lake area was almost reduced to one-third of its size in the 1980s, and was further reduced into one-sixth of its original size in the recent past. In fact, it has lost almost 12 meters’ depth” (R. Mahapatra, 2017).

The rapid illegal encroachments on the city have given birth to unplanned urbanization, which spurred the publication of a dozen articles raising the public concern on the looming ecological crisis across the city in the foreseeable future. These scientific reports suggest that the sustainable existence of the Srinagar city (which as mentioned earlier is mostly dependent on the world-famous Dal lake) is at high risk[13]. This is clear from the fact that the continued illegal encroachments and unplanned urbanization have altered the city’s climate patterns. One such report, prepared by the Centre for Science and Environment observes: “The loss of water bodies, and green landscapes (italics added) of Srinagar has, in fact, a bearing on the microclimate of the city, as meteorological data recorded during the past century suggests a rising trend in the mean maximum temperatures during the summers[14]. On July 15, 1973, the highest temperature ever recorded in Srinagar was 35.5 ºC. On July 7, 2006, it rose to 39.5 ºC. It is suggested that the rise in mean annual temperature in the area is mainly due to loss of water bodies, and green landscapes, since a considerable amount of evapotranspiration with a cooling effect might have been taking place in the past due to these valuable ecological assets during summers. What is more, the construction boom often leads to an increase in summer temperatures due to the creation of urban heat islands” (Soma Basu, 2014).

The report quoted above suggests that the loss of green landscapes and waterscapes occurred over the years have a direct bearing on the ecological functioning of the Srinagar city, which signals that the practice of illegal city encroachments and unplanned urbanization has not stopped and, henceforth, the city which was known as the city of gardens, lakes and rivers, and deserved the appellation of “Paradise on Earth”, “Switzerland of Asia” and/or “Venice of the East”might fall in the category of a dystopian city and/or a paradise lostin 2200?

Reflection: This essay structured in two parts is a non-fictional creative story mostly derived from reliable historical knowledges. Does the historical (and/or scientific) data “quoted” in the essay authenticates us to see the Srinagar city happening without the world-famous Dal lake & the landscape gardens in the next hundreds of years? Can our wisdom afford to see that? And, what would that be called in environmental humanities, ‘development’ and/ or ‘erasure of ecological past’?

       Map[15]: Indicates the topography of Srinagar, which is the summer capital city of the state of Jammu and Kashmir, India (UT after post-August 2019). The map was prepared in 1924. Source: Adopted from Department of Ecology, Environment and Remote Sensing, Bemina Srinagar-10.

Image (2.1): View of the Dal Lake, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Image (2.2): View of the river Jhelum from the side of Raj Bagh, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Image (2.3): Views of the Shalimar garden, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Image (2.4): Views of the Nishat garden, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Image (2.5): View of the Naseem Bagh (inside campus, University of Kashmir). Photograph by the author.

Image (2.6): View of the Naseem Bagh from the side of Dal lake (right side). Photograph by the author.

Image (2.7): Views of the Nageen Lake (bottom), and Nageen Bagh (top), Srinagar. Photographs by the author.

Image (2.8): View of the Aisha Bagh adjacent to Nageen Lake, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Image (2.9): View of the Kothi Bagh, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Image (2.10): Views of the Ram Bagh, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

Image (2.11): View of the Ellahi Bagh, Srinagar. Photograph by the author.

References:

  1. Basu, S. (08 September, 2014). Unplanned urbanisation, encroachment blamed for Srinagar flood. Down to Earth Magazine.
  2. Foltz, Richard C. et al; (Eds.), (2003). Islam and Ecology, Harvard University Press.
  3. Khuihami, Peer Ghulam Hassan. Tarikh-i-Hassan, (Ed.), Sahibzada Hassan Shah, (Srinagar, 1954) Vol. 1st, The Research and Publication Department, Srinagar, pp. 281-283, 306; Ahmad, Shamsuddin. Urdu transl. Shams-ut-Tawarikh, (Srinagar, 2003), Vol. 1st. pp. 293-294, 313. 
  4. Mahapatra, Richard et al; (Eds.), (2017). Environment Reader, Centre for science and environment, New Delhi, p.28.
  5. See, Mughal Gardens in Kashmir (2010). Report submitted by Permanent Delegation of India to UNESCO, (Ref. 5580).
  6. Pollan, M. Beyond Wilderness and Lawn, cited in Francis, M & Reimann, A. (1999). The California Landscape Garden: Ecology, Culture and Design, University of California Press, p. XIII.

[1] Tarikh-i-Hassan of Peer Ghulam Hassan Khuihami originally written in the Persian language (in two volumes) is one of the acclaimed historical accounts that better informs us the historical ecology of the Kashmir, which includes the Srinagar’s ecological past.

[2] The Durrani rulers (Afghans) remained in power in Kashmir from 1752 to 1819 A.D.

[3] In Kashmiri language ‘Bod’ means ‘Great’ and ‘Shah’ during the medieval period was referred to ‘King’.

[4] Zainagir at present is in Sopore of Baramulla district of Jammu and Kashmir.

[5] Na’la means watercourse in the Urdu language.

[6] Here, it bears to mention that Mughals remained in power in Kashmir from 1586 to 1752 A.D. Thereafter started the Afghan rule which remained in power from 1752 to 1819 A.D. And Afghans were then overpowered by the Sikhs who remained in power in Kashmir from 1819 to 1846 A.D.

[7] Water canal in the Kashmiri language is called Kol.

[8] Kashmir was annexed to the Mughal rule by emperor Akbar in 1586 A.D., and Mughals remained in power in     Kashmir from 1586 to 1752 A.D.

[9] Peer Ghulam Hassan Khuihami was the reputable historiographer of Kashmir. He has authored Tarikh-i-Hassan in two volumes in the Persian language. Tarikh-i-Hassan is considered one of the principal historical scholars on the political and geographical history of Kashmir.

[10] See, Tarikh-i-Hassan Vol. 2, 13th Awrang/ Chapter on the period of Afghan rule in Kashmir (especially the period of Amir Khan Jawansher), mentions, how Hanjis/ Han’z/ Fisher communities (in Urdu, Kashmiri and English languages) of Nandpur had destroyed the gardens of Dal Lake.

[11] Bagh in Kashmiri (and Urdu) languages means garden. And, Naseem Bagh means, the garden of breeze.

[12] Badami Bagh adjacent to Dal Gate Srinagar is a Cantonment town now.

[13] See, Romshoo, S.A; and I. Rashid. (2012). Assessing the Impacts of Changing Land Cover and Climate on Hokersar Wetland in Indian Himalayas. Arabian Journal of Geoscience. Wani, R. A. (2012). Impact of Areal and Demographic Changes on Urban Growth of Srinagar City. Journal of Chemical, Biological and Physical Sciences. 

[14] Green landscapes refer to garden landscapes.

[15] Here it is noteworthy that Dal Lake is divided into two parts. In the Map ‘Bod Dal’ in Kashmiri language means ‘larger part of the Dal lake’ and ‘Lokut Dal’ means ‘smaller part of the Dal lake’.

Avellino 2200

By Anonymous

Richard and Mary were lying naked on the bed, a pillow separating them in the vain hope that it would block the heat from their bodies. They loved each other very much, but on that rainy day, with 55-degree temperatures, they did everything not to touch each other in order to avoid further sources of heat. It was not, however, the first time the heat won out over their love.

– Shall we go to see the sea in Novanapoli? – Maria suddenly asked, lashing that silent veil lined only by the slow flow of sweat on their bodies.

– In this rain? Are you crazy Marì? and then I don’t think the FCPs (Popular Control Forces) would agree- answered an estranged Riccardo.

– I know, Riccà, but it’s been raining for fifty-nine days in a row, I can’t take it anymore staying indoors waiting for the URA (Food Supply Unit) to come and deliver the package to us. –

After the first ten days of uninterrupted rain, the authorities in Avellino had decided to shut down all non-strategic public centers and had imposed a ban on people leaving their communities unless authorized.

– Marì, what if the URA comes and doesn’t find us? What do we do? We don’t eat or drink anything all day? And then the URA would obviously report immediately to the FCPs-.

– Ricca’ we had another climate war, now you’re worried about a day without eating and some reprimands? Besides, we still have some water left, we’ll be OK. –

– It’s precisely because I went to war that I want to rest easy now. –

– You want to be quiet? Then I’ll touch you and we’ll see- said Maria with a playful air of defiance.

– Please, Marì, it’s hard enough to stand the heat as it is, then you go crazy too? –

– Then let’s go to the sea! Come on, it will be worth it! – Maria insisted

– No!

So, with a feline snap, Maria threw herself on top of Riccardo and began showering him with caresses and kisses but which at that moment were instruments of torture rather than demonstrations of affection.

Riccardo was unable to extricate himself from his partner’s warm grip, trying hard to shrug her off and babbling various moans and pleas until he had to give in.

– So what! Let’s go! Just get off from me! – and so Maria, with a contented and satisfied air, put an end to the “torture.” – C’mon, let’s go by bike too, we’ll only take a little while-Maria offered him the content, knowing how annoyed Richard was to walk even a few hundred meters. Normal for someone who, in his three days of work was forced to walk 5 km, all the way to Piazza Macello, since Maria needed the bicycle to go to Benevento.

Not so normal, however, was the name “Macello” for a square, if one did not know that in that place, three centuries earlier, in the 1920s, thousands of cattle a year were slaughtered and baked; a few decades later the slaughterhouse had given way to the “bus” station, the ancestors of the NS (supermagnetic shuttles), until it became , later, the most important production and distribution center of vegetable meat in the Italian Ecotransfeminist Republic (REI), as well as Riccardo’s place of work.

-Marì, I thank you for the bike offer, but in my opinion with ‘this rain if we take bikes we will end up dead (jamm a fini’ o campo santo)! –

– And how scary you are! And to think that my ancestors from Avellino had to travel at least an hour to go to the sea, you now, even though you live in Avellino, it’s just a stone’s throw away you’re afraid of a little rain? – Maria often teased Riccardo about his attitude, which she playfully called hyper-prudential.

– Yes, but they at least could take a bath, they were more motivated to go. We if we just strain that sour water with our fingers we’re likely to get our hand out from the sea with three more fingers – retorted Riccardo.

– For that you always have to thank your ancestors who, like you today, sat on their asses on the couch in their comfortable private homes while the first climate crisis was going on outside and they didn’t even notice.

-Ah, that’s it! When they did, if they did, something good it’s your ancestors, if they were jerks (strunz’), they are my ancestors? – Riccardo tried to retort but knew it was only a matter of time before he had to resign himself in the dialectical confrontation with Maria. Besides, she taught Marxist philosophy at the ‘Marielle Franco’ State Academy of Environmental Disciplines in Benevento, and dialectic was her bread and butter.

The two put on their acid rain suits and left the room. Without being seen by Mrs. Agata, the delegate for the management of the Gramsci Hostel, they slipped out and got on their bikes.

Novanapoli Bay was a 15-minute bicycle ride from Avellino and was named after the city of Naples, which had been completely submerged by the Tyrrhenian Sea the previous century. The last stretches of what was the Neapolitan province, however, had disappeared for good a few years before the ecological revolution in Brazil in 2148 (the year from which the new Marxian calendar begins). That same revolution that had broken out in the former Italy in 2151 and ended only in 2181, after the Second Climate War, between the militias of the ecotransfeminist revolutionary party and the pro-government militias led by the Democratic Party.

The bay began in the Baianese area, formerly part of the province of Irpinia, but the Neapolitan refugees who came to Avellino in the second wave of migration in 2112, had obtained, after the first climate war of 2126, that the bay be called NovaNapoli to pay homage to what, for them, was once the most beautiful city in the world and now devoured, with all its splendor, by that very sea so praised in the past.

The bay was accessed by crossing the former Monteforte Irpino nuclear power plant, decommissioned after the famous regional protest of 2079. Riccardo, whenever he had the chance, would gladly tell that story, feeling somehow connected: his great-great-grandfather had been one of the initiators of the protest that erupted after an earthquake severely threatened the plant’s stability. The nuclear disaster was averted only by a miracle or a stroke of luck.

They rode their bikes past the two dilapidated cooling towers that had now become a landscape element of the Avellino landscape, two more high ground among the already numerous mountains that enclosed the valley.

Riccardo and Maria arrived at NovaNapoli, risking falling several times because of the rain. They climbed a small turret to admire the view from above and leaned against the railing that overlooked the sea directly.

The rain was still beating violently and there was a strong wind, but the view of the sea managed to make up for that atmospheric discomfort they had suffered for too long.

– Did you see that it was worth it? – said Mary in a relaxed tone and with smiling face upward, seeking the caresses of the wind. She finally felt reborn after days and days of seclusion in the house.

– I must agree with you again this time- replied Richard, also satisfied, but more by the happiness on his own companion’s face than by the sight of the sea.

The two of them spent several minutes in strict silence, letting themselves relax by the sound of the waves violently crashing on the plinth below them. For Richard and Mary, the violence of the waves represented not the threat of a rough sea but the opportunity to discover the charms of a nature that, although altered and exhausted by long centuries of harassment, still held the full force of life.

It had already been several decades since the acidity level of the oceans had become too high to allow bathing; there was no stretch of coastline that was not bordered by railings and prohibition signs. Many generations had never experienced the enjoyment of a dip in the sea, including the generation of Riccardo and Maria, now in their 40s, who had recently learned to swim in Avellino’s new municipal pool.

It was perhaps the realization of this missed experience that made Maria’s gaze suddenly change, absorbed in contemplation of that stormy gray sea: an uncontrollable impulse was threatening her newfound tranquility, as if those crashing waves were knocking insistently inside her, she sensed their call deep inside her veins.

It was a matter of a few moments, and with the same feline impetus with which she had thrown herself at Richard a few hours earlier in bed she launched herself from the railing to be welcomed into the arms of the sea.

-Mari’!!- screamed terrified Riccardo, who did not even have time to observe the scene that Maria was already flying toward the water.

Fear had immobilized Riccardo, but it was only a matter of moments before he too joined her in the water.

Riccardo with his eyes half-closed and burning began shouting Maria’s name, wiggling all over the place, but receiving no response. Only seconds later, he heard her name called by a dim voice in the distance: -Ricca’! I’m here, come on!

Riccardo breathed a sigh of relief at seeing her a few meters away, but fear was already beginning to give way to anger.

-Mari’ but you are all crazy! How did you come up with this bullshit? Did you want to die? – Riccardo was furious, as much as he was fatigued by the violence of the waves that were slamming him left and right, dragging him under. Those few compulsory swimming lessons in sea readiness were saving his skin.

-Mari’ but you’re crazy! How did you come up with this nonsense? Did you want to die? – Riccardo was furious, as much as he was fatigued by the violence of the waves that were slamming him left and right, dragging him under. Those few compulsory swimming lessons in sea readiness were saving his skin.

-Ricca’, come and see what I found underwater! – Maria seemed to be completely immune to the swirl of waves above her. That excitement was giving her a strength she had never had before.

-I do not give a damn (Nun me fotte un cazz)! Let’s get out of here before we come to a bad end! – shouted Riccardo, already facing the shore that was a few dozen meters away.

The two began with great strokes and no small effort to swim and within a few minutes they were safely on shore.

-But how the f**k did you decided to do that? – as soon as he set foot out of the water, Riccardo immediately resumed verbally lashing out at Maria, who was not at all interested, however, in her companion: all her attention was on what she had found in the sea. -Ricca’, shut up and come and see! –

Riccardo crinkled his eyes, both in burning and disbelief at Maria’s words.

-But what did you find that was so important? –

-It would appear to be an old sweater, it was caught on the branch that scratched me when I dived to the seabed- replied Maria who was scrutinizing that object with particular attention: it was a faded brownish color, and seaweed and shells were caught between the holes in the fabric. Who knows how many years it had been there

– A jersey? It looks like just a very old rag to me! So many were recovered with archaeological research decades ago! – Richard could not indulge that enthusiasm, distracted by the filth dripping from that garment and understandably still reeling from the scare.

-But what rag and rag, it’s a T-shirt! Who knows how many years it had been there at the bottom of the sea! – Maria retorted.

-All right it’s a T-shirt but now throw it away it’s filthy! –

– But how do you get it! We have to take it to the Museum of the Remains in Naples! – Maria protested, hoping to have found something of value.

– They will have plenty of these “relics.”

– Let’s take it anyway, the museum delegate is a colleague of mine from the Academy, her name is Rita, surely she can tell us something. –

Richard pointed out that the museum had been closed, like every other service, for fifty days now.

-That’s okay, we’ll go directly to Rita’s commune- there was nothing for Riccardo to do, that day Maria was irrepressible, there was no way to make her desist from her ideas. Even the rain, which kept falling from the sky insistently, could no longer do anything to stop her.

-All right, I will come with you (t’ accumpagn’) but at least first let’s go to the Shower Center and take off this crap from our skin (ra cuoll’)- continued Ricardo- although I imagine, they won’t be very happy to see us again since already day before yesterday we used the service- Ricardo’s remark was not at all unfounded since the Hostel’s Shower Center was only accessible twice a week. Twice-a-week body cleaning was actually a recent “achievement”-a few years ago acid water transformers had been tested and put into operation. Not enough was being produced to meet daily use, but through equitable redistribution a service for all citizens was guaranteed.

The two took their bicycles and headed for the hostel.

-Goodness! How did you two get yourselves together? More importantly, how did you allow yourselves to go out without permission? – the Hostel delegate reacted shocked and enraged at the sight of the pair.

– Taking water from the rain was not enough for us so we decided to take a dip in the sea…-Richard replied with annoyed irony.

– Into the sea! Has the heat gone to your head? That water is toxic! Do you want to put the whole hostel at risk?

– Of course not! – replied Riccardo – precisely for that reason, since we would like to avoid turning into other beings could we use the shower service again? -.

– You took a shower yesterday couldn’t you…-not even time to finish that Riccardo pressed her- Yes yes, we know that, but you see, is it better one less shower for others or another bacterial outbreak around? – Riccardo was appealing to the fears of Mrs. Agata, who had already faced such situations several times in the past.

The delegate thought about it for a few seconds, just long enough to imagine a very unpleasant scenario for the hostel, after which she waved for the two to follow her.

She led them to the shower center where she set up the water purifier just for the two of them.

-Make it quick, mind you! Try to use as little water as possible- Ms. Agata warned them after which she took her leave.

Cleaned and refreshed, Richard and Mary went up to their room, and when they opened the windows they saw, to their enormous amazement, that, after no less than 59 days in a row, it had finally stopped raining, or at least the sky had taken a break.

– At last, Ricca! – Maria was seized with irrepressible contentment while Riccardo with his usual annoyed humor merely said -Uà, couldn’t it stop raining when we went out?! And what he fuck! –

– Now we can go to Rita’s right away and show him the shirt-not even time to enjoy that view for the first time free of rain, after so many days, that immediately Maria’s thoughts turned to the heirloom she had found in the sea.

– What’s gotten into you today, Marì? You don’t stop for a minute! – Riccardo asked in an annoyed tone but Maria did not even dignify him with a glance, grabbed her shirt and headed out the door signaling for him to follow her.

He could not believe his eyes, he had no effect on her that day and all he could do was remain silent and follow her wherever she said.

The sun’s rays were slowly managing to make their way through the gray clouds that continued to threaten a resumption of the thunderstorm, but all the tenants of the Hostel were already on the street rejoicing and hoping that that interruption might really be the end of that seamless rain.

– Where does this Rita live? – asked Richard who was pantingly following Maria as they descended the various floors of the Hostel.

– At the Luxemburg commune, near the photovoltaic park. We will go with the NS – Maria answered.

– We cannot take the shuttle, the ban is still on! – replied Riccardo immediately.

– True, but now I contact Rita from the Hall to get special permission. A few weeks ago she told me the prefect has granted her, as the director of the Museum, the possibility to have special permissions if necessary. She will certainly do us this favor. –

Her eagerness to find out what the heirloom in her hand was led her to quickly come up with a solution to whatever impediment stood in her way.

– I don’t think that’s very fair. Can’t we go another day? Only now it has stopped raining, maybe the situation will normalize- Richard did not even give time to respond that he immediately continued- Okay, today it is useless to try to reason with you. I give up-. He had finally understood-.

At the contact center of the Hall Maria asked the manager to put her in touch with Rita Genovesi of the Luxemburg commune… -Hold on a few seconds- the manager told her.

– This is Rita, who is this? – said the voice coming out of the earpiece.

– Hello Rita, this is Maria from the Academy-.

– Hi Maria, how are you? Did you see, it finally stopped raining! –

– About time too, I couldn’t take it anymore! By the way, I just wanted to take advantage of this interruption to come see you. I need to show you something I retrieved from the sea. –

– At sea? How is that possible? – Rita asked with legitimate amazement.

– I’d explain everything if you could get me an authorization to take the shuttle and join you. I just can’t wait. –

– Yes, of course, no problem! Give me five minutes and I’ll get it to your local council office. Give me the address! – Mary’s prediction about the director’s availability was correct.

– Thank you from the bottom of my heart! The address is 47 Ramiro Marcone Street, Gramsci Hostel. –

– Perfect! Five minutes and the authorization will arrive. See you in a few. –

– See you in a little while – the contact broke off.

Maria and Riccardo stood waiting waiting for the manager to hand them the code to insert in their key card and show to the Shuttle driver.

-You really get it all today, Marì! – said Riccardo with a smile of amazement plastered on his face.

– Did you have any doubts? – replied Maria feigning a pseudo-vanity that never belonged to her.

– Here is the code, have a nice day! – said the manager.

Maria and Riccardo were waiting for the shuttle in front of the hostel as they watched their tenants celebrating and dancing in the street not caring that the ban was still in effect.

– Here it is, it’s coming! – Richard caught a glimpse of the NS coming hurtling down the magnetic tracks in the distance.

The shuttle stopped in front of their feet and the two climbed onto the platform that slid from the bottom of the shuttle.

– Key, please- said the driver to the two.

Maria gave their key card and the driver entered it into a display on the dashboard. A white background appeared on the display with the words, “I, Rita Genovesi, following the provisions of the prefectural ordinance, authorize the* applicant* Maria Iermano and Riccardo Picariello to exit the Hostel and use the Shuttle for work purposes.”

– Perfect, you may board-

The two settled into the seats at the back of the completely empty shuttle. Riccardo leaned his head against the window, tired and reeling still from the waves of the sea that had tossed him hither and thither, while Maria leaned on Riccardo’s shoulder clutching in her hands the T-shirt he watched without ever taking his eyes off her.

The shuttle departed; Riccardo scrolled through the sights of his town and had a hard time imagining how that immense concrete constellation of dilapidated private houses and abandoned buildings was once part of an area that his ancestors from Avellino called the Verde Irpinia, as reflected in archival documents. There was very little left of green; the building speculation of the 1920s had wiped out much of the greenery of the province, which was renowned throughout former Italy for the many agri-food products it exported to the world and of which there was a memory left in archival documents, from tasty chestnuts to sought-after cheeses, from the famous peanuts to delicious alcoholic beverages, the latter banned after the world water crisis of 2090.

It was a matter of ten minutes and the shuttle, which had meanwhile filled up with only two more people during the one stop, arrived at its destination.

They got off at Francesco Tedesco Street and headed in the direction of the photovoltaic park, one of the few energy production centers of the 2000s still in operation.

The Luxemburg commune was a cluster of five glass buildings that formed a semicircle around a large collectively cultivated vegetable garden, a source of much-needed food for all of the commune’s tenants, who had decided to give up their share of the URA food parcels.

Mary and Richard entered the commune’s collection center and asked the doorman to contact Professor Genovesi to announce their arrival.

-Good evening Mrs. Genovesi, l* Mr.* Maria Iermano and Riccardo Picariello are asking for you,‖ the doorman communicated through the intercom.

-Have them come up! Thank you, Fabrizio- replied the principal.

-Section C, extension 7- the doorman showed the two the route they were to take and politely took his leave.

With great ease they reached the door of interior 24 and knocked.

-Hello Maria! Please come in! –

-Good evening Rita! This is Riccardo, my companion-

-So what brings you here? What did you have to show me that was so urgent? – Rita asked.

-Urgent, actually, nothing. In fact, I apologize for what might have seemed to be precisely an urgent matter, the truth is that I very much want to know about this old T-shirt I found at the bottom of the sea. –

-Deep in the sea? And how did you end up there? – The principal obviously asked in amazement.

-Let’s forget it, it’s ‘na long story- intervened Richard who didn’t feel much like remembering what happened a few hours earlier.

-All right, I won’t insist- said Rita who turned to Maria in a whisper -then you tell me in private-.

-Here you go, this is what I found. I’m sure you’ll be able to give us some elucidation about it. –

-Let’s see what it’s about right away- Rita took the T-shirt and laid it on top of a light table. With brushes she began to remove the most superficial layers of encrustation after which she dipped it in a chemical solution and let it soak for a few minutes.

Maria anxiously followed the operation waiting to discover the story contained in that T-shirt.

Rita lifted it with two pliers at either end, and against the light, like an ancient photo-imprinted film, fragments of an inscription slowly began to appear.

“Buit” were the first letters to stand out on the front of the shirt and nothing else; on the back, however, more could be glimpsed. More letters in block letters on the top of the jersey, precisely in the center. It was quite easy to read “DONA” but what could be glimpsed underneath instead was still too faded to read.

Rita shuddered; she had the feeling that she had seen that pair of lettering somewhere before.

-I’m sure I’ve seen something like this before but I can’t remember where- Rita signaled with her head to Maria and Riccardo to come closer to see them as well.

Riccardo began to look curiously at the T-shirt but limited himself to a quick glance and then retreated to thinking on the sidelines. Maria, on the other hand, could not take her eyes off the writing that she repeated under voice over and over in the hope of enlightenment.

-It could be anything- said Richard.

-Certainly, but what are archaeologists for? – said Rita alluding to her known skills as an archaeologist.

Several minutes passed and the only thing they were certain of was that the two inscriptions were both stumped even though there was no sign of the other letters completing the two words.

-Waiting for us to come up with an idea, why don’t you tell me about this dip in the sea? –

Rita persuaded Riccardo to talk about what had happened in the morning and hung his shirt along a horizontal bar.

Maria continued with the story, offering to relieve an exhausted Riccardo, but, having reached the moment of the plunge into the water, she omitted the real reason that had prompted her to jump in. She reported only that she had leaned out too far to observe below her so much that she lost her balance and ended up in the water where Richard had not hesitated to jump in to save her.

-Good thing you both didn’t get hurt! – said Rita and continued -You didn’t tell me the most important thing though, where did you go, to Salifornia? (the bay on the other side of Avellino, named after the sunken city of Salerno.)

-No no, we went to Novanapoli, it is closer to our hostel. – Maria replied.

-There the view is stupendous! What a pity about that city, the historical archives describe it as one of the most beautiful cities in the world two centuries ago, and I must say, from what we found doing the archaeological salvage expeditions, they probably had a point.-Rita was a profound connoisseur of Submerged Naples, all of her youthful work had been focused on the recovery of Neapolitan art that came back to life, thanks to her archaeological research, within the Museum of the Remains of Naples.

– My maternal great-great-grandparents were from Naples-said Maria-My grandfather used to tell me many stories about his grandparents. One of the most peculiar things that stuck with me was that they were culturally very attached to the old game of soccer. Just think, they had made it almost a religion with even their own prophet, now the name escapes me, a certain Mar…, , Maro, Mara…-

-DONA! – exclaimed Rita aloud, who immediately sprang to her feet and ran to the shirt in excitement.

In the time of a chat the chemical solution had made other elements appear on the back under the writing but this time it was easy to decipher. They were the outline of two neighboring numbers “1” and “0.”

-Maria you found Maradona’s jersey! – exclaimed Rita elatedly who immediately ran to the other side of the room where there was a cabinet from which she kicked out a trunk.

Rita opened it and picked up what appeared to be a booklet.

– This is a photo album, in the twentieth century they used to collect photographs when they were taken with analog cameras. I received it as an inheritance from my grandmother in Naples and she from her grandmother in turn- explained the principal to the two- I knew I had seen that shirt before and as you can see from this photograph here there are several- Rita showed them an old and faded photograph depicting several people celebrating with scarves and flags and wearing what appeared to be the very same shirt that Maria had found.

-On the front it says Buitoni- Maria observed.

-Yes, that was the so-called sponsor, a capitalist practice that was widespread in that century- Rita clarified. And she continued-Maria, your grandfather was completely right when he said that the game of soccer was a religion in Naples and Maradona its prophet, they were a fundamental piece of the culture of that people of the past centuries. Neapolitan art of the late 20th century and early 2000s is full of works and statues depicting the face and exploits of Maradona; he was portrayed especially on the walls of every corner of the city. Together with the so-called patron saint, San Gennaro, they were the two deities that Neapolitans believed watched over the entire city. Difficult to explain that kind of veneration to a person of that time we can only succeed by making a comparison with monotheistic religions. As we read from various writers, Neapolitans sacrificed their time, their money, often and willingly even their health, in order to go and see Napoli (the city’s soccer team) play, and especially in the days of Maradona. For many it was an obsession, a disease, a reason for living, it meant everything-.

– Then we can call soccer the opium of the Neapolitan people- Maria said, quoting Karl Marx.

– No less, the Neapolitans were able to worship someone who all in all kicked a ball! – Riccardo had been in religious silence the whole time, but he could not hold back his astonishment at what seemed to him to be true mass madness.

-Yes, Riccardo, that’s right,‖ Rita confirmed to him, -But for the Neapolitans Maradona represented much more than just a soccer player. You have to know, that Napoli won its first soccer championship, or as it was popular to say then “scudetto,” thanks to Maradona’s soccer exploits. For the Neapolitan people that fact meant so much. It was a source of pride, but also of revenge on all of Italy, especially northern Italy.

In the twentieth century there was a strong discriminatory attitude toward what had been called southerners since the mid-nineteenth century, particularly toward Neapolitans. It dated back to the issue of the so-called “imperfect unification” of Italy. So yes, Maradona was a mere footballer but he gave hope and pride to an entire people. And Maria, today, brought back a unique and priceless artifact of Neapolitan culture.

Rita paused for a moment and then continued visibly moved-My grandmother, of course, never got to see a soccer game, even in her day it was a game no longer played, but even she, a woman of 2088, had been passed on all the culture and legend of Maradona. Although she knew nothing about soccer or what a scudetto was, she once told me this sentence that I understood well only after studying Neapolitan culture–“Rita, the Italian ecological revolution was like Maradona’s scudetto, no miracle!” – Rita stopped talking and grabbed a handkerchief to dry her eyes.

– I told you it would be worth it-said Maria giving Riccardo a kiss.

Pescara Anno 2222

By Anonymous

VERSIONE ITALIANO 

Adorato mio. Scusami tanto se non potrai vedere l’alba infuocata che mi ricordo dopo una notte in  bianco di quelle di risate e silenzi senza conseguenze. E’ perché tutto ci sembrava limitarsi a quel  momento: non pensavamo a cosa ci sarebbe stato dopo, al fatto che avremmo dovuto prepararci per  qualcosa, essere abbastanza forti, e che questo ci avrebbe portato a dover competere, a essere gelosi,  a voler dimostrare chi eravao attraverso il modo in cui volevamo essere visti da qualcun altro, e che  doveva essere obbligatoriamente migliore di come era lui. 

Vorrei tanto farti vedere un momento congelato in quell’istante in cui esiste solo un cielo rosa e  immenso. E’ che se lo vedessi ti accorgeresti che è tutta una bugia, e me ne accorgerei anche io.  Non lo voglio, a volte sento che esisto solo per continuare a reiterare quel momento, come  un’intelligenza artificiale rotta: che si ostina nel raccontarsi tante bugie non avendo mai  sperimentato davvero il mondo, senza sapere che cosa siano le bugie, di cosa stia parlando, o di  esistere. 

A volte mi chiedo se non sia auspicabile essere così, o se semplicemente dove sono io non si sia già  così. Intorno a me vedo solo macchine, persone che per programmare meglio le macchine si  mettono a pensare come ibridi da loro stessi creati, e pensano che sia meglio così. Tutti pensano che  sia meglio così. E questo viene premiato: non si va a esistere per sviluppare la propria individualità,  per credere che essa possa essere importante, ma per diventare qualcuno o qualcosa di cui c’è  bisogno. E’ che ricordo il signor Forester che amava questo. Che ci raccontava ogni giorno di  quanto fosse affascinante passare le giornate lì a scoprire di linguaggi di programmazione sempre  nuovi, a insegnarli alle macchine, a esplorare tutti i limiti che queste potessero infrangere. Lui lavorava nella sede più bella della sua azienda nel pieno di piazza salotto.  

Era un palazzo molto alto, fino al quarto piano era senza finestre, dal quinto piano in su le pareti  erano fatte tutte di vetro. E’ un vetro fatto per prendere più luce possibile e per vedere fuori, ma  composto da tanti strati trasparenti. Forester diceva che era perché i suoi capi dei piani di sopra  

avevano buon gusto, che gli piacevano i giochi di luce, ma in realtà quelle pareti di vetro non hanno  raggi di sole da intrappolare e rifrangere.  

Oggi so che è perché in realtà fuori è bello da vedere, ma non da mettere troppo a fuoco. Nei piani  alti dei palazzi di Pescara oggi è bella l’idea di poter vedere il mare, che al di là di un vetro sia ben  chiaro che esso sia vuoto, ma a un mare sporco come quello non si va.

Il signor Forester era contento di stare nel suo palazzo a programmare sistemi per altri palazzi come  quello: parlava dello splendore del posto in cui lavorava in preda a una grandissima vanteria, ma lui  vestiva camicie tutte larghe e colorate, che frusciavano in modo quasi fastidioso nel momento in cui  si metteva a gesticolare amabilmente per chiacchierare con ogni collega che incontrava: era in buoni  rapporti con tutti, ma in pochissimi si ricordavano di lui. 

Mi ricordo che aveva già una certa età, ma che non avrei mai voluto che il suo entusiasmo si  scontrasse con nulla del mondo intorno a lui che potesse fargli del male, così come lo avrei tanto  voluto per te. E’ che forse mi credevo superiore, o forse ero abbastanza grande da aver capito che  lui non era invincibile, ma che anzi lo era fin troppo. Ecco perché a un certo punto non volevo farmi  raccontare di come stesse male quando non era ascoltato da nessuno lì dove lavorava. Quando  facevo finta di non sentirlo piangere, perché lui la passione per quello che faceva ce l’aveva, ce  l’aveva davvero, eppure sembrava che non se ne accorgesse nessuno. Forse perché la stanza dove  stava la sua scrivania era troppo affollata, c’erano troppe persone e nessuna finestra: nessuno  riusciva a vederlo.  

Facevo sempre finta di non sentirlo, perché mi sembrava tanto più facile, perché non riuscivo ad  accettare che quella persona che rideva con tanta passione, che rideva solo quando qualcosa era  davvero divertente, non avesse intorno a lui pronto ad accoglierlo una capacità di perdonare pari a  quella che aveva lui. 

Vorrei raccontarti davvero tanto di lui: amava molto Pescara, era la sua città, era nato lì, e rideva  sinceramente di ogni cosa la riguardasse. Amava quella, come amava il suo lavoro e anche il suo  mare sporco. Tanto che quando ho iniziato a potermene andare, con sempre più frequenza a  Forester commentavo solo con “Nah, niente di che.”. “ Ma mi è mancata casa mia.” O con parole  che sminuissero tutto il resto. Non era perché mi sentivo superiore perché ero stata l’unica del mio  quartiere ad avere i mezzi per lasciare la città e vedere qualcosa al di fuori, ma perché davvero  attraverso i suoi occhi quella stessa Pescara che con le èlite infamavo per sembrare diversa dai  poveretti, dai cafoni che raccontavo la abitassero per far vedere di meritare di non essere lì, davvero  con gli occhi di Forester la trovavo un posto stupendo. Rivedevo quell’alba rossa che forse Forester  sarebbe stato in grado di apprezzare davvero, che lui ha visto ogni mattina, indipendentemente da  come fosse davvero grigio e pieno di polveri il cielo.  

Avrei tanto voluto che tu lo vedessi, il signor Forester. Quando vedeva un bambino piccolo e rosa  per strada lui sorrideva.  

Io il bambino lo guardavo disgustata, ma non perché lo fossi davvero, solo perché questo doveva  essere coerente con la persona spietata che dovevo sembrare agli occhi di chi come me all’epoca era  superiore. Lui non lo notava, perché quando sorrideva era sincero veramente. 

Mi hanno presa e portata via da quelle persone, da quella città. A un certo punto in quella piccola  scuola in cui stavo stretta con altre migliaia di ragazzi e in cui arrivavo da via Roma, studiavo più di  tutti altri, avevo un rendimento superiore a quello degli altri, ero più brava, ero migliore.  Pescara è tutta sporca, di lei guardavo un sole rosso che si levava dal mare come un’eccezione, un  qualcosa che per essere bello doveva essere astratto da tutto il resto, reiterato all’infinito da solo.  Pensavo che gli uomini-macchina che ragionavano così fossero altri. E’ che se avessi abbassato lo  sguardo dal sole avrei visto un mare tutto pieno di ferraglia, sporco, rifiuti, schifezze arrivate da  chissà dove. Mi piaceva l’idea di essere una persona che fosse in grado di trovare la bellezza. Mi  piaceva che la bellezza che vedevo io fosse un’eccezione. 

In certe città ci sono più risorse a controllare che l’accesso al mare sia limitato, ci sono barriere che  fanno in modo che solo certe persone lo raggiungono, e l’acqua sembra stupenda. Bassa e luminosa,  dalle venature di luce che sembrano guizzi visibili all’interno di una pietra preziosa.  A Pescara il mare puzza. Per trovare un posto sulla sabbia che non fosse pieno di mosche e  schifezze di vario tipo, io che ero ostinata cercavo per ore, così come per arrivare alla mia scuola in  via Roma con le suole pulite e zigzagavo evitando gli angoli maleodoranti. 

Mi sentivo l’orgoglio di Forester, pensavo che lui dovesse essere fiero di me. Eravamo in due, a  scuola, di giovani talentuosi, a suonare in conservatorio e insieme studiare, a tenerci in forma, fare  tutto lo sport necessario. Un giorno la mia collega ha iniziato a soffrire di forti dolori di stomaco, di  dissenteria: forse non ha retto le acque che arrivavano dal depuratore notoriamente e storicamente  rotto che abbiamo fuori città, o forse il ritmo che stavamo portando avanti. Ognuno reagisce in  modo diverso. Io ho reagito meglio. Pensavo che meglio fosse la parola giusta. 

A scuola l’aria era avvelenata: le aule erano bianche perché dovevano intrappolare più luce  possibile da fuori, sembrare più grandi, respirabili, spaziose. La luce da fuori non arrivava mai, ma  io e gli altri non lo notavamo: ci importava solo del luccichio che arrivava dai nostri computer, di  stare con gli occhi puntati contro di essi.  

Amore mio dicono che la rete non consuma, che usare la carta consuma, ma perfino tutti i ragazzi in  una piccola stanza di una scuola di una città come Pescara sanno che non è vero. Ecco perché neanche loro vogliono mettere al mondo un figlio. 

La stanza vibra perché tanti software sono in funzione, io ricordo che digito più veloce degli altri,  perchè sono più brava.  

Mi ricordo anche di un ragazzo che non lo è: lui sta parecchio lontano da me, dondola sulla sedia e  rischia spesso di cadere. Dondola e si distrae sempre, si morde l’orlo della maglia e piange spesso.

Piange sempre, quando era piccolo faceva un gran caos, ma anche adesso non è cambiato: si  arrabbia per la minima cosa, e si innamora facilmente. A lui piaceva Pescara, ricordo che per farlo  stare meglio gli dicevo che avrei chiesto i permessi per portarlo per un periodo in viaggio con me,  che il problema era la gente cattiva e meschina che era costretto ad avere intorno, che viveva in un posto brutto, senza storia o cultura, in una città di quelle in cui non succedeva niente e niente  sarebbe mai cambiato, ma non era così. 

A lui Pescara piaceva tanto, gli piaceva scorrere lo sguardo sugli scheletri in metallo delle case e i  loro rinforzi per reggere ai sismi quando rimaneva indietro a camminare. Gli piaceva stare lì a  guardare fuori dalla finestra della scuola in via Roma, anche se tutto quello che vedeva era un cielo  grigio, se quello che sentiva sulla sua pelle era un’aria densa e pesante. 

La città è divisa, ma è da considerarsi fortunata: per il fatto che ha il mare, che il mare è bello da  vedere dall’alto di un palazzo a differenza di altre città è stata rattoppata più volte dopo i terremoti. Hanno riempito le case delle periferie di travi di acciaio, gli hanno dato tante protesi così che  fossero più grandi e forti, quando stanno per cedere le iniettano di altro acciaio, così che esse siano  più scheletri che case. Non ci sono altre case a Pescara. Sono belli i posti in cui si lavora, lo sono a  metà, ma non è una città che persone come me vivrebbero. 

Mi ricordo le passeggiate per raggiungere la scuola perché quando si è piccoli è l’unico momento in  cui si passeggia: solo chi è troppo piccolo per guidare cammina, in una città che è fatta solo a  misura di certi bambini, e non certo quelli come il mio compagno distratto. 

Si va in macchina dove sono le case di acciaio, poi nelle vie di mare non si entra e basta.  Camminano pochi, entrarvi è un privilegio per chi lavora lì o entra di nascosto: ma pescara è una  città in cui si permette alle persone di entrare di nascosto nelle vie vietate, quindi è una città sporca.  Nessuno che ha modo di andare via ha voglia di camminare in una città sporca. Vuole vedere un  mare che un vetro elegante non permette di mettere troppo a fuoco, lo vuole vedere vuoto quando  gli va di guardare, ma non vuole andarci. 

Prima pensavo fosse il contrario: che chi non aveva voglia di camminare in una città sporca avrebbe  avuto modo di andare via. Ma non mi spiegavo perché allora per il mio compagno non fosse così. Il mio compagno stava sempre da solo, a causa di quei Pescaresi che mi piaceva definire cafoni e  ignoranti per discostarmi da loro. Gli ho detto molte volte che lui era superiore a tutti gli altri, che  non meritava di stare con gente stupida come quella, che io e lui eravamo diversi, che avevamo una  sensibilità superiore a quella degli altri, che per loro era difficile capirci. 

Oggi io sono sola e anche lui, anche se spero tanto che li a Pescara non lo sia. A scuola stava sempre al pc e a casa pure, quando parlava con le persone si intrecciava spesso, ci  teneva a portare fino alla fine tutte le frasi che cominciava e che il più delle volte erano troppo 

lunghe, tendeva a parlare troppo ad alta voce per farsi sentire. Anche io ero così, solo che mi  concentravo meglio, al computer facevo le cose giuste, e non mi incantavo a guardare fuori dalla  finestra o dondolare sulla sedia.  

Non voglio parlare di lui, ha passato tante cose e alla fine è rimasto lì. Con me che lo compatisco,  ma è come tutti gli altri: nessuno lascia Pescara, come nessuno lascia molte altre città. Invece voglio dire una cosa a mia madre.  

A mia madre, che a un certo punto ha smesso di vivere la maggior parte della sua vita per gioire del  mondo attraverso i miei occhi. Non riesco a immaginare una persona che possa fare la stessa cosa,  che possa dare così tanto. Ma a un certo punto non ti sentivi bella e volevi fare che io lo fossi.  Perché così sarei stata felice, per poter essere la prima in tutte le graduatorie di merito avrei dovuto  fare sport, e hai fatto tanto per farmelo fare. 

Perché così l’avrei incarnata subito, quella differenza con una città italiana, e per di più centro meridionale. Sono venuta su slanciata, proiettata verso l’alto, e brava a misurare i miei rendimenti  con dei programmi così da poter fare sempre meglio, e che quando sarebbe stata un’azienda di  quelle di fuori a farlo avrei saputo benissimo cosa aspettarmi. Non avrei mai avuto sorprese.  A mia madre, di cui ho parlato spesso per definire che tipo di donna sarei diventata: “mai come mia  madre.”, “io la ammiro tanto per quello che ha fatto, ma a sacrificare tutto quello che ha fatto lei per  un figlio io non lo farei mai.”. Solo che non avevo capito che eri una persona tanto forte e basta. Ho  cercato tanto di cancellare l’accento che avevi tu perché sarebbe stato un marchio ovunque fossi  andata. Perché vedevo, quando ti ho presentato il mio prima collega arrivato da fuori, come ti  guardava, come si appellava a te dicendo che eri apprensiva perché così erano le donne pescaresi,  come eri irascibile come le donne pescaresi. 

A mia madre: tu non volevi che andassi quella mattina a vedere il sole sorgere dal mare, dicevi che  mi sarei incagliata in qualche cancello ancora chiuso nel tentativo di scavalcarlo, che non avrei  saputo superare la barriera di uffici che pretendono di avere vista mare, che mi sarei perduta nelle  vie che si facevano sempre più piccole nella vertigine dei palazzi che si ergevano nella loro altezza  per allontanarsi disgustati da quello che c’era sotto. 

Tu mamma avevi spesso paura di perderti tra quelle vie in prossimità del mare, che sembravano  essersi dimenticate di gente come te. Quando pensavo che esistesse la “gente come te” dicevo che  non avrei voluto esserne parte: pensavo fossi tu una donna incapace di districarsi tra i vari divieti di  accesso, zone dedicate ai dipendenti degli uffici, e tra le sole auto che si vedevano passata la zona  centrale, di piazza salotto, dei palazzi e della bella vista mare. Pensavo non fossi una donna  abbastanza indipendente, abbastanza coraggiosa o con il sangue abbastanza freddo da saper reagire 

con la faccia tosta a un poliziotto che ti fermava dicendo che un certo limite non dovevi averlo  passato, il mare era solo da vedere, ed era per le persone sui palazzi.  

O che una volta raggiunta effettivamente la spiaggia saresti stata con lo stomaco troppo debole per  muoverti tra quello che lasciavano coloro che la frequentavano di notte, all’idea che qualcuno ci  avesse fatto chissà cosa, di nascosto. 

A Pescara il mare è sporco e puzza, ma di giorno non ci sono le persone: al mare è vietato  avvicinarsi in generale, se non si è molto ricchi. 

Solo che certe città sono le periferie del mondo e non si riesce davvero a fare in modo che le  persone non entrino: di notte gli uffici sono chiusi, e si fa questo strano gioco in cui si lascia che la  gente raggiunga il mare e si sfoghi.  

Biasimavo mia madre, perché pensavo che queste cose non fossero per i deboli come lei. E l’ho biasimata anche quando sono andata via, perché lei non era riuscita ad andarsene. Ho iniziato a stare sempre più lontana e a immaginarmi come la donna che volevo diventare, che  non era definita con nulla se con il fatto che non doveva essere come mia madre. La ammiravo,  ripetevo e ripetevo attraverso il vetro. “Ma non potrei mai fare quello che ha fatto lei per un figlio”. Io a un figlio scrivo solo questa lettera perché non ho il coraggio di scriverla a mia madre.  Avrei tanto voluto farti vedere quella sfera di fuoco che era il sole quella mattina all’alba. L’alba è  l’unico momento in cui la foschia di smog e polveri è abbastanza tersa da permettere di vedere un  cielo limpido e rosa. 

Da Pescara il sole sorge dal mare.  

Avrei voluto che fossi lì con me, o essere in grado di capire che la mia forza stava nelle persone e  nelle cose che di belle c’erano intorno a me, e non in qualcosa che mancava sempre. Se il desiderio,  quella spinta che ci spinge sempre in avanti è propria degli uomini, lo è anche di usare il bello che  c’è intorno a noi.  

Non avrei mai voluto mettere al mondo un figlio in questo mondo qui, nessuno della mia  generazione lo vuole più. Vorrei che riaprissero i confini della mia città e raccontare tutto quello  che provo a mia madre, avere abbastanza coraggio di raccontare la mia storia ancora e ancora, di  stare lì e in molti altri posti e fare in modo che chi parte non lo debba fare per scappare.  Pescara adesso è chiusa, è inaccessibile e vuota, le persone che ci sono dentro sono contaminate. Succede spesso, da quando ho potuto viaggiare mi sono resa conto che in realtà si tratta di un  processo, e che succede con sistematicità. 

I piccoli centri vengono limitati sempre di più nei contatti con l’esterno, per uscire bisogna superare sempre più prove e sempre più difficili, fino a quando a un certo punto non si può neanche entrare.

Succede quando l’inquinamento si fa troppo intenso, quando i livelli di sostanze nocive nell’acqua  non sono più ignorabili e le industrie rilasciano troppe sostanze chimiche nell’aria. Allora una città  si chiude anche ufficialmente, e le difficoltà, i divieti che si erano fatti sempre più fitti si fanno  formali. 

Io sono andata via prima che succedesse, ma alla fine di tutto scrivo a chi è rimasto e non a  qualcuno che non esiste, scrivo non solo più del sole, ma di ciò che il sole iniziava appena a  illuminare in un’alba dal cielo limpido, di mia mamma lasciata da sola in una città in cui certe  strade sono costruite male, certi divieti sono fatti apposta per ferirla. 

I palazzi a Pescara sono tutti spezzati. Metà sono senza finestre e l’altra metà è di vetro, per poter  permettere a certi di fagocitare il mare con la vista.  

Anche la città è spezzata, metà è di ferro per resistere al terremoto, metà è chiusa, è di quei palazzi  metà di vetro. Non si può andare al mare di giorno, perché chi lavora nelle stanze di vetro se volesse  affacciarsi dovrebbe vedere un mare incontaminato. 

Ma il mare è sporco e la città è sporca. La città è contaminata, così tanto che ci si è arresi. Pescara è una città chiusa ed è vietato entrare.

ENGLISH VERSION 

My beloved. I’m so sorry that you won’t be able to see the fiery dawn that I remember after a  sleepless night of laughter and consequence-free silences. It’s because everything seemed to be  limited to that moment: we didn’t think about what would come after, the fact that we would have to  prepare for something, be strong enough, and that this would lead us to have to compete, be jealous,  want to prove who we were through how we wanted to be seen by someone else, and that it had to  be necessarily better than how he was.  

I would really like to show you a moment frozen in that instant when there is only a huge pink sky.  It’s just that if you saw it, you would realize that it’s all a lie, and I would realize it too. I don’t want  to, sometimes I feel like I exist only to continue reiterating that moment, like a broken artificial  intelligence: that insists on telling so many lies having never really experienced the world, without  knowing what lies are, what it is talking about, or even existing. 

Sometimes I wonder if it’s desirable to be like this, or if where I am simply already is like this.  Around me I only see machines, people who, in order to program the machines better, start thinking  like hybrids created by themselves, and think that it’s better that way. Everyone thinks that it’s better  that way. And this is rewarded: one does not exist to develop one’s individuality, to believe that it  can be important, but to become someone or something that is needed. It’s just that I remember Mr.  Forester who loved this. Who told us every day how fascinating it was to spend the days there  discovering new programming languages, teaching them to the machines, exploring all the limits  that these could break. He worked in the most beautiful location of his company in the heart of  “piazza salotto” square. 

It was a very tall building, up to the fourth floor it had no windows, from the fifth floor up the  walls were all made of glass. It’s a glass made to take in as much light as possible and to see out, but  made up of many transparent layers. Forester said it was because his bosses on the upper floors had  good taste, that they liked the play of light, but in reality those glass walls don’t have sunbeams to  trap and refract. 

Today I know it’s because in reality it’s beautiful to look at outside, but not to focus on too much. In  the upper floors of the Pescara buildings today it’s beautiful to be able to see the sea, which through  a window it’s clear that it’s empty, but you don’t go to a dirty sea like that.  

Mr. Forester was happy to be in his building programming systems for other buildings like it: he  spoke of the splendor of the place where he worked with great pride, but he wore large, colorful 

shirts that rustled annoyingly when he gestured amiably to chat with every colleague he met: he was  on good terms with everyone, but very few remembered him. 

I remember that he was already of a certain age, but I never wanted his enthusiasm to collide with  anything in the world around him that could hurt him, as much as I wanted it for you. It’s that  maybe I thought I was superior, or maybe I was old enough to have understood that he was not  invincible, but rather too much so. That’s why at a certain point I didn’t want to be told how he felt  bad when he wasn’t listened to by anyone where he worked. When I pretended not to hear him  crying, because he had a real passion for what he did, but it seemed that no one noticed. Maybe  because the room where his desk was was too crowded, there were too many people and no  windows: no one could see him.  

I always pretended not to hear him, because it seemed easier to me, because I couldn’t accept that  the person who laughed with such passion, who only laughed when something was really funny,  didn’t have around him ready to welcome him a capacity for forgiveness equal to his. 

I would really like to tell you a lot about him: he loved Pescara a lot, it was his city, he was born  there, and he sincerely laughed at everything about it. He loved it, as he loved his job and even his  dirty sea. So much so that when I started to be able to leave more frequently, Forester commented  

only with “Nah, nothing special.” “But I missed my home.” Or with words that diminished  everything else. It wasn’t because I felt superior because I was the only one in my neighborhood  who had the means to leave the city and see something outside, but because through his eyes that  same Pescara that I defamed with the elite to seem different from the poor, the bumpkins I told  lived there to show that I deserved not to be there, really through Forester’s eyes I found it a  wonderful place. I saw that red dawn again that maybe Forester had seen a million times, and I  realized that I had taken it for granted: Forester would have liked it, regardless of how truly grey  and dusty the sky actually was. 

I wish you had seen Mr. Forester. When he saw a small, pink child on the street he smiled. I looked  at the child disgusted, but not because I really was, only because this had to be consistent with the  ruthless person I had to seem to the eyes of those who, like me at the time, were superior. He didn’t  notice it, because when he smiled he was really sincere.  

They took me and took me away from those people, from that city. At a certain point in that small  school where I was crowded with thousands of other kids and where I arrived from Via Roma, I  studied more than anyone else, I had a higher performance than the others, I was better, I was better. Pescara is all dirty, I looked at a red sun rising from the sea as an exception, something that had to  be abstracted from everything else to be beautiful, repeated endlessly alone. I thought that the men-

machines who thought like this were others. It’s just that if I had lowered my gaze from the sun I  would have seen a sea full of scrap, dirty, rubbish, filth coming from who knows where. I liked the  idea of being a person who was able to find beauty. I liked that the beauty I saw was an exception.  In certain cities there are more resources to control access to the sea being limited, there are barriers  that ensure that only certain people reach it, and the water looks stunning. Low and bright, with  veins of light that seem to be visible flashes within a precious stone. 

In Pescara the sea smells. To find a place on the sand that wasn’t full of flies and various kinds of  filth, I who was stubborn searched for hours, just as to get to my school in Via Roma with clean  soles and zigzagged avoiding the smelly corners.  

I felt Forester’s pride, I thought he should be proud of me. We were two, at school, young talented  people, playing in the conservatory and studying together, keeping fit, doing all the necessary sport.  One day my colleague started to suffer from strong stomach pains, diarrhea: maybe she couldn’t  stand the water that came from the notoriously and historically broken sewage treatment plant we  have outside the city, or maybe the pace we were keeping up. Everyone reacts differently. I reacted  better. I thought better was the right word. 

The air at school was poisoned: the classrooms were white because they had to trap as much light as  possible from outside, seem bigger, breathable, spacious. The light from outside never arrived, but  me and the others didn’t notice it: we only cared about the glint coming from our computers, about  staring at them.  

They say that the network doesn’t consume, that using paper consumes, but even all the boys in a  small room in a school in a city like Pescara know that it’s not true. That’s why they don’t want to  have a child either.  

The room vibrates because many software programs are running, I remember typing faster than the  others, because I’m better. 

I also remember a boy who isn’t: he’s quite far from me, he rocks on the chair and often risks  falling. He rocks and is always distracted, he bites the hem of his shirt and often cries. He always  cries, when he was little he made a lot of noise, but even now he hasn’t changed: he gets angry over  the slightest thing, and falls in love easily. He liked Pescara, I remember to make him feel better I  would tell him that I would ask for permission to take him on a trip with me, that the problem was  the bad and mean people he was forced to have around him, that he lived in a ugly place, without  history or culture, in a city of those in which nothing happened and nothing would ever change, but  it wasn’t like that. 

He liked Pescara a lot, he liked to look at the metal skeletons of the houses and their reinforcements  to withstand earthquakes when he stayed behind to walk. He liked to look out the window of the  school in Via Roma, even if all he saw was a gray sky, if what he felt on his skin was a dense and  heavy air.  

The city is divided, but it is considered fortunate: because it has the sea, that the sea is beautiful to  see from the top of a building unlike other cities it has been patched up several times after  earthquakes. They have filled the houses in the suburbs with steel beams, they have given them so  many prosthetics so that they are bigger and stronger, when they are about to give in they inject  them with more steel, so that they are more skeletons than houses. There are no other houses in  Pescara. The places where one works are beautiful, they are halfway, but it is not a city that people  like me would live in. 

I remember the walks to reach school because when you are small it is the only time you walk: only  those who are too young to drive walk, in a city that is only made to measure for certain children,  and not for those like my distracted partner. 

We drive to the steel houses, then we don’t even enter the seaside streets. Only a few people walk  there, it’s a privilege for those who work there or sneak in: but Pescara is a city where people are  allowed to sneak into forbidden streets, so it’s a dirty city. No one who has the means to leave wants  to walk in a dirty city. They want to see a sea that an elegant window doesn’t allow to focus on too  much, they want to see it empty when they feel like looking, but they don’t want to go there.  Before I thought it was the opposite: that those who didn’t want to walk in a dirty city would have  the means to leave. But I couldn’t explain why it wasn’t like that for my classmate. My classmate  was always alone, because of those Pescara people that I liked to call boors and ignorant to distance  myself from them. I told him many times that he was superior to all the others, that he didn’t  deserve to be with stupid people like them, that me and him were different, that we had a sensitivity  superior to that of others, that it was difficult for them to understand us. 

Now I am alone and so is he, even though I hope so much that he isn’t there in Pescara. In school he always stayed at the computer and at home too, when he talked to people he often got  tangled up, he took care to finish all the sentences he started and that most of the time were too  long, he tended to speak too loudly to be heard. I was like that too, only I concentrated better, at the  computer I did the right things, and I didn’t get mesmerized looking out the window or swaying on  the chair.  

I don’t want to talk about him, he has been through so much and in the end he stayed there. With me  who pity him, but he’s like all the others: no one leaves Pescara, like no one leaves many other  cities. Instead, I want to say something to my mother.

To my mother, who at a certain point stopped living most of her life to enjoy the world through my  eyes. I can’t imagine a person who could do the same, who could give so much. But at a certain  point you didn’t feel beautiful and you wanted me to be. Because then I would be happy, to be first  on all merit lists I would have to do sports, and you did so much to make me do it.  Because then I would embody it right away, that difference with an Italian, and moreover south central, city. I grew up streamlined, projected upwards, and good at measuring my performances  with programs so that I could always do better, and that when it would have been a company from  outside to do it I would have known very well what to expect. I would never have been surprised. To my mother, whom I have often talked about to define what kind of woman I would become:  “never like my mother”, “I admire her so much for what she has done, but I would never sacrifice  everything she has done for a child like that”. Only I didn’t understand that you were just a strong  person. I tried so hard to erase the accent you had because it would have been a mark wherever I  went. Because I saw, when I introduced my first colleague from outside to you, how he looked at  you, how he appealed to you saying that you were anxious because that’s how Pescara women are,  how you were irascible like Pescara women.  

To my mother: you didn’t want me to go that morning to see the sun rise from the sea, you said I  would get stuck in some gate that was still closed in the attempt to climb over it, that I wouldn’t be  able to overcome the barrier of offices that pretend to have a sea view, that I would get lost in the  streets that became smaller and smaller in the dizziness of the buildings that rose up in their height  to get away disgusted by what was below.  

You mother often feared getting lost in those streets near the sea, which seemed to have forgotten  about people like you. When I thought there was “people like you” I said I didn’t want to be part of  it: I thought you were an incapable woman of untangling yourself among the various access bans,  areas dedicated to office employees, and among the only cars that could be seen past the central  zone, the living room square, the buildings and the beautiful sea view. I thought you weren’t  independent enough, brave enough or with cold enough blood to react with audacity to a policeman  who stopped you saying that you shouldn’t have crossed a certain limit, the sea was only to be seen,  and it was for people on the buildings.  

Or that once you actually reached the beach you would have a stomach too weak to move around  what those who frequented it at night left behind, at the idea that someone had done something to it,  secretly. 

In Pescara the sea is dirty and smells, but during the day there are no people: it is generally  forbidden to approach the sea, unless you are very rich. 

Only that some cities are the peripheries of the world and you really can’t stop people from entering:  at night the offices are closed, and this strange game is played in which people are allowed to reach  the sea and let off steam. 

I used to blame my mother, because I thought these things were not for the weak like her. And I  also blamed her when I left, because she had not been able to leave. I started to stay further and  further away and imagine myself as the woman I wanted to become, who was not defined by  anything other than the fact that she should not be like my mother. I admired her, repeating and  repeating through the window. “But I could never do what she did for a child”. I only write this  letter to a child because I don’t have the courage to write it to my mother. I would have loved to  show you that sphere of fire that was the sun that morning at dawn. Dawn is the only time when the  haze of smog and dust is clear enough to see a clear pink sky.  

From Pescara the sun rises from the sea. 

I would have liked you to be there with me, or to be able to understand that my strength was in the  people and the beautiful things around me, and not in something that always lacked. If desire, that  push that always pushes us forward, is peculiar to men, it is also to use the beauty around us.  I would never have wanted to bring a child into this world here, no one in my generation wants to  anymore. I wish they would reopen the borders of my city and tell my mother everything I feel,  have enough courage to tell my story again and again, to be there and in many other places and  make sure that those who leave do not have to do so to escape. Pescara is now closed, inaccessible  and empty, the people inside are contaminated. It often happens, since I was able to travel I realized  that it is actually a process, and it happens systematically.  

Small centers are increasingly limited in their contact with the outside, to leave you have to pass  more and more tests and more and more difficult, until at a certain point you can’t even enter. It  happens when pollution becomes too intense, when the levels of harmful substances in the water are  no longer ignored and industries release too many chemical substances into the air. Then a city is  also officially closed, and the difficulties, the bans that have become increasingly dense are  formalized. 

I left before it happened, but in the end I write to those who have remained and not to someone who  does not exist, I write not only about the sun, but about what the sun was just starting to illuminate  in a clear sky dawn, about my mother left alone in a city where certain streets are built badly,  certain prohibitions are made to hurt her. 

The buildings in Pescara are all broken. Half of them have no windows and the other half are made  of glass, to allow certain people to swallow the sea with their eyesight.  

The city is also broken, half of it is made of iron to withstand the earthquake, half of it is closed, it  is of those buildings half made of glass. You can’t go to the sea during the day, because those who  work in the glass rooms would have to see an uncontaminated sea if they wanted to look out.  But the sea is dirty and the city is dirty. The city is contaminated, so much so that it has  surrendered.  

Pescara is a closed city and it is forbidden to enter.

2200 Rome by Martina

Cordella Martina

The sound of water draining from the air conditioner is getting louder and louder. Today is one of the days when the hellish heat makes the air devoid of oxygen. The thermometer outside reads 54 degrees. The sun’s rays have become so strong that they burn your skin even early in the morning. Putting on sunscreen is no longer enough to protect your skin: severe sunburns are the order of the day, and almost the entire population has developed polymorphous solar dermatitis. The only way to get from one point to another in the city during the summer is to travel through underground tunnels that have been dug specifically to cope with heat waves. The “Rome-Underground” project was developed as part of the plan to adapt to the climate crisis: health problems and deaths due to excessive heat had increased considerably, for which the municipality had to find a solution that resulted in a network of underground roads. Initially, it was planned to widen the subway lines, but citizens protested that it would be too dangerous to pass by the trains and, moreover, they would be too narrow to allow transit for all the people moving around. So, they decided to build a network of exclusively pedestrian-only underground passageways, but still connected to public transportation stops. They were the saving grace for all those who do jobs that cannot be done in smart work, blue collar workers and shopkeepers in particular. 

Life takes place mainly either underground or at night. During the day the streets, at least the secondary ones, of Rome are deserted, not only because not a single person can be seen walking: green areas are extremely rare, rather dry, and often incidents flare up due to drought. Automatic sprinklers are in operation during all daylight hours and manage to mitigate the problem, but this applies only to the more central areas. In the suburbs, most parks are becoming infertile sand pools. This has happened because they have become agglomerations of heat islands: old metal structures and cars still persist in the poorest parts of the city, almost all of which have been turned into dumps of artifacts from Old Rome, the pre-climate collapse one. But adaptation strategies have been varied, and many areas of the city have been preserved and made environmentally sustainable. Main streets and ancient ruins have been shielded by a few clear glass domes and climate-controlled to preserve historic monuments from extreme events. 

This is how surface sections can be walked during the scorching summer. My favorite route is the one that starts from Piazza Venezia and runs all the way down Via Dei Fori Imperiali to the Colosseum. Keeping to the left, there is a gate that marks the entrance to Colle Oppio, also maintained under a dome. It is one of the few green areas in Rome that has remained as such and virtually unchanged. The entrance to the park is marked by an asphalt slope flanked on both sides by strips of green lawn. At the end of it, on the left, is a fountain that, put back into operation after a long time, has become home to some freshwater aquatic species now extinct in the wild. It is part of the Urban Biodiversity Conservation project, which sees the collaboration of the fields of biology and cultural heritage. In this way, ecological education has been made an everyday subject and within reach of everyone. At the same time, however, the Ministry of Culture makes sure that important historical architectural elements are not damaged.

Going back to my air conditioner, it has been on long enough to cool the house and fill the second canister. I can turn it off and prepare a new canister for drainage. The already full canisters I put outside the house. They will be picked up to take them to the re-mineralization center, so the water that will be used for irrigation will be recycled. Nothing should be wasted, least of all such a precious commodity as water. I open the refrigerator with the aim of preparing a fresh salad and a spinach for lunch, but I realize that I do not have all the necessary ingredients. I go downstairs again, this time to reach the condominium greenhouse. I pick up an avocado, a couple of cucumbers, and some cherry tomatoes to compose my salad. For my spinach spinner I choose instead an apple, a carrot, an orange, and some fennel to make it a bit cooler. The greenhouse is composed on the model of agroforestry: fruit trees coexist with a good variety of crops. The former are permanent inhabitants of the greenhouses, planted during the reconstruction of the building, while planting is decided every four months during a condominium meeting so as to ensure some variability in diet and crop. To date, the houses are all built in this way, as if they were small urban ecosystems: each building has its own shared greenhouse that all condominiums must take care of, cooperating with artificial pollinating insects. The facades are covered with ivy and climbing plants that can withstand severe temperature changes, especially the extreme heat typical of Roman summers. In this way the city manages to keep the air breathable. This is a model of Eco-Building designed for climate adaptation and which, together with implemented public mobility powered by solar electricity, keeps pollution under control. Private cars are rare to see around: they have made them electric yes, but also hyper-expensive so as to discourage their purchase and prevent the whole city from falling victim to heat islands as happened to the suburbs.

I finish my salad and my spinner and put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. I take in enough vitamins and minerals – the average amount given in the government’s heat wave guidelines – to make it out of my apartment. I slip on my sunscreen poncho, dark glasses and head to the nearest underpass. I can feel the heat of the asphalt through my shoes. Fortunately, it takes me a few steps to take shelter in the tunnel underground. I slip off my poncho and put it in my backpack. Underground Rome is teeming with people strolling through the wide, brightly lit corridors. In some places, looking up, you can see shielded skylights that allow you to see the sky, the real one, not the reproduction projected on the ceiling of the underpasses to make them more acceptable and less claustrophobic. As proof that life in summer has moved underground, they have opened some stores and clubs: so people can sip cold coffee under the city. My destination today, however, is no coffee shop. I have an appointment with my friend Iris to see the ancient ruins of Ostia Antica. They reopened the archaeological site a few weeks ago, after years of renovation and adaptation to the new climate regime. They say it is a sight never seen before, that it is an almost fairy-tale experience. We could not miss this event. 

I have an appointment with Iris at the Eur pond. Before the collapse it was an artificial pool where a few mallards and mallards lived. They used to give rowing lessons there. After it evaporated, it was included in the Aquatic Recovery and Conservation Project, and now, enclosed under a glass bubble, it is a fully developed ecosystem: it is a reproduction of an asiaco lake, with colorful mandarin ducks, carp, tuna and salmon jumping out of the water and huge goldfish swimming just below the surface of the water, decorated with fallen cherry blossoms.

“Marguerite look!” the voice of Iris comes ringing from behind me. She rests a hand on my back and brings my attention to the tree where I was resting. A nightingale from Japan, its feathers fading from yellow to bright red, rests on a small branch and, shaking it slightly, drops several flowers. The petals rain down over our heads like pinkish snowflakes, light and delicate. For a moment we forget about the terrible summer heat waves gripping the city. For a few minutes we forget that we live in Rome. Together we head for the subway. A few stops and we will have arrived at our destination. 

The carriage is half-empty and the air conditioning makes a sharp contrast with the temperature outside. Before we get off we put on our sunglasses and cape to protect us from the still very strong sun at four in the afternoon. Not exactly the best time to take a field trip, but the visit will last a few hours as the site is very large. We have to walk part of the way to the entrance and wait for the visit to begin. 

As I mentioned earlier, the archaeological site of Ostia Antica has recently reopened to the public. This is because a hundred years ago it was the victim of a terrible flood. The Lido of Ostia no longer exists: it has been submerged for a hundred years now, due to rising sea levels caused by the melting of perennial ice. From year to year the tide rose higher and higher, until it reached its present level and submerged even the ancient ruins of Ostia Antica. It took years to restore it and proceed with its underwater restoration. It could have been lost forever, but instead the opportunity was taken to once again make it a tourist destination, this time through a tour conducted via underwater shuttles. Once again, culture and biology collaborate to create a unique cognitive and educational experience: one does not only move among the underwater ruins, but also together with various sea creatures.

We get in line to get on the shuttle. It is quite small, only a few people fit on it at a time. Just as well, we enjoy the visit more. Once we get in, we can finally take off our sun-protection cloaks and put them in our bags. I was expecting to be able to see outside only through relatively small portholes, but instead the right side of the small submarine is totally made of clear glass, so clean that it seems almost not to be there. For the descent, we are made to take our seats, sort of like they do on airplanes. Two beeps and a voice from the loudspeaker reads, “Kind passengers and passengers are asked and requested to take their seats for the dive. You will be notified and warned once the procedure is complete. Now please enjoy your descent.” Two more beeps and the vehicle begins to move downward. With our eyes fixed on the glass, we see the water slowly rise and embrace the vehicle. It is a peculiar sight, a new experience but at the same time a sense of anguish assails me. Iris must have noticed because she turns to me and asks, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” I reply. “Yes, everything is fine. It’s just that I was thinking how traumatic it must be to experience the flood. Until the last century it was an area of Rome like any other. I mean, it was emerged, inhabited. So many people saw their homes as they were swallowed up by the sea. It must have been terrible.”

“I hadn’t thought about that. I guess I did. Now that you’ve pointed it out, a sense of uneasiness has come over me.”

“Yeah, forgive me. That was not my intention.”

“Let’s not think about it now. What happened cannot be changed now. Let’s enjoy what is good that has been left to us.”

Again the two beeps bring your attention back to the speaker: “The descent is over. In the drawer below your seats you will find audio guides. You may get up from your seats and approach the glass. We hope that what you will see will leave you speechless. Enjoy the ride.”

We put on our headphones and approach the huge window overlooking the sea floor. Seeing ancient Roman ruins is truly a unique sight. That melancholy feeling that grips you when you think of the civilizations that lived before us becomes even more pronounced. At the same time, however, it feels like being in another dimension. I see a school of mosaic fish moving fast among the reddish earthen niches, if they stop swimming they almost blend in. I turn on the guidebook and select the item “Mosaic Fish and Ancient Roman Houses.” “The Mosaic Fish, also known as Gurami perla, was a species bred for sale in aquariums. Typically tropical, with rising temperatures it first reached the Mediterranean and then moved here to the Tyrrhenian Sea, becoming endemic. In the submarine renovation of the ancient city of Ancient Ostia, some aquatic plants such as Hydrocotyle leucocephala and Tiger lotus, favored as hiding places by the mosaic fish, were included in some of the old Roman insulae.” I see them for the last time as they hide in a burrow. 

My attention is caught by the remains of an old temple slightly in the distance, from which I see a white cloud rising. Thanks to the guide, I discover that it is the Capitolium, the main temple of the ancient city dedicated to the three Roman gods Jupiter, Juno and Minerva. The white cloud, however, was a school of jellyfish whose bloom is difficult to keep track of. This is because it is a highly invasive species attracted by the increasingly warm waters of our sea. Algae and corals of all kinds, finally, had colonized every available column, making the underwater ways even more unique.

After about three and a half hours the visit is over and we proceed to the ascent. Putting our capes back on to protect us from the still bright and high sun at eight o’clock in the evening, we walk on the footbridge back to the mainland. Iris and I say goodbye with a promise to see each other again as soon as this scorching summer is over.

As I head toward the subway to go home I see smoke in the distance. It is strange to see it around here. Nothing but the Pine Grove could catch fire, but this one is protected in the domes. I get on the subway to go home. Part of the route passes right by there, so I decide to keep my eyes out the window to try to catch a glimpse of something. And that is exactly what happens. The glass of the dome must have been badly damaged and the fiery sun rays have reached the vegetation, starting the burning process. I can’t see anything else in the few seconds the train passes by there, the only thing I can do is hope they can contain the damage. The Pine Forest is the lung of the city, the only entirely green spot left and made pristine. Access to the reserve has been banned precisely to prevent pollution and damage to the only place that can provide oxygen in a Rome victimized by heat and drought.

I get home in time for the special edition of the news: “Breaking news: a fire has broken out in the Castel Fusano pine forest. According to initial investigations, the origin of the flames is said to be attributed to sunlight that penetrated due to a fracture in the protective dome. It is not yet known how the glass could have shattered. Meanwhile, firefighters are keeping the flames at bay, and specialists are on their way to the scene to conduct analysis and investigation. More updates will be given in tomorrow morning’s edition.” Images of the reserve fire victim scroll across the screen at the conclusion of the report.

Very strange, this is shatterproof glass designed to withstand any kind of impact. Who knows what must have happened to cause it to crack. Strong an act of arson? But it would not have gone unnoticed, there are monitoring cameras everywhere in the area. Whatever the cause, I will find out tomorrow morning, but this uncertainty does not make me feel comfortable. This is one of the most important areas of Rome, much more than the Colosseum, the Trevi Fountain and all the monuments that have characterized the city for centuries. The Pineta is an extremely valuable asset, the only urban ecosystem that has remained intact over the past two hundred years. Over time it has become a source of pride and to lose it would be a blow to all Romans. I turn off the TV. Seeing those images makes me anxious. I try to divert my attention from this dramatic event by thinking about dinner, but I don’t have much appetite, so I finish the fresh vegetables left over from lunch and get ready for bed. I put the timer on the air conditioner by selecting the anti-moisture mode. Living in a small studio apartment, it doesn’t take long to cool the room. I turn off the lights, slip into bed and wait for

tomorrow.

The sun’s rays filter through the shutters and come directly to my face. Usually I like to wake up with their caresses and thanks to the natural light, with thoughts coming softly into my mind. This morning, however, my attention immediately focuses on the matter left unresolved the night before. I need to know what has happened at the Pine Grove, I need to know how she is doing. I turn on the television still with my pajamas on. The morning edition reassures all citizens that the fire has been tamed and extinguished overnight. There was damage, but nothing irrecoverable. This news already gives me relief, a feeling that is not likely to last. They found out how the dome was shattered: “From the analyses conducted during the night, it was found that the cause of the glass breakage was attributed to the heat of the sun’s rays. Accomplice to the temperature change inside the dome, pointing fixedly at the glass heated it so much that it exploded. Experts are already working to repair the damage and think of a solution that can cope with the increasing heat. One thing is certain: temperatures are rising again. We can only hope that the autumn equinox will arrive soon. We advise you to stay out of your homes for the remaining summer days.”

I remain interjected. I thought we were able to tame the climate situation by now. The adaptation policies that have been implemented so far have always worked. News like this will send the population into a panic, and if the government does not find a solution soon, Rome will fall into silent chaos. As happened last time: unable to stay on the streets for too long because of the high temperatures, the protests took the form of a total strike. No one leaves the house, no one goes to the workplace, and those doing smart work do not turn on their PCs. The city comes to a total standstill. Perhaps the shutdown is already developing. But out of fear. I raise the blinds and see all the lights in the houses turned on. No one seems to have left the house, much less will I. I put my head back inside the apartment. I leave the TV on waiting for directions from the municipality, instructions that were not long in coming. All the channels are colonized by the mayor’s face repeating the following words, “To all citizens and female citizens. Given the reasons that caused the rupture of the protective dome of the Pine Forest, an artificial rain will be induced in the coming hours with the aim of rebalancing the temperatures. This is an experimental technology, but given what we risk we have no choice. The underpasses will be closed and armored to prevent seepage and flooding. We strongly recommend that you do not leave your homes. We promise that by tomorrow everything will be back to normal.”

Normality. I shudder to think that temperatures hovering between 50 and 61 degrees are normal, but in a way they are.

The report continues, “By now, the Earth’s biogeochemical cycles have been changed, and the old balances can no longer be recovered. What we can do, and are doing, is to adapt to the new climate conditions that arise, relying on climate technology developed by our researchers. It is the only path we can take.” The same message is repeated from emergency speakers placed in the streets. I hear it through the window: I look out and see the few people in the streets hurrying back to their homes. Now Rome is silent, a scorching asphalt desert.

I see a few drops of water settling on the road. The operation must have started. The rain is becoming more and more present, falling straight down to the ground until it bursts into a thunderstorm without lightning or thunder, controlled. usually the sound of falling drops relaxes me, but this is different: it’s as if someone has turned on a giant sprinkler all over Rome at noon. The sun, in fact, is still high in a cloudless sky. It is a strange sight. 

After a couple of hours my eye falls on the thermometer marking the outside temperature: it’s 45 degrees. It’s working. The rain first starts getting lighter and then stops. They can’t keep it on for too many hours, otherwise they risk triggering an extreme weather event and Rome would end up like Ostia Antica: it would end up submerged. It is about 6 p.m. when the loudspeakers go off again: “We are pleased to inform you that the operation has been successfully completed. The domes have returned to a temperature far from the breaking point. Localized rains in the areas most at risk will be activated in the coming days. Authorities are in the process of reopening the underground passages. You will soon be able to go out into the streets again. Rome is safe. You are safe.”

Welcome to Bologna, the City of Food

Daniele Mingardi

“The clothes are burned?”

 “Oh, those are cheap pyjamas, service issue-wear ’em and throw ’em away, it costs less than cleaning.”

‘It costs less,’ Shevek repeated meditatively. He said the words the way a palaeontologist looks at a fossil, the fossil that dates a whole stratum….

Ursula Le Guin, Dispossessed: an ambiguous utopia

CHAPTER 1

A Journey

It is difficult to organise anger when you have to dose your breath.

“Sustainability of words is important, consuming oxygen requires precious resources”, the commander said as usual before departing. A thought perfectly matched to his ass wrapped in a perfectly thermoregulated eco-suit and resting on top of a comfortable ergonomic eco-seat, some annoyed listeners thought.

In the cabin carrying space labourers, silence was still respected, but certainly not in tune with the commander. Crammed in 30 in less than 40-m3, the corps had become a factory whose goal was to minimise the cost of oxygen. All this did not prevent the recreation of what expert social scientists would undoubtedly have described as an ecosystem rich in biodiversity: nervous thoughts combined with looks of varying degrees of fatigue, spacesuits laden with sweat and worn-out bodies, freeze- dried food perennially at risk of extinction, alternating streams of miasmas from painful space baths intertwined within the electronic and mechanical components of the cabin, inside which the toil of the workers forced to build it still seemed to rest. The only things missing, for no apparent reason, were windows through which one could become aware of the appearance of the departure planet one longed to leave and the arrival planet one never wanted to reach. Two physical and mental extremities in the midst of which, suspended in space, a spontaneous collective awareness condensed in a few days.

Triggered by that realisation, a whole series of enthusiastic gestures of solidarity were set in motion, whose shadow, however, reflected the real condition in which they were immersed. Those gestures were, in practice, only permitted in public in a cramped space, millions of kilometres away from their affections. On the earth’s surface they would have turned into a calculation directly linked to the bank statement. Ever since the great crises of the 21st century, when a new economic-climate regime had been established in the hands of a body formed by a group of expert scientists (the Climate Change Control Centre, abbreviated CCC), the most perverse dream of environmental economists seemed to have been realized. Everything, from objects down to individual behavior, had been placed on a calculation grid that established their price, premium or penalty directly proportional to the amount of their estimated CO2 equivalent. Sophisticated academic papers described the new system as a meritocratic and ecological big business, capable of orienting behaviour towards a new horizon of sustainability and finally pulling the world out of the abyss into which boring fossil capitalism had dragged it. It was therefore normal that mutual aid, extended outside the family group, was fined, while competition, necessary to transform the fruit of one’s hard work into a salary suitable for the purchase of sustainable goods, was rewarded.

But not everyone agreed with this narrative. There was, even on that ship, someone stubbornly convinced that the arguments that justified the colonisation of space to solve climate change were the same ones that had given rise to wars, pandemics and environmental disasters in the last century.

For example, one labourer, since they had left, could not stop thinking about what many years earlier she had been forced to study in history books. One chapter of a book, entitled ‘inter-planetary solidarity ecology strategy‘, showed a graph illustrating how many planets would be needed if the whole world consumed as the Western countries did, accompanied, almost as if it were an incontrovertible logical consequence, by the brilliant idea of actually outsourcing the environmental costs of production to other planets. She also recalled how, when asked unconsciously about the difficulty of troubling the galaxy with respect to changing certain production and living patterns, she was threatened by her teacher with three weeks of public eco-utility work. Now that she had grown up, that unawareness had turned into conscious anger.

It is difficult to organise anger when you have to dose oxygen for a week. Yet, as she and other labourers made their way to the colony’s new space greenhouse in the city of Bologna, she had the feeling that she was not the only one who wanted to dismantle the cage that would be recreated inside the plantation where they would spend the entire summer once they got off the ship.

CHAPTER 2

The city of food

The true value of sustainability

They were called ecomanagers. They were easily recognisable by their grass-green ties and the forced charm they tried to exude at every important occasion. They stepped off the ship free of the severe and debilitating soreness accumulated by the labourers during the week. Their cabins, equipped with the best amenities, were specially built to remove the stress of their valuable and meritorious work. Merit and comfort, however, did not seem to have charged their actions with vitality. They led the workers with the same coldness that seemed to convey the huge transparent dome towards which they were headed. On the huge sign that indicated the entrance, there was an illuminated sign with green access, surrounded by stylised drawings of fruit trees and strictly organic vegetables:

Welcome to Bologna, the City of Food 

A city to taste

They entered, crossing the threshold of what appeared to be a giant amusement park. Every major city usually had its own colony where it outsourced environmental production costs, owned by the most deserving private entity in the area. The Bologna colony, initially built for luxury sustainable extra-terrestrial tourism, had been inaugurated 20 years earlier, in 2181, by Exploitaly, a century-old company promoting a resilient gastronomic business model, capable of withstanding every social and environmental revolution. For many years, Exploitaly had also specialised in industrial agricultural production, and thanks to its contributions in the development of state-of-the-art hydroponic greenhouses, built to solve the problem of the depletion of the earth’s soil, Bologna had become one of Europe’s leading cities for agrifood production. For what was called the theory of ecological dependence, each city had its own area of specialisation, thus eliminating any model of food sovereignty, contrary to any maximisation of sustainable production. That year, on the occasion of the centenary of the birth of the CCC, Bologna finally inaugurated a new model of spatial agrifood production, becoming to all intents and purposes part of the great industrial district of the solar system. The greenhouses, in order to optimise costs, were located exactly underground in the space dedicated to tourism: a square kilometre of hydroponic and aeroponic crops meandered beneath themed gardens and kiosks, luxurious restaurants equipped with every delicacy, statues in the shape of delicacies, solar-powered cottages with extroverted fruit-shaped swimming pools, artificial beaches and quads for adventurous excursions around the planet.

Images of this immense landscape crossed the corneas of the labourers, overturning the sense they had hitherto given to their dilapidated A++ energy class homes, where they were used to live. Effectively, the spatial division according to levels of merit on earth had been strongly accentuated through walls and buildings, so that the perception of the undeserving in relation to the rich was severely clouded. It was easier to swallow the idea that poor conditions were a necessary sacrifice for the protection of greenery and ecosystems.

Perhaps it was also to prevent them from thinking too much about this detail that they were immediately escorted to the entrance of the lift leading to the greenhouses, located inside a cottage of what appeared to be a small farm. Outside, there was an artificial pond, a small vegetable garden that had just been sown, holograms of farm animals and screens showing bucolic countryside landscapes with cheerful farmers busy at work. On that day, the space had been specially decorated for the inauguration of the greenhouse: hundreds of elegant guests stood in front of a small stage reserved for the presentation of the project by engineers, economists and sociologists. Countless banquets sampling agricultural products, prepared by the colony’s best chefs, surrounded the whole thing, causing loud protest signals to resound in the stomachs of the labourers, probably also audible to those outside the building. Promptly an Exploitaly eco-manager drowned out these noises, starting her speech for the celebration of this important day:

“It was 19 July 2101 when, at the G3 in Genoa, the far-sighted decision was taken to found the Climate Change Control Centre, a centre of real scientific experts capable of taking the reins of our world into their own hands. We all know how difficult the last decades of the 21st century have been: wars fought for democracy, uprisings by groups with contempt for the freedom that the West has always wanted to defend, epidemics caused by the bad habits and ignorance of the poor, but above all sudden climate changes whose effects we could not foresee. As if all this were not enough, groups of phantom ecologists tried to oppose progress, opposing the wonderful works that our brilliant engineers were planning to save our beloved planet. So it was that governments took the courage to stop the barbarities of the present to propose a project that would allow the natural evolution of the human species. They thus created a society where what matters is not politics, but ecological meritocracy. A world where sustainability must be earned, where each of us is an advocate of our own merit, where each of us is responsible for our own failures and faults.

It is commitment and competition in hard work that determine a healthy environment. The data speak for themselves. Since all prices are related to CO2, since all our actions show how much we pollute, we have finally shown the real causes of environmental degradation. They are the underdeveloped countries, the poor, the outcasts, the slackers, too busy complaining about their own misery rather than rolling up their sleeves and earning their own sustainability. We do not discriminate; the statistics are objective and impartial. But we are not here to talk about failure, degradation and waste.

We are here to celebrate the centenary of the CCC and its wonderful achievements for society! It is because of its teachings that we have not lost heart, and we have made up for the mistakes made by worthless people. We certainly do not want the world to collapse because of them. But neither do we want to reduce these people to slavery, because although we know how much more sustainable that would be, we truly believe in freedom, even when its burden is hard to bear. It is for all these reasons that we inaugurate this space plantation today, which is a fundamental step towards making our planet green again. We all know how Bologna has become a reference model for world gastronomic culture. A model based on the use of innovative technologies that do not give up true peasant flavours. A model based on ecologically just labour, providing a chance for redemption for undeserving workers. But above all, a model based on the total sustainability of a production that, thanks to the location of its plantations and farms, manages to provide enough food for Bologna and many other cities without emitting C02 into the earth’s atmosphere. Let us therefore celebrate the city’s successes of the most progressive in Italy, despite the fact that filthy rioters are currently trying to ruin everything by squatting and sabotaging…”

The labourers’ listening, now filled with endurance, was interrupted by the opening of the lift leading to the greenhouses. On the way, several metres long, the lights were switched off to save energy. They descended, shrouded in the same invisibility that would characterise their stay, in the same indifference with which their labours would be transformed into a calculation to be included in the value of the fruit and vegetables. The latter would soon reach the Earth, ready for consumption. The true price of their supposed sustainability, on the other hand, would not move for long months from the dungeons of another planet.

CHAPTER 3

Returning from the plantation

Breathing again

From the heights of the greenhouses, mechanical voices forced the labourers to constantly listen to the main theories and practices of ecological meritocracy. There was one that seemed particularly suited to their everyday life: ‘the ecological body is not just a theory: it is an attitude, a posture, a discipline that only deserving people can aspire to achieve. The ecological body consumes very little, overcomes antiquated needs that anchored it to rigid biological patterns. It is a resilient body, immersed in an ever-changing flux, whose only rule is sustainability. However, do not think that the exercise required to achieve it makes it artificial: the ecological body is totally natural, because it is nature that demands its advent within the broader human evolution. Indeed, their bodies, in order to survive, had had to adapt to structural toxicity, reduced space for movement and nutrients, just as they did to the vegetables and fruit trees over which they were forced to stoop or climb every day. They were in every sense part of what used to be a plantation and then had become a factory, and at the same time, that very factory turned back into a plantation. It seemed to be a kind of homage to those past experiences that one tries to forget but always carries in one’s heart. Work was carried out for 10 hours a day within orderly rows of plants, schematically grouped according to the functional requirements of the only permissible objective: growth. Their care had thus been reduced to a mechanical domestication based on fertilisation, so that even the labourers’ gestures, trained by contamination, seemed mechanically domesticated. Their thoughts, however, were not. The repetitive movements of cutting, harvesting, spraying, were intertwined with the silences forced by the continuous effort, leaving interstices where observations, reflections, cues nested. Their concretisation, however, was made impossible by the little energy left at the end of the day, spent in the physical recovery needed to wake up the next day. Individual sleeping quarters and the lack of common spaces also made collective organisation virtually impossible.

Three months passed in this way, at the end of which the employment contract would automatically be terminated. This was common practice for jobs at the lower end of the ecological spectrum. Companies said that this allowed them the opportunity to redeem themselves socially without ever getting bored. For the majority of workers it meant, in fact, only preparing to plunge into a round of unbridled competition in order to secure any chance of survival. That round was to begin again the moment they set foot on the ship that would take them home.

“Sustainability of words is important, consuming oxygen requires precious resources”, the commander said again before departing. Yet, this time all the labourers felt that on that ship they could breathe again. They discovered that the ideas matured on the plantations were like sharp boxes inside fragile biodegradable bags, whose boundaries imposed by a master are sooner or later torn apart. Their matured desire to get to know each other and think together enlarged the little physical space of the cabin, transforming it into a place of autonomy, where it was possible to break out of the silence imposed on them for months by the invisible hand of repression. Conspiring together then became the oxygen needed to inhale the awareness of the strength of a multitude of united individuals and exhale all the feelings that led them to see each other as rivals in the game of ecological meritocracy. This was not a simple quest for transition to a new fragile equilibrium, but a small revolution towards a new ecology of planetary relations.

Although they were not certain how this could be achieved, they were certain that from that moment on, their way of living together could not be dictated by a system that claims to be sustainable based on the amount of carbon dioxide emitted or its ‘greenness’. In the greenhouses of the city of Bologna, surrounded by machines and calculators, they realised that data does not show the material processes needed to achieve certain results; surrounded by leaves and stems, they understood how sometimes green can only be a colour.*

*The ending of this dystopian voyage is unknown. It would be nice to think that, given their incredible power, the revolutionary desires of the labourers sabotaged the engines and command hierarchies in the spacecraft and then went out, and not being able to breathe in space arrived early, sowing revolts against everything that had turned the biosphere into a code for the accumulation of money. It would be just as nice to think that those desires, once they arrived, drew different lines from those that should have run through the goods produced on the plantations, forming archipelagos of spaces freed from a world in which merit is mistaken for social justice and ecology thought of as a science that determines ways of living and being far from history. But after all, we know that if imagination is needed to show that other worlds are possible, it is up to the people who live and attempt to realise those desires to dictate the words that make up the ending of their story.

Pemba I A Privileged Witness

Domingos J. Langa

I am a cemetery in Pemba, Mozambique’s northernmost city. I was established during the colonial era. I had been the only city cemetery for more than a half-century. I consider myself a resident of the city center. Pemba is the provincial capital of Cabo Delgado. Without me, the city would not exist. If I am not present, the city will perish. At the same time, I consider myself on the outskirts. In the municipality’s strategic plans, I am virtually non-existent. When I am present, I am associated with less noble services. The locals are aware of my presence. Furthermore, they appear to understand how important I am to them. Nonetheless, everything suggests that my presence in their daily lives is fleeting; they only come to see me a few times a year. Furthermore, they are constantly gossiping about me. Nonetheless, they talk about me despite not knowing much about me.

I will begin by giving a brief overview of how I am currently organized. Beliefs, religion, urban planning, inequalities, and conflicts appear to be the elements that explain how I am organized. Within me, there are two sections: an office and a section for graves and burials. However, the burial site is further subdivided into burial sites based on religion (Christian and Muslim) and untouchables, which include the graves of soldiers from distant lands who died, I believe, in one of the great wars. Finally, there is a section for daring and mass graves. Some would say that poor souls died and were buried without being prepared! There are also trees, particularly acacias and flowers, as well as paths for people to take.

If I had to say more about myself, I would most likely emphasize more aspects. Furthermore, I am confident that I will do so. Even better, I want to do it. Where do I even begin? Being a location, I reserve the right to disregard any rigor requirements that may exist. My thoughts are racing with events from the past, present, and future. I am just going to let her roam free.

The Years of Tranquility!

“You are not permitted to make any noise in the cemetery.” So say some visitors who came to see me. At times, it makes me want to laugh, but only the trees, insects, and I can hear and understand! I will keep my mouth shut. I must always keep my cool. I believe that the silence required of those who visit me on occasion has provided me with a few years of peace. In fact, it has been a little more than a half-century of peace. People were terrified of me. Some said I was well liked because I housed long-term residents. I am not sure!

My neighbors aided in the spread of fear. Nonetheless, they were unafraid of me. They might have even done so. They were, however, one of the few people who could pay me a visit, sometimes as a matter of duty, sometimes as an imposition. They visited me on a regular basis to demonstrate their bravery and courage. They came from a primarily male institution and had to prove their masculinity and bravery. They had to see me as a brave and courageous test. Damn soldiers!

There is, indeed, a beach behind me. The name is Chibwabwary. It has a fantastic breeze. When it rains, the soil becomes extremely slippery, making access to the area nearly impossible. There were only a few trees between the beach and me. Anyone wanting to go to the beach had to walk through one of my walls. They also had to pass in silence. They could run, jump, dive, and scream once they arrived at the beach. However, scream quietly so as not to annoy me. Some claimed that only fishermen had the ability to speak loudly.

It is also worth mentioning two other neighbors who, despite their remoteness, have helped my survival: the port and the airport. Colonial officers, then the national government told me, and finally the municipality, “You cannot build houses near the port or the airport.” Again, I believe people did not build houses because they were afraid of me, but I am not certain that this was always the case.

Challenging times

Someone decided to build a cabin near the beach one day. The fishermen claimed that the area was dangerous at night. Nonetheless, the brave persisted. Then those people arrived. Fishermen asked them to keep an eye on their gear. The bathers claimed it was a possessed family who lived near a dangerous beach and a cemetery. The family would be relocated to a safer location,

according to the municipality. However, a larger number of people and families attended. More houses were constructed. Furthermore, more houses are still being built. Services, particularly electricity, arrived at the same time. The municipality renamed the new settlement “Unidade de Chibwabwary.” It was an official acknowledgement of an unofficial unit. I began to feel threatened.

I considered protesting, but it would be futile. Who would pay attention to me? Fear of me, which had been my shield for a long time, has been shattered. Although my walls remained intact, I began to receive more visitors than usual. They are also no longer tourists, but rather my neighbors. They have electricity but no running water. They come to me for help getting access to water. The guard supplemented his income by selling water. He did, however, lose his brave and courageous status. My neighbors have shown me that I had nothing to be afraid of in me, that I was simply a location. What exactly am I? My agony had only just begun.

Bidding farewell!

My visitors used to say, “Pemba is a small town with few inhabitants.” On the other hand, Unidade de Chibwabwary demonstrated otherwise. It appears to have reflected an increase in the population. If that was the case, there was no cause for concern because the unit was designed to be a peripheral. Furthermore, some politicians and elites believed that peripheral issues were not urgent. Nevertheless, as a neighbor, are my concerns also considered peripheral? I pondered.

The gravediggers, who were once thought to be far braver than the guard, the military, and my new neighbors, performed miracles: they always made room for a new burial. A sidewalk, a road for dividing graves, a road for hearses, under trees, or even exhuming abandoned graves could be used. However, space is not infinite. I am not infinite. The wonder has ended. Who, on the other hand, would say, “The cemetery is overflowing!” Was I stuffed?

The leader who authorizes the construction of a new cemetery is widely assumed the first permanent inhabitant of that new cemetery. There are not many willing volunteers to take on the role of the lamb. After much debate, conflict, and promise, the Cemitério de Muxara was built and inaugurated. I started to have a rival. More importantly, I was no longer in business.

The future of the place: what future?

Even though I am officially closed, I cannot be abandoned. My new neighbors keep me occupied. In addition, I was only closed for new burials. As a result, people continue to come to see me and take care of their loved ones. I, on the other hand, am complete. Anyone who takes care of the trees and the walls while ignoring the insects and birds takes care of me. Maybe I will be here in a few years. Maybe not.

In any case, I am scarred by rapid change, poor urban planning, rapid population growth, unplanned city expansion, unprecedented natural disasters, and accelerated erosion. Most importantly, I am proof of how the residents handled these issues and challenges. I am a bystander. My mind is packed with events. Perhaps I am nothing more than a memory. If I had to choose my fate, I would rather be a memory than a monument. Wind, rain, and sun are all visible, audible, and palpable to me. Plants, animals, and people can also be seen, heard, and felt. I keep track of and update events and phenomena. I interact with other people. I may have been inactive, but I am now more active than ever.

Ilha Brasil

Thais Palermo Buti

1Landsat satellite photo (circa 2000) of Santa Catarina Island (Florianopolis). Wikimedia

For Xuakti, that was the best time of the year. Although she had been teaching in Ilha Brasil for nearly a decade, the expressions she saw on the faces of his students at the end of their first immersive geography class always moved him. She identified with them, and wondered how she would react if she could have lived that educational experience when she was only four years old. At that time, Xuakti was still living near the forest, or what remained of it, with his community, 4,000 kilometers away, in Xingu.

She would never have said that thirty years later she would be in Florianópolis island, teaching geography to children whose origins were so different from his own. She would miss his land, but she couldn’t refuse a proposal like that. The white people had called his family and some other indigenous relatives, quilombola and ribeirinhos, scattered around Brazil, and involved some biobot colonies to bring back to life a place far away in southern Brazil, which she only knew through the devices, but she knew it was a place inhabited by white people.

They had told her precisely “bring back to life “, a very serious thing, a mission of salvation. She had discussed about it with his relatives, they made some research. No one of them trusted white people; in the end, they have a very different idea of the meaning of life. However, the situation in the Xingu had become unsustainable, due to the last dam that were built, the cost of seed patents and the maintenance of the water wells. In Florianópolis, on the other hand, the investments in the “revitalization” were huge and came from foreign countries; not to mention the technology they had at their disposal, which at his home, in Xingu, would never arrive. So, they ended up accepting the proposal, as a challenge for the survival of the community, but also for the foundation of a new society.

Xuakti was a good teacher in Xingu, and so she was also in Florianópolis. She was appreciated, respected, was able to communicate with everyone, and had quickly learned to master the use of devices, as if she were born with them. The devices have solved so many problems, she thought, when a little girl reappeared on screen, and slowly they all returned to the virtual classroom. After the first moment of astonishment, the questions about the class used to be more or less the same: Xuakti, is the center of the earth really that hot? Xuakti, why is there so much noise inside the dunes? Xuakti, why couldn’t I catch the cloud?

The children knew the answers, but the hyperreal immersive experience imprinted the questions in a different way in their minds which, together with the corporeal dimension, first confused them, and then made them more deeply aware of the answers. And only after this first session they could move forward to the next ones, when the children, led by Xuakti, experienced the world as if they were plants, rocks, butterflies, birds and whales. Including the immersive empathy classes in the first-year didactic grid had been a requirement of Xuakti and his people, otherwise they would have left the Island. Because they couldn’t accept to look at the world only from the point of view of humans, as do the whites. The administration accepted, developed the necessary technology, and the classes became such a success that they were included as part of Ilha Brasil’s HighLux tour package.

Then, once the children had become familiar with immersive experience, in their second year of Geography, the teacher taught the most important lesson of that cycle, the one on extreme environmental disasters. Children were immersed in hurricanes, landslides, earthquakes, they were introduced into the most radioactive sites and into the smokestacks of the most contaminating industries of past times. Parental permission was needed for that lesson.

It was still daylight when Xuakti greeted the last child and closed the screen. Sunny Friday crept in like a memory after the last past weeks of rain, and flooded her with the urge to go out. She would go for a walk in the Park, as she called the Ilha Brasil Bio-Regenerative Reserve, where she lived together with ten thousand people from all over Brazil. But she met Ademar at the exit of the hut, and was almost forced to change his mind. After exchanging a few sentences, perceptible only by the devices, the two men got into the car, which seemed to be waiting for them.

The car flew over the Park, and as soon as it reached the exit it entered the carriageway. They didn’t have authorization to fly over the city. The risk of accidents due to the gusts of wind that increasingly hit the island – located in the Tornado Corridor of Latin America – was too high. So, outside the Park they could only use electric vehicles, whether they were two, three or four wheels. Ademar was already preparing for the meeting and were choosing from the many available skins the most suitable for the meeting.

Xuakti pretended not to notice his friend’s gaze. She preferred to enjoy the view from above, which lasted no more than a few minutes – just enough to cover the approximately one thousand hectares of the Park. During this time, she admired the many mountains in the south of Florianopolis, almost all reforested, the Peri lagoon, one of the few untouched by the wild urbanization of the past centuries, the beaches of Saquinho and Naufragados, with its buildings swallowed up by the sand that were going wild again, the bottom of Mount Matadeiro, where 90 years before a landslide buried the beach of Lagoinha do Leste, one of the most beautiful of the island.

But the place she loved most, perhaps because the farthest from his Amazonian imagination, was the beaches of Armação and Matadeiro, where hunters used to trap and kill whales two centuries earlier, before their definitive extinction in the 22nd century. She had experienced both beaches in immersive training when she was just arrived in Florianópolis. Both had escaped urbanization thanks to the historical value that the authorities of the time had assigned them, and they had been largely spared by the Monte landslide, even if there was very little beach left. But the nearby beach of Morro das Pedras had a different fate, and had slowly succumbed to the oceanic force: first the sand, then the houses facing the sea, then the shops behind the houses, and no dams, no retaining walls, could prevent the sea to rise, while people would continue to buy land, builders to build buildings, government to grant permits.

The last glimpse went to the small, still visible tip of Campeche Island, a paradise of neolithic art which, a few years after being privatized and transformed into a golf course, was embraced by the elusive veil of the waters. These were all ancient stories, which Xuakti had learned to internalize in countless debates and formative immersions, and which brought her closer to the land that she, together with his indigenous relatives, quilombola, ribeirinhos, and biobot colonies, was now helping to rebuild.

This is exactly what Xuakti was thinking when the wheels of the car touched the ground and Ademar looked at her showing off the carefully chosen skin: a striped cat superimposed on the amphibian that was so fashionable in the north of the island, where they were going for a meeting with the mayor of Florianópolis and with the representatives of the Technological Poles, who have always had their headquarters in those area. Even though Ademar was white, she liked him. Ademar was a descendant of the original peoples of the island, the manezinhos, whose ancestors had arrived in Florianópolis in the eighteenth century, from the Azores. The European archipelago was still famous for the fires that devastated some of its islands between 2057 and 2084, forcing the population, that no longer had access to water and livelihoods, into a mass exodus. Those were times when water conversion technologies were not yet available for Azores inhabitants – and would not be available to the majority of the people in the world for many years to come, including his people in Xingu.

Ademar never stopped boasting about his origins as the great-grandson of one of the last artisanal fishermen of Campeche, the ancient district in the south of the island that became part of the Park. He had ambiguous feelings about the establishment of the Reserve, which he often considered to be a prison and a bubble out of reality. For Xuakti, whose people had had to live in the Reserves since time immemorial on the threat of their total decimation, the friend was too romantic. Even his argument that the Reserve were created by a philanthropist businessman sounded to Xuakti like nonsense, because in his people’s memories the public and the private have always been mixed.

But the differences between the two friends stopped there. Mostly, they spent their time in the Park, working, playing Hunthinker – a game donated by the Technological Poles to the Park’s inhabitants – taking care of the community, walking. Xuakti liked listening to Ademar’s stories, like now, when they had to cross the almost 50 km of the island of Florianópolis to reach the headquarters of local power. While handling the device to prepare the meeting’s highlights, Ademar complained again about the lack of electric collective transport on the island, which would avoid the hours of traffic in the car, especially now that the road system in the main highway was diverted for the construction of the sixth bridge connecting Florianópolis with the mainland.

The construction works were lasting more than fifteen years, because the Government no longer had funds, and companies no longer had interest in investing on the island, after the golden age of tourism and real estate expansion had finished, about seventy years earlier. Who would come to this concrete forest, with a sewerage dump every 500 meters, almost no beaches, and the tornadoes that arrive every other day as well, everyone wondered.

It was then that Jacob Jacob, grandson of the homonymous tycoon who popularized space travel, took advantage of the collapse of the real estate market especially in the south of the island – which had resisted predatory urbanization until the end of the twentieth century – and proposed to the government an unrepeatable deal: he would have bought the 200-year concession of what was left of the public lands of the south of the island, would have made an agreement with the private ones who remained there, and would have built a gigantic Environmental Bio-Regeneration Reserve. No investment would have generated such an important enhancement, Jacob assured, because Ilha Brasil – the name chosen for the Park – build lives, regenerates systems.

The slogan turned out to be true. The project consisted in the construction of a regeneration village, called Ilha Brasil, a territory of environmental preservation and recolonization, which aimed to reconstruct the natural conditions of the island and its biodiversity. To succeed, Jacob’s team collected analyzes and opinions from scientists, humanists, experts in regeneration and even scholars of the old movement of sustainability. He counted on the opinions of bots developed with the most advanced algorithms. The common conclusion converged on the need to – in the words of bot-47235 who drafted the final opinion – “apply the most advanced technologies and make use of functional cultural systems to establish a careful and caring relationship with the mythical nature of things to bring out finally the world as the soul plenum it has always been1”.

The position paper was welcomed by all the experts and Jacob’s team engaged in the selection process throughout Brazil, to collect the support of people and small communities who met the criteria established by the final opinion. Hundreds of thousands of people were evaluated, and ten thousand were selected. Their role was to apply their knowledge in management and bi-relationality with woods, forests, mangroves, rivers, but also in traditional medicines, shamanism, regenerative culinary, technological exploration, defense, biogenetics and biorobotics, and other skills that would serve to create and make the reserve flourish, from all points of view.

At the end of the selection, nine thousand indigenous people, ribeirinhos, quilombolas belonging to small communities in the north and northeast of Brazil were chosen, while the other thousand were whites from other regions of Brazil and from other parts of the world. The investor entrusted the management to a trusted group, and following the inauguration of the Park in 2180, he never returned. He passed away a few months later, leaving his project as a shared inheritance between his daughter and a bot in his inner circle.

Public power had little to do with the project. State intervention was limited to the granting of licenses and permits, expropriations, authorization for access to some genetic banks, and the incentive for internal migration and repopulation. Once completed, the Park was completely self-sufficient. It generated and distributed energy, which was also sold to those inhabitants of the city without their own generation microsystem. It had its own education system, with schools and universities, and an economy based on biorobotics and hyperreal immersion tourism, highly technological sectors in which Jacob had a competitive advantage thanks to his grandfather’s activities, and which attracted a niche of wealthy consumers. To help to convince the city administration to close the agreement for the development of the Park, Jacob undertook to build a free drinking water conversion and supply line, thanks to the new technology he was developing and which he wanted to test in Florianópolis.

After about an hour of travel, spent watching a metamentary, Ademar and Xuakti had arrived halfway along the way, in the historical center of Florianópolis, which preserved in part the colonial architecture of the seventeenth century, in part its holograms. Only two of the three old bridges built between the 20s and 90s of the twentieth century and which opened the island to the mainland were still operating. The third one, and oldest, Ponte Hercílio Luz, was used only as a landing point for hyperreal immersive tourism – an idea that the old Jacob had pushed to the local government.

Traffic was heavy, but they had time, and they both preferred to enjoy the tranquility of the car over the agility of other electric vehicles. The journey to Canasvieiras, the extreme north of the island, would take another hour. After passing the center, Xuakti liked to disconnect to look at the landscape, characterized by an endless expanse of skyscrapers, bio-robot buildings and energy factories. The Technological Poles were the flagship of investors since ancient times, when they were conceived as innovation districts towards the end of the 20th century. There the gusts of wind and floods did not arrive with the same destructive power with which they arrived in the south of the island. But the decontracting bots had not yet managed to expel from the waters of the bay all the pollution that had deposited there in centuries of urban and technological settlement. Xuakti was reminded of the hyperreal immersive games of water, which she had played especially at the beginning of her stay on the island. It was nice to play with the waves. Who knows, she thought, what it must have been like for real. “I’ll show you,” Ademar commented, smiling.

———-

1 Viveiros de Castro, 2010

References:

Arguedas Ortiz, D. (2019). A gigantesca ‘catedral’ subterrânea que protege Tóquio de inundações. BBC Future. https://www.bbc.com/portuguese/vert-fut-46940113

Bispo, Fábio. (2019). Quarta ponte em Florianópolis depende de iniciativa da bancada federal. ND Mais. https://ndmais.com.br/infraestrutura/quarta-ponte-em-florianopolis-depende-de-iniciativa-da- bancada-federal/

Corredor dos tornados da América do Sul. (2021). Wikipedia. https://pt.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corredor_dos_tornados_da_Am%C3%A9rica_do_Sul

Da Rocha, V. (2021). Casas ficam cobertas por dunas em Florianópolis. Folha de São Paulo. https://www1.folha.uol.com.br/cotidiano/2021/07/casas-ficam-cobertas-por-dunas-em- florianopolis.shtml

Gago da Câmara, J. (2019). Açores: As mudanças climáticas também atingem este paraíso no

Atlântico. Sapo. https://visao.sapo.pt/opiniao/a/paralelo-38/2019-01-01-acores-as-mudancas-

climaticas-tambem-atingem-este-paraiso-no-atlantico/

Praia do Morro das Pedras é engolida pelo mar. (2021). Sul de Floripa. https://suldefloripa.com.br/praia-do-morro-das-pedras-e-engolida-pelo-mar/

Prefeitura de Florianópolis & BID. (2017). Relatório Final. Estudo 2 Vulnerabilidade e Riscos Ambientais Florianópolis. Iniciativa Cidades Emergentes e sustentáveis.

Tucunduva P. Cortese, T., Sotto, D. & Hernández Arriagada, C.A. (2020). Territórios frágeis em intempérie – Eventos climáticos extremos em época de pandemia: o caso de Florianópolis. IEA USP. http://www.iea.usp.br/pesquisa/projetos-institucionais/usp-cidades-globais/artigos-digitais/eventos- climaticos-extremos

Valente, E. (2021). Meio Ambiente – Maré alta derruba muros e adentra propriedades no Morro das Pedras. O Avanço do mar destruiu muros. Alamy. https://www.alamy.com/florianpolis-sc-24-05- 2021-meio-ambiente-mar-alta-derruba-muros-e-adentra-propriedades-no-morro-das-pedras-o- avano-do-mar-destruiu-muros-e-image429099419.html

Viveiros de Castro, E. (2010). Prefácio: O recado da mata. In Kopenawa, Davi e Albert, Bruce. A queda do céu, Palavras de um xamã yanomami. Companhia das Letras. pp. 11-41.

Ilha Brasil

(Italian)

Per Xuakti quello era il miglior momento dell’anno. Anche se insegnava a Ilha Brasil da quasi un decennio, le espressioni che scorgeva sui visi dei suoi alunni alla fine della prima lezione di geografia immersiva lo facevano emozionare. Si immedesimava in loro, si chiedeva come avrebbe reagito se avesse potuto vivere quella esperienza formativa a soli quattro anni. A quell’età, Xuakti viveva ancora nei pressi della foresta, o di quello che vi restava, con la sua comunità, a 4 mila chilometri di distanza, nello Xingu.

Non avrebbe mai detto che trent’anni dopo si sarebbe trovato a Florianópolis, a insegnare geografia ai bambini dalle origini così diverse dalle sue. Le mancava la sua terra, ma non aveva potuto rinunciare a una proposta come quella. I bianchi avevano chiamato la sua famiglia e alcuni altri parenti indigeni, quilombola e ribeirinhos, sparsi per il Brasile, e coinvolto alcune colonie di biobot perchè rimettessero in vita in un posto molto lontano nel sud del Brasile, che lei conosceva solo sui dispositivi, ma sapeva che era un posto di bianchi.

Le avevano detto proprio “rimettere in vita”, una cosa molto seria, una missione di salvezza. Lei aveva discusso con i suoi parenti, si erano informati, nessuno si fidava dei bianchi, che hanno un’idea di vita ben diversa dalla loro. Ma in fin dei conti la situazione nello Xingu era diventata insostenibile, per via dell’ultima diga, del costo dei brevetti per i semi e della manutenzione dei pozzi acquiferi. A Florianópolis invece gli investimenti in questa “rimessa in vita” erano enormi, tutti arrivati da fuori; senza parlare della tecnologia che avevano a disposizione, che lassù, a casa sua, non sarebbe mai arrivata. Così hanno finito per accettare, come una sfida per la sopravvivenza della sua comunità, ma anche per la fondazione di una nuova società.

Xuakti era un bravo maestro nello Xingu e così è stato anche a Florianópolis. Era apprezzato, rispettato, riusciva a comunicare con tutti, e aveva imparato velocemente a dominare l’uso dei dispositivi, come se ci fosse nato. Tanti problemi hanno risolto i dispositivi, pensava, quando una bambina si è riaffacciata allo schermo, e piano piano sono tutti tornati all’aula virtuale. Dopo il primo momento di stupore, le domande sulla lezione appena conclusa erano sempre più o meno le stesse: Xuakti, il centro della terra è davvero così caldo? Xuakti, perché dentro alle dune c’è così tanto rumore? Xuakti, perché non riuscivo a prendere la nuvola?

Non che i bambini non conoscessero le risposte, ma l’esperienza immersiva iperreale imprimeva le domande in un modo diverso nelle loro menti che, in connubio con la dimensione corporea, prima li confondeva, per poi renderli più profondamente consapevoli delle risposte. E solo allora si poteva passare alle lezioni successive, quando i bambini, guidati da Xuakti, sperimentavano il mondo come fossero piante, rocce, farfalle, uccelli e balene. Quella di inserire nella griglia didattica del primo anno le lezioni di empatia immersiva era stata un’esigenza di Xuakti e del suo popolo per rimanere nella Riserva, perché non avrebbero accettato di guardare il mondo solo dal punto di vista degli umani, come fanno i bianchi. L’amministrazione ha accettato, ha sviluppato la tecnologia necessaria, e le lezioni sono diventate un successo tale da entrare a far parte del pacchetto turistico HighLux di Ilha Brasil.

Poi, quando i bambini avevano familiarizzato con l’immersione, al secondo anno di geografia, il maestro impartiva la lezione più importante di quel ciclo, sui disastri ambientali estremi. I bambini venivano immersi negli uragani, negli smottamenti di terra, nei terremoti, venivano introdotti nei siti più radioattivi e dentro le ciminiere delle industrie più contaminanti dei tempi passati. C’era bisogno di un’autorizzazione dei genitori per quella lezione.

Era ancora giorno quando Xuakti salutò l’ultima bambina e chiuse lo schermo. Il venerdì soleggiato si insinuò come un ricordo dopo le settimane di piogge appena passate e lo inondò di voglia di uscire. Avrebbe fatto un giro a piedi nel Parco, come chiamava la Riserva Bio-Rigenerativa Ilha Brasil dove viveva insieme a diecimila persone provenienti da tutto il Brasile, ma l’incontro con Ademar all’uscita della capanna lo obbligò a cambiare idea. Dopo essersi scambiati qualche frase percettibile soltanto dai dispositivi, i due uomini salirono sulla macchina, che sembrava aspettarli.

L’auto ha sorvolato il Parco e non appena giunta all’uscita si è immessa in carreggiata. Non avevano l’autorizzazione per volare in città. Il rischio di incidenti a causa delle raffiche di vento che sempre più potentemente colpivano l’isola – collocata nel Corridoio dei Tornado dell’America Latina – era troppo alto. Quindi fuori dal Parco si potevano usare soltanto le elettriche, che fossero a due, tre o quattro ruote. Ademar si stava già preparando per l’incontro e sceglieva tra le tante skin disponibili una che fosse adatta all’occasione. Xuakti faceva finta di non avvertire lo sguardo dell’amico perché preferiva gustarsi il panorama dall’alto, che durava non più di pochi minuti – quanto bastavano per percorrere i circa mille ettari del Parco – durante i quali ammirava i tanti monti del sud dell’isola, quasi tutti riforestati, la laguna di Peri, una delle poche indenne all’urbanizzazione selvaggia dei secoli scorsi, le spiagge di Saquinho e Naufragados, con le sue costruzioni inghiottite dalla sabbia che si inselvatichivano nuovamente, i piedi del Monte Matadeiro, dove 90 anni prima uno smottamento aveva sotterrato la spiaggia di Lagoinha do Leste, una delle più belle dell’isola.

Ma il posto che le piaceva di più, forse perché il più lontano dal suo immaginario Amazzonico, erano le spiagge di Armação e Matadeiro, dove fino a due secoli prima i cacciatori intrappolavano e uccidevano le balene, prima della loro estinzione definitiva nel secolo XXII. Aveva vissuto entrambe le spiagge nel training immersivo appena arrivato a Florianópolis. Erano sfuggite all’urbanizzazione grazie al valore storico che le autorità dell’epoca avevano assegnato loro, ed erano state in gran parte risparmiate dalla frana del Monte, anche se di spiaggia ne restava ben poca. Destino diverso era toccato alla vicina spiaggia di Morro das Pedras, che lentamente soccombeva alla forza oceanica: prima la sabbia, poi le case davanti al mare, poi i negozi dietro alle case, e nessuna diga, nessun muro di contenimento, hanno potuto impedire al mare di salire, mentre le persone continuavano a comprare i terreni, i costruttori a costruire edifici, il governo a concedere permessi.

L’ultimo sguardo è andato alla piccola punta ancora visibile dell’isola del Campeche, un paradiso dell’arte rupestre che, pochi anni dopo essere stata privatizzata e trasformata in campo da golf, è stata abbracciata dal velo inafferrabile delle acque. Erano tutte storie antiche, che Xuakti aveva imparato a interiorizzare negli innumerevoli dibattiti e immersioni formative, e che la avvicinavano a quella terra che ora, insieme ai suoi parenti indigeni, quilombola, ribeirinhos, e alle colonie di biobot, stava aiutando a ricostruire. Se solo avessero iniziato prima a fare quello che dicevano da sempre.

Proprio a questo pensava Xuakti quando le ruote dell’auto hanno toccato terra e Ademar l’ha guardata sfoggiando la skin attentamente scelta: una gatta striata sovrapposta dall’anfibiotico che andava tanto di moda al nord dell’isola, dove si recavano per un incontro con il sindaco di Florianópolis e con i rappresentanti dei Poli Tecnologici che da sempre avevano le proprie sedi da quelle parti. Anche se era bianco, Ademar le piaceva. Era discendente dei popoli originari dell’isola, i manezinhos, i cui antennati erano arrivati a Florianópolis nel secolo XVIII, provenienti dalle Azzorre. L’arcipelago europeo era rimasto famoso per gli incendi che hanno devastato alcune sue isole tra il 2057 e il 2084, obbligando a un esodo di massa la popolazione, che non aveva più accesso all’acqua e ai mezzi di sussistenza, in un’epoca in cui le tecnologie di conversione dell’acqua non erano ancora disponibili – e non sarebbero state disponibili per gran parte del mondo ancora per troppo tempo, compresa la sua gente nel Xingu.

Ademar non si stancava di vantare le sue origini di bisnipote di uno degli ultimi pescatori artigianali del Campeche, l’antico quartiere del sud dell’Isola entrato a far parte del Parco. Serbava un sentimento ambiguo sull’istituzione della Riserva, che spesso considerava una prigione e una bolla fuori dalla realtà. Per Xuakti, i cui popoli avevano dovuto vivere nelle Riserve fin da tempi immemori, pena la loro totale decimazione, l’amico era troppo romantico. Anche i distinguo che faceva sul fatto che la riserva fosse stata creata da un miliardario filantropo suonavano alla maestra di geografia come discorsi che non avevano alcun senso, perché nelle memorie della sua gente, il pubblico e il privato si sono sempre mischiati.

Ma le differenze tra gli amici si fermavano lì. Per lo più, spendevano il loro tempo al Parco, lavorando, giocando a Hunthinker – gioco donato dai Poli Tecnologici agli abitanti del Parco – curando la comunità, passeggiando. A Xuakti piaceva ascoltare le storie di Ademar, sentire la proprietà con cui parlava quando camminavano nel Parco o quando, come ora, dovevano attraversare i quasi 50 km dell’isola per raggiungere la sede del potere locale. Mentre maneggiava il dispositivo per preparare i punti salienti dell’incontro, Ademar si lamentava per l’ennesima volta della mancanza di un trasporto collettivo elettrico sull’isola, che eviterebbe le ore di traffico in macchina, soprattutto ora che la viabilità nell’Autostrada principale era stata deviata per i lavori di costruzione del sesto ponte di connessione con il continente.

Lavori che duravano più di quindici anni, perché il Governo non aveva più fondi, e i privati non avevano più interesse a investire sull’isola, dopo che circa settant’anni prima l’età dell’oro dell’espansione turistica e immobiliare era finita. Chi vorrà più venire in questa selva di cemento, con una discarica fognaria a ogni 500 metri, quasi senza spiagge, e i tornado che arrivano un giorno sì e l’altro pure, si chiedevano tutti.

Fu allora che Jacob Jacob, nipote dell’omonimo magnate che rese popolare i viaggi spaziali, approfittò del crollo del mercato immobiliare soprattutto al sud dell’isola – che aveva resistito fino alla fine del XX secolo all’urbanizzazione predatoria -, e propose al governo un affare irripetibile: avrebbe comprato la concessione di 200 anni di quello che restava delle terre pubbliche del sud dell’Isola, si sarebbe accordato con i privati che vi restavano, e avrebbe costruito una gigantesca Riserva di Bio-Rigenerazione Ambientale. Nessun investimento avrebbe generato una valorizzazione così importante, assicurò Jacob, perché Ilha Brasil – il nome scelto per il parco – costruiva vite, rigenerava sistemi.

Lo slogan si rivelò veritiero. Il progetto consisteva nella realizzazione di un villaggio della rigenerabilità, un territorio di preservazione ambientale e ricolonizzazione, che puntava a ricostruire le condizioni naturali dell’isola e la sua biodiversità. Per riuscire nell’intento, il team di Jacob ha raccolto analisi e pareri di scienziati, umanisti, esperti in rigenerabilità e anche studiosi delle vecchie correnti della sostenibilità. Ha contato sui pareri dei bot sviluppati con gli algoritmi più avanzati. La conclusione comune convergeva sulla necessità di – nelle parole del bot-47235 che ha redatto il parere finale- “applicare le tecnologie più avanzate e avvalersi di sistemi culturali funzionali a stabilire una relazione attenta e di cura con la natura mitica delle cose per far emergere finalmente il mondo come plenum animico che è sempre stato”.

Il parere è stato accolto da tutti gli esperti e il team di Jacob si è impegnato nel processo di selezione in tutto il Brasile, per raccogliere l’adesione di persone e piccole comunità che rispettassero i criteri stabiliti dal parere finale. Centinaia di migliaia di persone sono state valutate, e diecimila sono state selezionate. Il loro ruolo era quello di applicare la propria conoscenza nella gestione e bi-relazionalità con boschi, foreste, mangues, fiumi, ma anche in medicine tradizionali, sciamanesimo, culinaria rigenerativa, esplorazione tecnologica, difesa, biogenetica e biorobotica, e altre competenze che sarebbero servite a creare e far fiorire la riserva, da tutti i punti di vista.

Alla fine della selezione, sono stati scelti novemila tra persone indigene, ribeirinhos, quilombolas appartenenti a piccole comunità nel nord e nordest del Brasile, mentre l’altro migliaio erano bianchi provenienti da altre regioni del Brasile e da altre parti del mondo. L’investitore ha affidato il management a un suo gruppo di fidati, e a seguito dell’inaugurazione del Parco, nel 2180, non vi ha fatto più ritorno. È deceduto pochi mesi dopo, lasciando il suo progetto in eredità condivisa tra la figlia e un bot del suo cerchio stretto.

Poco ha avuto a che fare il potere pubblico con il Parco. L’intervento dello Stato si è limitato alla concessione di licenze e permessi, agli espropri, all’autorizzazione per l’accesso ad alcune banche genetiche, e all’incentivo alle migrazioni interne e ripopolamenti. Una volta completato, il parco era completamente autosufficiente. Generava e distribuiva energia, che vendeva anche a quegli abitanti della città sprovvisti di un proprio microsistema di generazione. Contava su un proprio sistema educativo, con scuole e università, e aveva un’economia basata sulla biorobotica e sul turismo di immersione, settori altamente tecnologici in cui Jacob aveva un vantaggio competitivo grazie alle attività di suo nonno, e che attraevano una nicchia di consumatori esigenti e facoltosi. Per aiutare a convincere l’amministrazione della città a chiudere l’accordo per la realizzazione del Parco, Jacob si è impegnato a costruire una linea di conversione e rifornimento di acqua potabile gratuita, grazie alla nuova tecnologia che stava sviluppando e che voleva testare a Florianópolis.

Dopo circa un’ora di viaggio, spesa guardando un metamentario appena divulgato, Ademar e Xuakti erano arrivati a metà del cammino, nell’antico centro storico di Florianópolis, che conservava in parte l’architettura coloniale del secolo XVII, in parte i suoi ologrammi. Dei tre vecchi ponti costruiti tra gli anni ’20 e gli anni ’90 del Ventesimo secolo e che hanno aperto l’isola al continente, ne restavano soltanto due operativi, dopo importanti lavori di rinforzamento delle basi, mentre il terzo e più antico, Ponte Hercílio Luz, veniva utilizzato solo come punto di atterraggio del turismo di immersione – un’idea che il vecchio Jacob aveva fatto sottoscrivere dal governo locale.

Il traffico era intenso ma avevano tempo, ed entrambi preferivano godere la tranquillità dell’auto all’agilità degli altri veicoli elettrici. Il viaggio fino a Canasvieiras, estremo nord dell’Isola, sarebbe durato ancora un’altra ora. Superato il centro, a Xuakti piaceva disconnettersi per guardare il paesaggio, caratterizzato da una distesa interminabile di grattacieli, costruzioni biorobotiche e impianti energetici. I Poli Tecnologici erano il fiore all’occhiello degli investitori fin dai tempi remoti, quando furono concepiti come distretti dell’innovazione verso la fine del Secolo XX. Lì le raffiche di vento e le inondazioni non arrivavano con la stessa potenza distruttiva con cui giungevano nel sud dell’isola, ma i bot decontraenti non erano ancora riusciti a espellere dalle acque della baia tutto l’inquinamento che vi si era depositato in secoli di insediamento urbano e tecnologico. A Xuakti vennero in mente i giochi immersivi iperreali di acqua, che aveva fatto soprattutto all’inizio della sua permanenza sull’isola. Era bello giocare con le onde. Chissà, pensò, come sarà stato farlo per davvero. “Te lo farò vedere”, commentò Ademar, sorridendo.

Saidia I Saidia Under Water

Abdelhafid Jabri

Abstract: This is a speculative flash story happening in 2100 AD in Saidia[1], a coastal city in the Northeast of Morocco. It is about the effects of the sea level rise on the region and on the local people in case the planet’s temperature goes up to four degrees celcius.

As a result of the sea level rise along the Moroccan coastlines to almost nine meters high, several coastal cities began to submerge. The economy of the country was at an alarming stage because tourism was heavily affected by this phenomenon which spared neither the rich nor the poor. Most experts thought that it was too late to find workable quick fixes since even developed countries were unable to face the crawling of the sea. One of the affected cities by this phenomenon is Saidia. Houses, hotels, and all administrative and leisure sites were beginning to go under water. Electric power plants had to shut down as drainage efforts collapsed in the face of this environmental crisis. This pushed local people to retreat to less endangered places or to neighboring cities like Berkane, Ahfir and Oujda.

Omar was one of the boys living in Saidia. He was a middle-school student in Charif Idrissi School. His family used to run a kiosk in the Cornice. Their house was situated two or three kilometers off the beach. However, the sea water had not only invaded their kiosk but had also surrounded the vicinity of their house as well as the antique Casbah whose walls were noticeably affected.[2] The soil no longer absorbed the water because many hectares of water-loving trees had been removed in the early 2000s for construction purposes by multinational companies. When Omar’s father asked the authorities about compensation, they told him that only families with a house insurance against catastrophes would be compensated.

In the early afternoon of that cold, rainy winter, Omar’s family packed their luggage and joined the long queue of families to quit Saidia on buses parked in an elevated area. The bus took a shortcut toward the crossroad of Berkane and Oujda. As soon as it reached the top of a hill, Omar jumped out of his seat to get the last view of Saidia from the rear window. He saw a flat light blue line of the sea stretching symmetrically and gracefully to the horizon from the Algerian frontiers on his right to the Spanish islands adjacent to Ras El Ma on his left. Water had already moved forward to the majority of the city’s surface, and it was almost deserted except for police patrolling zodiacs.

“Come back to your seat, son!” ordered his father.

“I will, dad. I just want to have a last glance at my birthplace,” said Omar wanderingly. “When are we going to see it again?” he then asked.

“God only knows, son” replied his clueless father.

Since that day, Saidia was declared an afflicted city and its beach became no more than an abandoned landscape. Ironically, it returned to the times when birds and fish were the only native inhabitants. As for Omar and his family, the aftermath of that natural disaster greatly touched their wellbeing. Omar could hardly find a school to pursue his studies and his father could not find a job. The only revenue was the small financial aid provided by the government to people who were in the same situation. There were many promises to find lasting solutions to this problem, but none was kept.

After years of hardship, Omar succeeded in his studies and had a scholarship to study landscaping in Europe. After a successful journey, he became a landscaper, a specialty which he considered as his favorite hobby. The first thing he did upon graduation was to get a loan and start a small landscape company. However, because his childhood memories of Saidia never left him, he applied for a call for projects funded by Morocco to rebuild the natural landscape of that afflicted city. To his joy, the proposal was selected, and his dream was made true: at last, he could do something for his homeplace.

“Father, I have finally achieved my dream, our common dream… I can now be an active member in the promotion of this afflicted land,” he said beside his father’s tomb. 

[1] Saidia is situated at the Mediterranean Sea, Northward from Berkane city and Westward from the Moroccan-Algerian border.

[2] Being part of the local heritage, the ‘Casbah’ is an old fortress built by the Moroccan Sultan Hassan 1st in 1883 AD.

Denpasar I The Big Reset

Made Dewi Suastini

2200 is a start for all. Global warming is happening faster than all people can imagine. Sea level rise is happening faster and sinking small islands around the world and Denpasar is one of them and it has happened in the previous 100 years. Sea level rise is a formidable threat. Everything was predictable although not quite precisely because no one knew how fast the destruction would come. There was one big initiative that saved the coastal population of Bali at that time, namely the creation of a floating city and that was realized swiftly by the government and completely changed the condition of Denpasar City in 2200. Its appearance is quite modern with a shape consisting of a collection of triangular to hexagonal platforms, this city is tough designed for Resistant to natural disasters such as floods, tsunamis and hurricanes. A city on the water that becomes the permanent residence of hundreds of thousands of people. Climate Change Preparedness that has been designed far from the 20th century has brought this city is save from the apocalypse.

This floating infrastructure provides everything human needs from clean water obtained from the discovery of seawater desalination technology in real time, plant and animal food sources from biotechnology, modern waste treatment channels that are efficiently integrated, clothing needs, business development, to places where people can live. gathering place on a large scale. People slowly began to adapt to the new environment. Rising sea levels cause coastal cities such as Denpasar to face unique demographic, environmental, economic, social and spatial challenges. Through these complex changes, it is possible for humans, nature, and technology to coexist forever. Denpasar researchers who collaborated with international researchers in 2200 are also getting crazy in developing technology. A great project is being developed from the early 2200 that is to free humanity from all kinds of misery. This project will be the largest project created by human hands based on the word Utopia World. This is the beginning of a big step.

People live their lives normally because the creation of a lifelike environmental design makes it easy for people to adapt. The land in the floating city they stepped on was no different from the land on the original island. Life goes on as usual. Those with families will live together while some people decide to live alone and determine their freedom. Government and society are more organized. The political system is still running which brings dynamics among the people but is still controlled through the opposition parties. Everything seems to be going so well even though when we look deeper and deeper, human intentions to beat each other always create upheavals. No white is truly white, there will always be imperfections. There are always people who are against and they are in the opposition team which also plays a role in regulating the running of the government. Some groups still think that they cannot achieve happiness without winning something for themselves.

Everything starts with the intention of fulfilling human happiness. So far, human life basically has 5 levels of happiness or what is commonly called the pyramid of happiness which is taken from the perspective of A.H Maslow, namely physiological/life/body needs, security needs, love needs/the need to be a part, self-esteem needs and the last need for self-actualization. Utopia is a perfect life depicted by humans. A life without suffering, without lack, full of equality, there is only abundance and happiness similar to heaven which is called in religions. Since the beginning, time after time, humans have always pursued happiness. In theory, this happiness will be achieved if the conditions are met. Starting from physical needs, security, feeling loved and recognized, to self-existence. If one of these five basic needs has not been met, it will be difficult for humans to enjoy true happiness.

Some of these elements of happiness have been fulfilled long ago when humans were first able to protect themselves from the attacks of wild animals in the past to the time when everything could be easily obtained in one hand. Back in the 21st century, Denpasar is a busy city with a very plural population. The hustle and bustle of people working and the activities of the central government are held in working weeks. There is always a lot of electricity continuously on for 24 hours in Denpasar. Mixing of cultures often occurs in densely populated areas, while in suburban and periphery areas it occurs less frequently, people will tend to be more attached to their local culture. Further examining the socio-cultural conditions in Denpasar, initially the residents of Denpasar and various areas in Bali were immigrants from Taiwan through Maritime Southeast Asia around 2000 BC while Balinese culture was strongly influenced by Indian, Chinese, and especially Hindu cultures. The culture began around the 1st century AD. Ten centuries later, nine Hindu sects began to spread, namely the Pasupata Sect, Bhairawa Sect, Shiva Shidanta Sect, Vaishnava Sect, Bodha Sect, Brahma Sect, Resi Sect, Sora Sect, and Ganapatya Sect.

The culture of the Denpasar population in 2200 was much different from the previous 200 years. Conditions that require them to always coexist with technology have made their belief in religion even more faded. Some people who still carry on their traditions, whether they are Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Christian, or Confucian, they try to make alternative prayers where the media and location get updated versions of adjustments. In general, they have a building or prayer hall together as a sacred space and a solemn place for worship measuring 14 x 8 meters, equipped with several equipment and media used. In addition, they also install religious attributes in their homes, indicating their identity. There is a lot of lost culture and it all comes down to relevance. The more relevant the religious values, the stronger people will defend them from time to time. Despite thousands of years, the people of Denpasar have been very attached to the belief in God and the culture of worship.

On the other hand, the other biggest cause of change that shapes everything that happens in 2200 is a global agreement. The big scenario of the World Economic Forum to reset world civilization with the momentum of a pandemic through The Great Reset which was held in June 2012, almost 2 centuries ago. This organization is the same non-governmental organization that initiated the concept of The Fourth Industrial Revolution in 2011 and contains many of the most influential people and companies that run the world economy or more simply the world-class capitalists who run the wheels of civilization from this world. Agree or disagree, human civilization is always determined by the leaders of superpower countries and world capitalists who are already planning to research many sectors in the world ranging from economic, social, geopolitical, environmental, technology, business, industrial, and the last is individual reset. From this point, it starts to be rearranged how this new human world adapts more quickly to technology that is more friendly to nature because the next threat that has been expected to be more severe than a pandemic and global warming in the 21st century is a capitalist system that is more human-centric, not only profitable. power holders only.

2050 marks the beginning of a time of great change after people agreed to sit down together and agree on a pact whether it would end forever for good or otherwise. After that, the future of Denpasar City began to change starting with a more efficient food system through biotechnology which can anticipate crop failures due to increasingly unfriendly climatic conditions. A more open and transparent economic system through block chain technology which reduces the corrupt system because of its openness. With the opening of a new government system that is more transparent, it will provide new hope for equality and justice for every people in need. The new regulations in the digital world are followed by the residents of Denpasar where every human who enters this era requires a digital ID so that anyone who maneuvers in cyberspace is no longer anonymous so that it will greatly reduce the crime rate. The big deal brought Denpasar in a good direction because division, power struggles, and power have always been human nature since ancient times when their condition was improving. So that humans have been complacent for the last hundreds of years only care about satisfying their respective interests and egos. Pretending not to hear that this condition is getting worse.

Global warming as a disaster and the cause of the earth’s apocalypse has succeeded in becoming a turning point to unite mankind which is similar to the post-war scenario in the 20th century. From there, humans have hope and do not end up in a dystopia scenario because of the natural selection process that can reset our technology back to the stone age. Finally, the city of Denpasar and other cities that were able to survive continued to advance in the Utopia stage in the next few centuries until in 2200. This journey to become a Utopia world is the greatest choice because this can be achieved if humans agree on a common goal. There is no difference between social status, economy, culture, maybe even religion. Because without equality and a common goal, Utopian conditions will never occur forever in the lifetime of mankind.

Continuing the massive project that is being worked on and implemented in the city of Denpasar where all aspects will be controlled by AI. The government system is no longer run by human interests anymore but is entrusted with control of an AI computing system that is mutually agreed upon to regulate the course of a new civilization system programmed based on the principles of humanism that adheres to the principles that exist in this universe which has been proven to work harmoniously even for millions of years. The last thing to emphasize is that without humans, this earth will still be fine. That’s the difference between human-made and god-made systems, between mortal and immortal because the long history of humankind has proven to have never been successful in managing this world since humans held civilization on earth. It always ends in the destruction of each other even though humans have undergone various types of systems ranging from imperial, socialist, liberal, to democracy during the abstract human will with ego and desire as the center of its control, which is always filled with authoritarianism, power supremacy, and dynasties. political. Therefore, the government system implemented by AI will be much more relevant because it is unmotivated, impartial, and fair even to every living creature on this earth.

The 2200s should be a better time than ever. However, when all humanity agreed to unite, it would mark a new, terrifying era. At this time technology has provided everything for human needs. Thanks to nuclear fusion that provides unlimited energy to anyone who needs it for free. In this Utopia era, energy is produced very easily, cheaply, and unlimitedly. Just because of this free energy, everything in the world of Utopia becomes available for free too. Moreover, this place has all been controlled by AI and robotics that automatically produce and provide almost every basic need of mankind from food, health, proper housing, even entertainment. Because everything is very easy to obtain, humans are starting to have no thoughts of doing evil anymore and every human being has started to no longer work to get what he wants because everything is available very easily thanks to the help of AI technology with a very sophisticated quantum computer base that can run the system. in this Utopia world ranging from the economy, transportation, social needs, business, and industry very fairly.This is a time when every human being is considered equal in existence and only focuses on pursuing their own dreams and fantasies. The residents of Denpasar, who in the early 2200s still had several groups attached to religion, then began to disengage from various types of beliefs. They start chasing things as big as they want to achieve. AI has stored the entire database of mankind as well as every object in the world that can be connected to humans and all objects wirelessly, understands all the needs and even worries felt by mankind and immediately provides solutions for them instantly. It all makes humans no longer feel pain and suffering.

In this city too, treatment has been very advanced thanks to Nano technology so that cancer cells are no longer a threat. Even before humans are born, genetics with the potential for cancer can be modified like new again thanks to the help of the much more advanced Crisper technology. Likewise, with physical genetic modification starting from gender, face, hair color, and body posture so that humans can have physical conditions according to their own desires. There is no envy and envy towards other humans just because this gets a proper self-existence in the eyes of society. Because now everyone is equal. The super-advanced cell generation technology allows us to live in a youthful state that would make life and death just an option. No more dying from disease and childbirth. At this time, it is possible to give birth to a baby outside the mother’s womb. All the nutrients have been provided by technology from the embryo to the whole human being. Of course this has been genetically modified to perfection so that there are no more birth or physical defects.

In this Utopia world, Denpasar residents are only busy chasing dreams and imaginations that they have not yet experienced. But again, this sensation is very easy for them to get with the increasingly sophisticated neuroscience technology that makes it possible for every human being to feel whatever sensation he wants in his life. Enough just to consume a substance that will work in our subconscious. They will feel the sensation completely without the need to go through a long process. For example, the sensation of a peak of success, popularity, the sensation of falling in love, and connecting with the most coveted person, even feeling the sensation of being any creature in this world. Limits only as far as the imagination can think. Utopia is similar to the concept of a paradise where humans can no longer be governed by all physical limitations. Advances in quantum physics allow humans to be able to break down and manipulate the blueprints of an atom so that they become able to create various new materials in this universe, which makes humans no longer imprisoned in physical laws that enable them to create their own version of new laws. Until finally able to rewrite the new destiny of life from alpha to omega.

Until one point, the people of Denpasar City no longer even crave a hope in such flawless conditions. When they no longer even know what they want when they are easily fulfilled. Technology was originally created to make life easier and more efficient by speeding up or stopping a process. But after all the processes are taken over by him until there is nothing left for humans, then there is nothing more terrible than a human being who always gets whatever comes to his mind so easily. When they no longer even know what they want because it is easily fulfilled then everything no longer has a value. Because a value appears thanks to a process. The more difficult the process, the higher the value. The more limited a thing is, the more valuable it will be.

Even the people in the city had no idea what hope was in such flawless conditions. How can a person have hope when everything is under his control. Everything is measured, organized, no more spontaneity, no more surprises, and no more fear. When all hope and desire is no longer there, then all that remains are emptiness. Which is even more terrible than going through a long painful process but still has hope. Because that’s basically what makes humans feel alive. It is hopes and desires that are difficult for us to pursue that give us purpose in life, which ultimately makes them envious of human life in the past which was full of emotions and hopes even though they had reached the perfect stage.

An ironic turning point, the people in the city are no longer working hard just to get a bite of food but they don’t know how happy and delicious it is to get a bite of food that is obtained from the results of days of hard work. Maybe they no longer go through labor and delivery for 9 months but they don’t know how happy a mother feels when she first sees the depths of her baby’s eyes right after giving birth. They no longer felt the disease in their perfect body from birth but they did not know how happy a child was born blind to see for the first time. They have a perfect family that is never in need but they don’t know the happy feeling of a father who sees his wife and children laughing while eating together even though he has to take on 2 jobs at once in the day and night. They can live in youth as long as they want but they will never know how much every moment in life means so much in our short and ignorant life of tomorrow. The emotions that humans feel right now are the greatest real gifts. Humans in the past yearned for a Utopian life in the future and humans in the future were envious of human life in the past. So this search for happiness will find no end.

It is the ignorance of the townspeople about tomorrow that makes tomorrow more interesting to live. It’s their current discomfort that keeps them motivated. Suffering is still felt that makes happiness so much more meaningful. And the limited age makes them have more priorities so that every moment in every life becomes much more valuable. All the imperfections that exist in a person’s life now are what make life perfect. So there is no need to live another 200 years because after understanding that, everyone can achieve happiness. But because of human nature that never feels enough and feels capable of doing everything, so that they still feel alive and have a purpose. They create their own new life goals by making a new earth where happiness can still be fought with a hope and suffering with new humans who are still innocent as white as snow and without knowledge from the beginning again. Where happiness cannot be achieved in conditions of lack but also cannot be achieved even in conditions of perfect abundance. Happiness only exists in the condition of being sufficient and grateful. Therefore, these new humans can give a sincere love to their creator because that is the only thing they cannot do. But this time they take care and make sure that not all knowledge is good for consumption. Because someone who is in a state of knowing can never return to a state of not knowing. So there is no need to repeat their mistakes and end up in a reset condition again.

References:

Adnan, A. (2020). ‘Floating Cities from Concept to Creation’. Canada: University of British Columbia

Ardana, I. K. (2018). ‘Balinese Hinduism: Religion, Politics, and Multiculturalism’, International Seminar on Balinese Hinduism, Tradition, and Interreligious Studies

McLeod, S. (2018). ‘Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs’. Seen at January 23th, 2022, < https://canadacollege.edu/dreamers/docs/Maslows-Hierarchy-of-Needs.pdf>

Kanpur & Tallinn: Journey to the Wastelands & Fragmented and Divided Pieces

Rahul Sharma

Part One: Journey to the Wastelands

Geolocation: Kanpur, India

Anita

She came after the suns exploded, and as the long winter began. The community elders were stupefied at her appearance: bloodshot-red eyes, spiked green hair, pale skin, brown and lead-coated nails. They knew Komal was different. The matriarchal priests would often chant mantras rooted in the lost-century eras but to no avail. The ayurvedic priests prepared several concoctions stored in glass bottles from the previous century. They brought her voice back. Yet, it sounded more coarse and husky than the other girls.

One fine morning when a glimmer of sunlight pierced through the snowing skies, Komal’s mother, Anita, took a ten-kilometre walk through the wastelands that formed part of river Ganges. On the fringes of the slippery-iced ground, mushroom pods were being neatly stacked up by a man named Bhagwan. He was breathing through a ventilator, donning dark goggles. Bhagwan was an innovator whose early experiments resulted in the regrowth of cauliflowers, carrots, wheat and potatoes. Lack of water meant that rice was still a distant dream. Anita had pinned all hopes for Koma’s cure onto him. In fact, he was a messiah for the villagers and even beyond.

In a quirky, off-handed manner, Bhagwan took Anita into a dingy and lowly lit room with candles. He was saving plant-extracted fuel for the harsher months of the year. Several handmade and previously sourced maps decorated the wall.

“This..”, he exclaimed jubilantly, “…is the future. That is where your daughter must go. In the middle over here. My sources have informed me that special herbs called cacti sea-berries grow here.”

“And will they help treat Komal?”Anita asked anxiously. Bhagwan nodded his head, although with pangs of uncertainty.

“I have researched this for the last decade. There is a slight possibility that my calculations might be wrong, but a traveller from the Global south said those in his region also inferred the same. When the suns came down and sickness began, the soil created a mutant plant from two old herbs that could wither away this strange illness many of us have. Even all of us have it, Anita. We all cough blood at midnight. According to old records, blood coughing was not common.”

A bit perplexed, Anit said, growing impatient, “I think it was always common. And I’ve had it with your tales. Last time I let Komal travel, she came back sicker than usual.”

Bhagwan pacified her and responded, “She was younger and more prone to the effects. Only alone, she can undertake this journey because she is immune to the effects. All of us will die miles before reaching the core. The core where the greatest sun exploded. She is the key to our future. To reverse the damages the elders did in fury. Maybe the rivers might even start flowing if we plant these herbs here, and the snow might go away.”

Teary eyed, Anita retorted, “Stop! Stop with all this blabbering. Many in our village don’t even trust your tales. The snow has been here since dada was born. None of us knew what went on before.”

Bhagwan repeated calmly, “It’s true, we don’t know but must find out sooner than later. Listen, you must let Komal go. She is a smart kid and will navigate her way around. She even survived those three months you were not home, picking wild berries. She can live on them. I remember when my tongue tasted even one of them, I almost found myself close to death. Had it not been for the potions..”

Anita cut him, “Okay, I understand. I know she is special. But as a mother, I am scared. After all, where will she go? And how? She can’t cross the great seas to reach the Wastelands, from the Midlands. Forget even making contact with the Northerners.”

Anita looked at the map while formulating her thoughts. Huge leaps of land submerged in the sea near the Poles and extended all the way near the equator. All of these were called the Great Islands, where the Northerners were rumoured to live in isolated tribes. Some even suggested that most of them were dead. No one in the Midlands had seen any of them before. Meanwhile, the Wastelands were uninhabited and mostly inaccessible creating a large divide between the two regions, currently populated by the last surviving humans. Bhagwan’s bizarre suggestion that only special prodigies like Komal, who had developed a sort of chemical resistance to overcome hazardous terrain of the Wastelands, seemed more like a myth than reality to Anita. But she knew Komal’s days were numbered if she didn’t get a cure in time before her 15th birthday.

Bhagwan shook Anita from her preoccupations, “Listen to me. I will give her a special hazmat suit. One of the travellers from the Tengerinfound it in a bunker.” Anita hesitated but nodded, caught in dire straits.

Tengerin were a series of mountainous terrains, located north of Midlands often ridden with harsher winters. Its survivors camped amidst a hidden labyrinth of caves praying to mutated wolves, while adhering to the old ways of shamanism. Little did even Bhagwan know that there were other unmapped and undiscovered pockets of the world, where wider secrets of humanity’s reincarnation secretly lay. But once he met a man from the Tengerins who travelled south and spoke of actual trees, the ones which existed in old recovered books. Bhagwan’s curiosity and kind mannerisms to outsiders led him to accumulate valuables, treasures and mystic objects from across the globe.

And so it came to be known that Komal’s journey towards the core of their newly established world began at Anita’s behest. It was destined to be a feat, given radically plummeting temperatures and falling skies. Some admired Anita’s selfless decision while others deemed her an unfit and reckless mother. It would only be much later when the herbs would be discovered and brought back by a traveller from the Great Islands, that she would be revered and worshipped. But Komal had a new destiny, and would come back to this part of the world only much later in her life.

Komal

A full snow cycle had passed. Clear, moonlight finally shone light at the edge of the midlands, drenched in white sheets of snow. Removing her hazmat suit, Komal checked her bag for reserves. She pulled out wildberries and stale bread, once packed by her mother one snow cycle ago.

The endless sub-zero temperatures did not deter her confidence. Along the way, the coastal villagers had been kind to her. She was almost at the end of her mission. A week-long boat ride would take her to the Wastelands. She could reach the core of the exploding suns, without feeling its ill effects. Many from her village had died from radiation sickness simply journeying towards the coast. From here on, it got harder and harder.

She opened her sledbag, and removed Bhagwan’s mechanically constructed boat which he had constructed with secretive spare parts assembled from an old nuclear station near their village. It resembled an old Shikara from the mythical land of Kashmir, according to tales and photographs passed on from her great-great grandmother.

Once Komal had finished assembling the boat and set sail, a strange melancholy led her determined heart ashtray. She could feel the water speak to her, in its strange, soulful manner. Through an invisible thread, it dragged the boat with its potent lifeforce, denying its waves to trickle its pieces asunder. Minutes turned into hours which turned into days. Melancholy turned into amazement. The end was near. Her breath was coarser. Her hands were jittery. Her legs did not stop shaking. She saw pieces of volcanic ash subdued within the water. A stranger creature, perhaps a mutant, jumped onto the boat. It half-resembled a wolf but also had fins at its back. A fish-wolf, Komal reckoned. It licked the legs of her hazmat suit. She petted him with delight. Never had she encountered an animal species other than her own.

The pair of them fell asleep only to be awoken by a buzzing sound. The core was near. The deserted area across the muck was a sight for sore eyes. Dilapidated buildings and ruins of a megacity could be seen in the distance. This was similar to the illustrations Komal had seen in her village school. The fish-wolf started barking, signalling to turn away with increasing tension. Komal let him into the water, gesturing that she would come back for him. It was her mission alone at the end.

Komal felt her head swirl as her boat rocked towards the shore of the abandoned city. The old Hindu priests from her village hypothesised that the city kept shifting its location as the core of the earth was constantly moving. Nevertheless, she managed to step foot into it, wearing long black boots carefully designed by Bhagwan. She removed a map from her bag, which would lead her to the herbs. The core was not far, as she could feel her body burning. Her time to complete her mission was limited.

She ran as fast as she could amidst buildings recaptured by nature where green moses grew. Surprisingly, an abundance of wildberries, wheatgrass and strange, new plants had sprung up around the once arid region in the course of the past few decades. Komal stopped running. She removed a plastic bag, and started collecting large samples of the myriad of herbs present all around her. Some resembled small pomegranate seeds while others looked like full grown vegetables. Suddenly, her eyes fell onto the cacti grown near an abandoned banking office.

She walked towards the once functioning banking office, where numerous accountants had toiled themselves away for hours, convincing inhabitants of mutual fund benefits amidst rising disasters. All this before the seasons changed and the suns exploded.

Suddenly, Komal heard a rumbling sound, and found a pair of human beings atop a strange scooter which was running by itself on wheels. Komal had read about this in her history lessons. She didn’t know these still existed. And how come were they here, which was close to impossible? Were they also resistant to radiation? And how on earth would people actually live here?

The scooter came to a jolting halt next to Komal. A girl, probably her age, tried to touch Komal. She lurched away from her, in fear. Walking a few paces, she hid behind a building observing them from afar. She didn’t want her life to end at the behest of other humans, so she thought it would be best to resist.

There was a garden across from her which led to a labyrinth of underground tunnels. She had learned about it in the map as one of the possible spots for cacti which would then produce the sea berries. In the hope of avoiding conflict and finding cacti elsewhere, she sped towards it. Unfortunately, she slipped in the mucky ground and ended up being dragged towards the debris. The sheer speed of the force was making her lose consciousness. She heard faint sounds of a whirling scooter. The scooter manoeuvred and picked her up just in time, averting her fall towards her demise. The last thing she remembered was a weird tingling sensation in her arm.

Epilogue

When tribes from ancient civilisation first encountered each other, there was fear. This fear almost cost Komal her life. Her saviours were the very source of her fear, just like the spot of destruction was the source of mankind’s cure.

The two strangers had erected a tent which would block all radioactive isotopes, and the heat. Inside, it was cold with the help of a generator functioning from geothermal heat.

“I am Tuuli and I come from the northernmost part of the Great Islands,” said Tuuli, speaking in the ancient language of Estonian, extending her arm to Komal.

It sounded gibberish to Komal. Only when Tuuli would draw onto an old book with the help of her father, would Komal start to comprehend her thoughts. Language was a fluid yet inconsistent notion. But soon she understood that the pair of them, father and daughter, had travelled South to collect the same herbs.

She was almost surprised to know that they already utilised the herbs in the region of the Wastelands. They even made radioactive blockers, medicines, food products and liquid soap from the herbs. There was also a way to farm them by replicating the samples elsewhere on earth.

So far, the pair of them, father Andrus and daughter Tuuli, had managed to build a scooter and a boat, but never decided to take the week-long voyage to the Midlands from the Wastelands. This was as far as they had managed to travel. However, it was Andrus’s dream to travel as far as he could, even to Tengrins, and down South into other unknown continents. They believed the world was more than Tengrins, Midlands, Wasteland and the Great Islands.

In the next few days, Tuuli’s father Andrus injected Komal with some radioactive blockers, made from crushing the roots of the cacti berries. Instantly, her hair transformed from spikes to curls, like her mother, while her red eyes turned into regular brown. She regained the haemoglobin in her blood, and her nails turned into a normal shape, simply over the next two days. She observed herself in a side-mirror which she had packed into her sledbag. She realised she had transformed into a new person. She looked like a warrior woman from older tribes, who had her own sense of identity. The scars and trauma from the burning suns evolved and instilled hybridity onto her skin. She was rejuvenated with hope. 

High on confidence, Komal had to make a decision. Should she go back East towards her village into the Midlands to share the recipes with her people? Or to travel across the globe to discover new secrets? The second prospect sounded more interesting to her.

Meanwhile, Andrus pinned his hope on the East—to visit the Tengrin mountains, to build himself an armoury, adopt Shamanism and try cave delicacies. A split-decision was necessary. Over the next two weeks, Tuuli and Andrus constructed a new scooter from scratch, using elements scattered across ten sledbags. Once they had finished, they divided their luggage amidst themselves and parted ways.

Komal saw Tuuli shedding a few tears. Perhaps it would be a few years or so, when she would see her father again. Tuuli hugged Andrus tightly. Komal handed all the drawn maps to Andrus which would guide him towards Bhagwan, and her village. Meanwhile, Tuuli had marked maps, taken coordinates of all of their family and friends, as well as planned each leg of their journey back towards the Northern Tribes of the Great Islands.

Rejuvenated and born a new woman, Komal decided to go further North along with Tuuli. The secrets of humanity, and the act of plotting a new map were awaiting the few survivors.

End of Part One

Part Two: Fragmented and Divided Pieces

Geolocation: Tallinn, Estonia

Tuuli

Tuuli had never seen the fish-wolf or even heard about their existence. A snow cycle earlier, Komal had insisted they rescue it from near the shores before embarking on their journey. They named him Igor. He was terribly sick, and had to be given many radioactive blockers. But once they set out towards the Northern Islands, his health improved rapidly. He would effectively catch different species of fish for them. When he was around, food was in abundance. Reluctant at first, Tuuli was glad that Igor was now a part of their group.

The old men around them were sipping on Strellasbier made from the hops, rice and barley grown in the greenhouse of the region. Tuuli observed that Komal donated some cacti sea-berries in exchange for paella, an exquisite cuisine known from centuries ago made from rice.

“Are you drawing diagrams of the greenhouse?” Tuuli asked her.

Komal nodded while speaking in broken Estonian, a language she picked up from Tuuli, “Yes, one day I will bring this back to my people. In my village, our scientist Bhagwan made a mini-greenhouse but it was hardly as effective as this one. The Midlands will also progress like the Great Islands someday.”

Tuuli hugged and reassured her, “Ofcourse, they will.”

Komal retracted, “I feel guilty. For leaving my people.”

Tuuli sympathised and said, “No, it was necessary for you to leave, and learn secrets of the other continents. Only then can you go back and share it with them.” Komal nodded.

After leaving from the warmer shores of Spaña islands, they soon realised that their boat needed quick repairs. They were running out of resources. While they did receive generous food and shelter from Andrus’s friends, none of them had repair tools.   

They had to quickly and swiftly make their way up North to Tuuli’s small island. Their travel across the region of the Great Islands, with its great diversity, abundance of culture and cuisine specialities had to wait. Some legends said it once used to be all land, in a continent called Europa. Tuuli laughed at that thought, since the ways of the sea were the only ones known to her. Land was harsh, desolate and required effort.

A few days later, they reached the shores of her village called Tallinna. “There are only five Estonians left in the world. My grandmother used to say that there were millions before the sea came to our land. I don’t know if I believe her. She was always exaggerating.”

Tallinna was one of the very few Estonian islands left in the world, the others being fragments of Saaremaa which were completely uninhabitable. Herein, the cold was dreary compared to Spaña. Komal had never seen the force of wind so quick that it could drag one to the shore if one was not careful. Igor kept getting back into the sea, although he seemed to enjoy it. The air was very fresh, being so far from the nucleus and the Wastelands. Although it was even harder to grow anything naturally. Technology was the tool for this island, fuelled by long expeditions taken by Tuuli and Andrus. The travelling duo has steered the fortune of the place.

“Most of us live indoors except for quarter of the snow-cycle where we breathe fresh” remarked Tuuli, as she gave a walking tour of the remnants of her home island.

A total of five people, including Tuuli and her father, inhabited the greenhouses and homes of Tallinna, which carefully maintained an optimum twenty and four celsius throughout the year. Marlene, a thirty year old woman, was their engineer and construction specialist whereas Eduk, her 7-year old son helped old grandma Eha, in farming. When Eduk was young, Marlene was widowed since her husband drowned in the sea. Grandma Eha lost her family decades ago. The five members formed a close-knit community and sought to develop Tallinna to its optimum potential. Tuuli took Komal by her hand, towards their village’s latest creation.

“A flying machine”, she remarked.

Komal gasped, awestruck at the magnitude of its sheer size that could fit up to 6 people.

“We’ve only been able to fly it across a few islands. But you know why father has gone to the Tengrins? Only to find more parts for this, so we can travel the world with it” remarked Tuuli, with a sense of pride.

Komal jumped with excitement, bewildered and amazed by the thought. Imagine if she came back to her village with a flying machine, wouldn’t Anita be proud? It had been almost a year and a half since she started the expedition. She had turned sixteen today, and had totally forgotten her own birthday. The duo celebrated with leftover baked goods from Spaña.

Marlene

While the children were optimistic and quibbling away about progress and humanity’s future, Marlene was bothered about other aspects. Tallinnas shared a good reputation amongst the other Estonian islands. It even formed a trade link with Spaña, that helped bring progress to both regions. But Dookins and Poolsens, the leftover fragments had intentions of declaring a war on them, in order to pillage their resources and technology. If they would lay hands on their flying machine, it would be used destructively in order to capture all of the Great Islands. The leaders of Dookins and Poolsens were fragile, old men with fragile egos. They had not learned from the past but were likely to repeat the destructive path their ancestors had chosen. To avert a possible crisis, Marlene had constructed barriers along the islands and was bolstering up defence plans in case of possible attacks. She had even constructed radioactive hand-bombs to kill and maim any invaders immediately. However, she wished she never had to use these gruesome measures.

The coming of Komal brought her a slight sense of hope, amidst the most forlorn and desolate ideas that often brimmed her mind. Maybe the little one could convince the Great Islands to not fight amongst themselves like the Midlands once did. It had only brought misery to the place and probably also to Komal’s ancestors.

Once Komal and Tuuli were separated, she approached her cautiously and carefully. Komal jovially spoke about her village, her mother, Anita and engineer, Bhagwan who was akin to God for her people. Smiling, she asked her about history lessons in her classes. Much to Marlene’s surprise, Komal didn’t even know about the war in Midlands. Their lessons only focused on the season changes and the sun explosions. Marlene thought pensively.

Over the next few weeks, Marlene gave her a comprehensive understanding of the history of Midlands, the Great Islands, Tengrins and the Wasteland. After the suns exploded and seasons changed, some survived. Yet, the establishment of colonies took time in all that had prevailed. Marlene taught Komal about the evil generals, the revered messiahs, the bloodthirsty hound soldiers and the desolate common folk amidst the vast stretches of mountains, land and islands. Greed was a repetitive pattern in all of these stories.

Marlene was secretly preparing Komal for a mission. She would become an ambassador of peace in the coming years. Her lessons in the most spoken languages of the Great Islands continued. She took a keen interest in this young girl from Midlands. After all, she did not want the knowledge of her community of five only to be decimated by a thousand from Dookins and Poolsens.

“What if there is greater life beyond the Great Islands? Have you sailed further to the West or the South?”, Komal asked Marlene. She shivered at the thought, clutching at her son, Eduk.

“Many-a-great sailors perished trying to go west and south. The waters are too choppy and dangerous. My husband drowned in his attempt to go west. The winds caught up with my daughter-in-law as she went south.”, she said, with a regretful look.

Komal said, “But what if we were to use the flying machine?”

Marlene had a feeling Komal was right, although she did not want her to leave anytime soon. Somehow, she convinced her to stay and meet the generals of Dookins and Poolsens. Once the situation would be pacified, travelling west or south could become sustainable. 

Komal

A few snow cycles later by her 18th birthday, Komal was well versed in all the languages of the Great Islands. She was also well read in history, geography and political sciences. Marlene was her mentor and tutor, and ensured she grasped everything as quickly as possible.

Furthermore, grandma Eha had taught her valuable farming skills. She could not only grow her own food but also create medicinal products from locally sourced herbs. She once prepared cauliflower curry, one of her own recipes, using leftover spices and herbs from her midland village. On the weekends, she would take trips with the Flying Machine along with Tuuli. The two of them were often inseparable, forming a lifelong bond. These two years were one of the happiest in Komal’s life.

Out of the blue and much sooner than Marlene had anticipated, Dookins and Poolsens invaded the Estonian islands. Tallinnas was further away but news of the invasions reached fast amidst them. The greenhouse now housed around fifty refugees. Owing to effective communication systems amidst the islands, no one had died so far. Theor defence system was almost impenetrable, although if their boats would be capsized, their connection to the outside world would be hindered.

“It is time,” Marlene told Komal one morning, “You must go South! West has rougher seas, and would take longer to cross perhaps! South is out hope. Take Tuuli with you! We have enough among us and our greenhouse can sustain everyone of us for over a year. Get help for us to stop the war!” 

Komal replied to her, “Are you sure there are people in the South?” Marlene nodded, “There are. I’m certain of it, and perhaps more technologically or advanced. They can help stop this war.” Komal thought pensively, “I feel technology leads to more war. I wish the world could use it the right way.” Marlene hugged Komal.

Tuuli and Marlene spent over an hour crying and laughing, talking, discussing logistics and casually discussing the future. Meanwhile, Komal prepared the engine of the flying machine for a long expedition. Andrus had come back last year with loads of new parts, enough for them to circle around the globe. However, much to Marlene and Tuuli’s dismay, he had gone back with the Tengrins to meditate and become a shaman. Komal missed his technical guidance at times but she was indeed in charge of the flying machine—a vehicle for their future. 

Epilogue

Once both of them were ready, Komal geared up the engine as they lifted into the air. Those in the greenhouses waved goodbye to them, as its shutters immediately closed with the flying machine’s exit. The generals of Poolsens and Dookins retreated a few steps, anticipating an attack. Much to their relief, the planes went south.

“Hah—another suicide mission”, remarked the general commanding the Dookins army. However, the general of Poolsens remarked, “Their greenhouse cannot be penetrated. Maybe if we invested in science and not war, we could go further. I think they will reach to the South for help.” The general of Dookins sniggered away, taking a sip of a local flowery sap, which intoxicated him. “Let’s call a truce”, said the Poolsens general. The general of Dookins replied, “What nonsense! Never.” Little did they know this banter would cause their entire army to give up their arms and overthrow the drunk general, little by little.

The commandeering image of two young women in a flying machine, exiting a modern greenhouse generated fear and awe in an army of thousands. Finally, seeds of peace were strewn across the lands of the Great Islands.

Meanwhile, Komal and Tuuli would find new places across the globe starting from the Great Ibiz, the Dragon’s Nectar, the Giant Tree in the South until they would fly westwards to chance upon the largest mass of land: Cherookes, inhabited by very ancient tribes.These two geographers would change the course of history. Little did they know about that, yet.

*The End*

Summary and Reflection of the Exercises

Since the final entries of my research were focused on creative writing, my research exercises were aimed at imagining Estonian society, hundred years from now. They focused on creative brainstorming sessions, character sketches, photographs of villages around Tallinn and interactions with locals. Estonia is a very modern and progressive society, relying heavily on e-communications while promoting organic produce and preserving nature. It is also a sparsely populated country. I wanted to instil these aspects into my final entries while imagining the scenario when the sea levels would drastically rise and people would be forced to function as small, cohesive units on fragmented islands.  I also understood that my final creative entries can also form the premise of a larger work if my characters were sketched out effectively. 

Meanwhile, I contacted my grandparents and used archives to research more about the geographic region around Kanpur, which is polluting the Ganges and rife with tanneries. Imagining the dreadful scenario in case of climate change and nuclear disasters, a snowy winter although uncommon for the region, would not be a distant dream. The region is abundant with Hindu temples, priests and society functions at a collective level. Adding that culture background to my final submissions was also integral to preserve the current originality of the cities.

Overall, the exercises helped me in character development, storytelling and also in revisiting cultural contexts of the two chosen cities for my final entries.

San Sebastian I A dark night of summer

Gonzales

2/02/2222

It is a dark night of summer, I mean dark because it is 2 am and should be dark outside but is already 3 weeks we haven’t gone outside the Vault. We have listened that a new exploration is going to take place next week, we will see if Jimmy and I can be part of it…

2/08/2222

We have been selected to go outside and explore the Eastern part of or refuge, some people say that more than 150 years ago, there was a city called San Sebastian near there. This is what we heard from the ancients, some of them are 190 years old. They state that life was so different in their times than now, people lived outside the Vault, because they could. Nowadays is impossible to stay there longer than a week because of all the radiation. This radiation was caused by the weapons used in WW4, where 99% of the population of the world died more o less 50 years ago. I have learned this in my history class as I am 20 years old.

2/10/2222

Finally, is the great day…

2/13/2222

We spent 2 days there outside, and I found something, but I really didn’t know what it is until I asked my great grandfather. He told me it was called a book and that people used to write things in it. We opened and realized it was like what I am writing and e-diary but in a book.

2/14/2222

It is 1pm I have just woken up, I spent the whole night reading the diary, I found that it was

from a 25-year-old journalist that lived in 2018. I am amazed by all what he explains in the diary and I need to go and visit all the places he describes because I have to know how it was 200 years ago. The first place I want to visit is the waste management plant they had in San Sebastian, because as he explained:

“Recently the government has launched a project to build a new dump as the previous is already full. But it is a nonsense to do it where they have planned it, just outside Alza, they are going to be so many problems and protests, something bad is going to happen. The other alternative was an incinerator to burn all the rubbish but here in Spain is bad seen this technology as it it said to pollute too much. There are places in northern Europe where this solution is seen better. I hope we would have their same view, things would be so different…”

After reading this piece I searched in our computers some articles about this fact or something related but nothing useful… but found that Alza seems to be a working-class neighborhood quite poor in the suburbs of San Sebastian. Why would it be dangerous to do there? I can’t understand why that could that way…I’ll keep reading it.

2/23/2222

It is already a week since I found the book and the more I read it the more I like it and more I need to go to the places he mentioned. I am going to talk about this to my dad because I am sure he can do more than me. The finding of the book can be a good beginning to know more about the past because most of the data was lost during WW4 as it was not only a nuclear war but also an informatic war. The war was won by the USA when they managed to send a virus to the enemies and unutilized all the informatic tools and provoking them to fight as they were in the XV century.

2/25/2222

My father has shown interest in investing for explorations to places mentioned by the journalist. They are planning to go to where the dump was supposed to be built and see what they find there. I have asked him if I can go with them but his answer was a resounding NO. I will keep trying to convince him to at least be part of one of the 4 expeditions planned.

3/01/2222

The first explorers are back 3 days after the departure. However 7 started and I have only see 5 enter in the Vault. I will ask what happened…

During the dinner dad told us that there were some problems during the exploration and that they had lost contact with 2 of them. Anyway this happened on the third day, maximum time outside the Vault is supposed to be a week so they still have time to find the way back home but in the Government they are not too confident about this fact.

3/02/2222

An alarm has woken up everyone in the Vault we have been asked to go immediately to the basement. There a group of soldiers took the poor’s children and separated them from their parents at the same time that the fathers were taking into a separated room, everything looks suspicious. Going back to our home I asked dad what was this all about, he told me that he could not say a word to me but after insisting a bit he confessed. Even though I can’t say a word about this. They are taking poor people to go and find the two explorers lost outside.

This is unacceptable… I could not be quiet…I am so mad about this, we can’t let them do these things I have talked with Jimmy and we are doing something here. Even if my dad is one of the responsibles of this as being one of the members of the board of the Government. Not because of being his son I have to stay quiet, and much more knowing what I know and being responsible of all this. As if I had not found the book nothing of this had happened.

Things are not done this way, and having the resources we have here in the Vault… I feel so

responsible. I need to fix this.

3/03/2222

I have been talking to my colleagues and we have decided to create an association to fight against this injustice. We are going to make demonstrations so that things are not done in this way and find solutions.

3/07/2222

It has cost me but I have managed to gather a group of 35 people from the university to start with this … We need to do something as soon as possible because we have heard that the first expeditions have already gone in search of the missing explorers. But I need more information about his situation, I have to trick my father to tell me more about the rescuers. I will pretend that I am interested in helping them but can not discover that my idea is to boycott the rescue.

Not the rescue but the fact that they take advantage of the power that the Government has to take advantage of the most needy. I have obtained information through my father who says that the people they took a couple of weeks ago are in a special unit where they are trained specifically for this task. I think infiltrating and releasing them is impossible, so with this information we can do other things.

3/10/2222

The first expedition starts tomorrow so we have to do something now! After the meeting I had with the others we decided that we are going to block the exit of the explorers in protest so that the Government will realize that things are not done that way.

3/11/2222

It’s 11 o’clock at night I just got home after being all day in the hospital, it turns out that some snitch told a representative of the Government and have appeared by surprise and have lashed out at us … The final result has been 5 seriously injured and 7 slight, me among them. The worst of all is that they have done it in a way that it seems that everything is our fault and where the aggressors will go unpunished. But at least we managed to show others that we are going to fight for this injustices. And this can be the beginning of others joining us. Also we accomplished to delay the departure of the first explorers.

3/15/2222

It has been 4 days since we managed to abort the rescuers’ departure, not because we do not want them rescued if they are still alive. But it is not fair that those who have to go in their search are poor people who have been separated from their family instead of being the real professionals who dedicate themselves to this. Dad told me it is because it is a very risky mission because on the one hand the explorers may have died and on the other hand there are no clues as to where they were lost and from the day they were lost they may have moved to survive

The truth is that thinking carefully if you find them alive means that you can survive outside

the Vault more than a week, since more than 15 days ago they left.

3/20/2222

Good news, with the protest of last week the Government has reflected and realized that they were not doing things properly … They are preparing a rescue mission because they have received signals of communication from abroad and everything points to it is about the 2 lost explorers. A feeling of hope has taken over The Vault and people are eager for them to come back alive, especially their families who were already missing and may be back. Everyone is helping in the preparation of the expedition and wants to contribute its grain of sand so that this goes well. Everything is planned so that this week they will give their search abroad. And according to the experts the mission should not last more than 4 days.

3/22/2222

The rescue mission has left this morning and all the inhabitants of The Vault have gone to give them encouragement. Dad is very happy and proud of me because according to him all this despite having been partly provoked by me, at the same time it is thanks to me. If I had not mobilized all the students to protest and to be heard and ignored.

03/24/2222

Yes! They have already returned, it seems that the rescue has gone well because more have arrived than they left but for now the Government has not said anything about it. Finally, during the afternoon the Government has launched an announcement saying that both explorers lost in the previous mission have been rescued and they are well. They also added that this fact could help scientist to investigate more about the environment outside because the explorers have stated that they found life in form of animals and plants during their period lost.

Detroit I The Story of A Building

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Vienna I La Paloma

Carina Antonia Schlager

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Tehran I The Tour

A Visit to the Museum of Conviviality

By Shayan Shokrgozar

A tall Persian man wearing a matte red tie turned to his audience of 20 bright-eyed bachelor’s students. His eyes shone as he surveyed the smiles in the crowd.

Welcome to the Museum of Conviviality. My name is Arash Kamangir and I have been a guide here for about five years. Today, I have the pleasure of showing you around this historic building. As you all may know, we were established 50 years ago on the 200th anniversary of Limits to Growth. A report that urged human societies to limit growth on population increase, agricultural production, non-renewable resource depletion, industrial output, and pollution generation. Its central message being that the earth cannot support the rates of economic and population growth much beyond the year 2100, if that long, even with advanced technology. Though Limits to Growth had strengths and weaknesses of its own, in retrospect it is difficult not to see it as a course-altering document, the effects of which one can see even today. Although Limits was a historic report, we must not forget that the 1970s was a decade that promised a different and rich future full of possibilities. There was the Stockholm Declaration of 1972 that sought to advance “intellectual, moral, social and spiritual growth.” The rise of ecological economics through the likes of Georgescu-Roegen, deep ecology through Arne Næss, and a growing critique of development and industrialization coming from Ivan Illich among others. So, the museum is a celebration of many of those ideas, and much of what you will see here are the principles and actions that can be seen as coming from the same pluriverse as the ones inspired by it.

A college student of perhaps 22 years stepped forward. “Hi, I’m Mehran and I was wondering if you can tell us how the museum acquired its name?”

Good question. The name Conviviality is inspired by and is an homage to Ivan Illich and his book, Tools for Conviviality. In that book, Illich argued for a reorientation of the use of tools and the role of institutions. He called for a new type of research that is oriented toward alternatives to the dominant forms of production, which were at the time dominated by industrial forms. His hope was for these to then lead to new forms of organizing life and society, away from industrialization and towards conviviality. Thanks for the question, just let me know if something doesn’t make sense.

Adjusting his suspender – with its paisley pattern – Arash points to the first exhibition: a wall decorated with images of David Ricardo, Jean Baptiste Say, Karl Marx, John Maynard Keynes, Friedrich August Hayek, Karl Polanyi, Nicholas Georgescu Roegen, Thomas Piketty, among many others. Filled with carefully curated graphs from some of the most prominent institutes of the late 20th-mid 21st century – the World Bank, UN Reports, trade treaties, and so forth.

Given the centrality of economics and scarcity, we will begin today’s tour with an exploration of ecological economics that holds the core premise that finite resources and ecology make the continued growth of the economy unsustainable. This ecological and scientific understanding of the world made the scholar Joan Martinez Alier write about attaining a concrete utopia through radical social change. In many ways, the ideas about a Pluriverse – or universe of universes – were very much inspired by how to make a concrete or feasible utopia. The Pluriverse brought all these different ideas of organizing societies together, right. Based on, for example, Queer Love, Ubuntu, Buen Vivir, Deep Ecology, Ecofeminism, and many other thoughts, the Pluriversal thinking, especially starting in the 2030s, brought many of these worlds in conversation together. Through their collective strength, these movements managed to confront what was at the time a conception of modernity as universal – through which humans were expected to live in a single, globalized world with science as the only reliable truth and harbinger of progress. It followed with the certainty of Victorian rectitude that advanced societies had an obligation to assist the “backward”. Which conveniently, continued to play well for the needs of the wealthiest nations and entities. Any questions so far?

Arshiya, a second-year Bachelor’s student wearing a rose-colored shawl, wandered away from the group to inspect the next exhibit. It was a miniature model of the city in which they stood – Tehran, Persia. But instead of fields of rye, carrot, lettuce, intermixing with forests and cabin communities like she was used to, the city was defined by wide roads, big cars that pedestrians had to wait for. “Could you explain how it benefited the wealthiest nations and entities?”

In short, a lot of the labor-intensive work and extraction of raw materials was carried out in countries and communities that were largely not benefiting from the exchange. They had their air and water polluted and often even contaminated in the name of development – which were well-documented by initiatives such as the Environmental Justice Atlas – and this often led to losing customary access to lands that people used for subsistence-based lives. Hope that clarifies my point a bit? So yeah, despite devastating climate disasters and a long struggle of living in the ruins of the dark days of modernity and industrialization, it took a lot for small pockets of peoples to create the thriving ecosystems based on a need-based economy that today seem normal. For example, the idea that nation-states can be abandoned in favor of bioregions and consensus-based societies – informed by local ecological dynamics – was a lengthy effort. In Tehran, today, we see people practicing permaculture and organizing themselves within grassroots communities, but in the top-down societies of the past it was very hard to imagine organizing society is this way, which some would argue sprouted from the transition town network movement of the centuries past.

In the midst of the tour, Arvin, a young and bright lecturer in history, glances around the hall with its low-energy intensive materials, passive cooling features, gardens, and analog displays. Thinking about how the site of the museum, once a steel plant, shows the role of sociotechnical ideologies on placemaking.

Okay, now we come to the contemplation section of the museum, displaying items that were once fetishized – cars, planes, mockups of infrastructural megaprojects, and airports – which had vast energy needs, leading to the extinction of millions of our earthlings. These items were heavily reliant on a life philosophy around Extractivism. Whether it was minerals, harnessing vital flows like the sun and the wind for reasons that had nothing to do with decent living, or serving the planetary conditions. Since we now organize our societies in ways that allow us to live our lives and attain what we need without mass logistics, and there is rarely a need for fast transportation, our cities are organized around pedestrians, but it was far from this in the vast megacities of days long gone. People lived and worked in circumstances that locked them into a car-dependent life. Because of the dominant discourses around growth and development, which were dictated by the North Atlantic countries, this model spread across the world like wildfire. And infrastructures are incredibly difficult and time-consuming to reverse because an entire chain of other elements in society then become dependent upon them. Questions?

Mehrdad, an exchange student from the bioregion of Harat raised their hand as they began to talk: In class, Arvin told us about an agenda called “green” growth or sustainable development, and many people including prominent researchers and institutes worked on bringing it about. How does that fit in these stories?

Good question. When the ecological and climate crisis was deteriorating, a watered-down version of the Limits debates made it to a document known as Our Common Futures. Sadly it became the defining document of what superseded it for decades to come, whether it was the Rio conference or Kyoto that solidified it into international conventions or many of the following UNFCCs. This warrants a long discussion, but even today eco-modernists argue if just given a little more time humans would have accomplished absolute decoupling. They are not shy about their efforts to revive industrialization. They blame degrowth and its spread for preventing a technological utopia that would have succeeded in decoupling growth from development. I would suggest going back to the exhibit on limits and scarcity, there you will find some rich materials for how the imperative of saving capitalism led to decades of discussion on ineffectual policies like carbon trading, negative emission technologies, and false energy transitions discourses. These false promises were based on reassuring citizenry that while the present and future might look dystopian, the political and economic elite can adjust policy to adequately respond to them without there being any need to alter neoliberal capitalism.

Okay, now I know you all have various projects of interest for your course essay. So, with this background, I will let you go explore the rest of the museum, but I will be around if you have any questions or comments. I would highly recommend visiting our most recent addition, the singularity exhibition. It explores how some humans were trying to make themselves immortal through biotechnoscience and visions of transhumanism.

Some of the works mentioned

Asafu-Adjaye, John, Linus Blomqvist, Stewart Brand, Barry Brook, Ruth DeFries, Erle Ellis, Christopher Foreman, et al. 2015. “An Ecomodernist Manifesto.” https://doi.org/10.13140/RG.2.1.1974.0646.

Illich, Ivan. 1997. “Development as Planned Poverty.” In The Post-Development Reader, edited by Majid Rahnema and Victoria Bawtree, 94–104. London: Zed Books.

Illich, Ivan. 2009 [1973]. Tools for Conviviality. London: Marion Boyars.

Kothari, Ashish, Ariel Salleh, Arturo Escobar, Federico Demaria, and Alberto Acosta, eds. 2019. Pluriverse: A Post-Development Dictionary. New Delhi: Tulika Books and Authorsupfront.

Meadows, Donella, Dannis Meadows, Jørgen Randers, and William Behrens. 1973. The Limits to Growth: A Report for the Club of Rome’s Project on the Predicament of Mankind. New York: Universe Books.

Naess, Arne. 1973. The Shallow and the Deep, Long-Range Ecology Movement. A Summary. Inquiry, no. 16: 95–100.

UN. 1987. “Our Common Future.” A/42/427. World Commission on Environment and Development. https://www.un.org/ga/search/view_doc.asp?symbol=A/42/427&Lang=E.

San Francisco I A time for fire

Dejasunappadi

The bottle arcs over the white marble steps of the New Francisco City Hall, turning end over end in the clear morning, and shatters on the wood-paneled doors, scattering pieces on the floor. 

The news crew is edging through the crowd, jostled by elbows and raised signs, the camera tilting crazily. Televisions at home play fragments of speech mixed in with the garbled static of yelling. Most of New Francisco are hearing this, are huddled in the quarantine of their homes, doors locked and barred, worried glances thrown over shoulders and then fixed back to the ongoing protest. 

More bottles hit the City Hall doors, bounce off them, and shatter on the marble flooring. The glass of the door windows has been replaced with plexiglass since the 2188 riots. Behind them, the security guards watch as waves of thrown trash cover the doors, recede, and then cover them again. 

Further down the halls, rustling with the New Francisco Police Department and private security, urgently waddling and muttering with fingers pressed against their ears, past a series of closed tall, antique doors carved from redwoods planted in the early 2000s, is the chamber where eleven people sit in silence, the light from the chandelier casting their faces in a dull pall. 

The board of council members cannot hear the chants outside–no cries of “help us” or “save us,” or “beat the heat, beat the heat, beat the heat,” no litany of names of the refugees and homeless that have died under the heat of the New Franciscan sun, no cries of the flesh baking in the asphalt or the the sounds of the trash they throw splattering and shattering on their doorstep, or the gunshots and screaming that will follow them. But they are aware despite their best efforts. The copies of the executive legislation lay before them. The automated court reporter records their halting speeches in text, as they each sit up and speak, eyes cast down to the floor. When they talk, they must face the automaton; its screen faces them, a mirror, as the transcript rolls out of its printing slot and coils on the floor. 

“H.R. 359,” someone begins. “Crisis Housing Act.” A throat is noisily cleared.”Given the recurrent outbreak of H5N8 among New Francsican residents, quarantine will be extended another 6 months. Any and all storefronts excepting essential goods will cease function.” 

A chorus of yeas break the silence.

“Masks will be mandated as essential.” 

Another round of yeas. 

“All current refugees from the Northern Fires will have accommodation in Golden Gate Park. Forced relocation will no longer be NFPD policy.” 

The assent is more hesitant this time. The punctuating silence is undercut by the whir of the air conditioning, the brisk cold settling in the room. 

“All New Francisco residents and refugees must abide by quarantine and remain in the areas of their accomodation. NFPD officers are able to enforce this policy.” 

Yes. 

“NFPD officers will be stationed around Golden Gate Park to enforce this policy.” Yes. 

(Now is when the gunshots begin and the crowd outside begins to scream, although the people in the room cannot hear it.) 

“In order to maintain the state of quarantine, no further refugees from the Northern Fires will be allowed entry to New Francisco. All current refugees will await deportation in Golden Gate Park.” 

Although they cannot hear what is happening in this cold room, sequestered away from the summer of 2208 and its blazes, the remnants of the crowd outside are chanting “fire,” “fire, fire, fire, fire, fire,” and continuing to throw the detritus of their convictions at the doors of the city hall, and this time the security guards chant it too, urgently under their breaths, “fire, fire, fire,” and they spread it between each other, running down the halls until one of them throws back the doors to the chamber and shouts it to the chamber. 

“What?” the council members say. 

“They’ve set City Hall on fire.”

The news team has seen it all happen. 

They edge out of the crowd that populates the wide stone street in front of City Hall. Around a fountain they point cameras and hoist mics at a man sitting on the fountain’s stone rim, as people bathe themselves behind him. He pulls the mask a little further up his face. It seems like he won’t talk to them, or at least that the frustrated look in his worn eyes is a sign that he will say something to them, but when the reporter hands him a cap to shade his sunburnt face the lines that have etched themselves into his skin ease somewhat. 

“I’m from Yolo county,” he says. “Sacramento,” he says, after the look of incomprehnsion they flash him. 

“Was the Sacramento area hit badly by the fires?” 

The man looks the reporter in the face warily. They both know the answer to the question. Large swathes of Northern California lit up as long heat waves and little rain dried the vegetation. Mendocino, Napa, Santa Clara, Sonoma, Fresno, Yuba, Ventura, Alameda, all singed by brush fires and power failures, lightning storms and fallen power lines that heralded 2208 as the hottest year on record and the longest summer. There had been fires on Christmas. 

“How did you get here?” 

The man looks at the reporter even more warily. “Route 480.” 

The cameraman stares at him. 

“I’ve seen pictures,” the reporter says. “It’s a line of abandoned cars all the way to the Palace of Fine Arts.” 

The man shrugs. “I left my car behind and walked.”

“For how long?” 

The man thinks for a second. “A day.” 

“Why?” 

Silence. 

“I have nowhere else to go.” 

“But why here?” 

The reporter and most of the people watching at home know it is because of the Golden Gate Encampment, the biggest refugee camp in the California area, or at least the most welcoming. Perhaps the rumor New Francisco might hand out the H5N8 vaccines. Or maybe it’s just because they have the most consistent supply of water and running electricity in the region. 

But the answer never comes because the police line the far side of the street behind the crowd. There is shouting and the wave of projectiles slowly rotates from the building to the line of uniforms and guns edging forward. And then the gunfire starts and the crowd becomes again what it always was. Refugees. 

In the midst of it all, the cameramen holding their equipment like tattered white flags floating above the screaming and the occasional guttering sound of a gun, the reporter sees another bottle fly and hit the City Hall doors. In the back of his mind, far removed from the chaos, he notes that there is a white cloth, almost,sticking out of the bottle, and that it is on fire. And then City Hall is on fire. They all point themselves at the building as the flame licks the doors and creeps inside, beyond the marble, and smoke begins to billow out of the windows. In the back of his mind, again, the reporter thinks that the imagery of the trash burning up in the fire on the floor outside the doors is worthy of a Pulitzer. 

They run.

When they reach a safer place, a small plaza sandwiched by boutique shops, salons, and lingerie stores, they take off their masks, set their equipment down, and inhale. One of the three cameramen start coughing. Deep coughs, that claw out from his chest. They all look at him with expressions of two different worries. 

“Not sick with anything,” he says, in a raspy, uneven voice. “Just the smog from the desalination plants. Plays hell with my asthma.” 

They wind their way back, taking care to avoid the patrols of NFPD as the sun sinks lower beneath the horizon. The reporter knows a few colleagues that have been detained for violating curfew, journalist privileges be damned. The footage they have plays over and over in his mind, burning a hole. “Fire, fire.” they shouted. 

By the time they arrive at his dingy flat it is late into the night. He walks up five flights of stairs, creaking underneath him, and presses his hand around the doorknob. The biometrics of the complex haven’t been renovated for at least thirty years, and so it usually takes him a few grips to walk inside. 

In the morning, he begins his daily routine of coffee and the internet. He opens the Conservatory app on his phone and lets it read aloud the queue of posts that have accumulated since the past day. 

“New fires torch the Sacramento region as the Folsom Wildfire begins to stretch–” 

“Next.” 

“Worries of viral spillover in New Francisco’s industrial food supply abound, amidst continuing fear of H5N8–” 

“Next.” 

“Planned New Francisco refugee deportation vote is protested, and, following an emergency evacuation due to a fire hazard, has been postponed. For more information–” 

“Search: user submissions.”

Garbled audio plays as he flicks through fragments of recordings of the fire from different angles. None of them are as clear as his. The posts read out from the phone. 

“Thor_24487: dirty smokies. Throwing trash–” 

“Golden_Gate_Park: All fire refugees, please proceed to the encampment at Golden Gate Park. You will be placed in Golden Gate Park if found outside after curfew.” 

“S5igma: bro why is it so hot its like 120 today 

“Northern California Power: All customers, please be advised, due to power congestion from mass users we will be halting power between 3 to 5 today. Remember to stay inside and away from the heat–” “Stayathomedad44: my kids need food. The grocery stores are running out. Can we drop stocked grocery stores in the comments below? 

“Prtyboyprty: hey everyone, here’s my donation link. As a trans and unhoused refugee in New Francisco, I need money to find shelter not in the Camp, where sexual assault rates for queer BIPOC– “User_56797788: the fires aren’t real. It’s fake we need to focus on the real problem–” “Traffic_Bot: Cars along route 480 are congested for the 88th day.” 

“User_89788377: i need water, i cant pay the desalination bills anymore, p lease dm” “NewFrancRefugee: we need help. Come to the encampment at 4.” 

He turns the phone off. Puts on running clothes and a mask and a wide-brimmed hat. He can feel the grime of the previous day on him but he’s already exceeded an affordable water bill this month. 

The last post rings in his mind as he bikes to the coastline. The streets are still filled with people–smokies, fire refugees with clothes caked in ash and dust and trash, those displaced by the rising sea levels and the new construction, the newly unhomed, unable to keep up with exorbitant bills–but already there seem less than yesterday. Farther down the street a line of police officers gaze at the refugees on the street and speak quietly. He lets the bike coast down the street’s decline and unconsciously relaxes his shoulders only when he is far past them. 

Under the looming shadow of the desalination plants, built over the exploded ruins of the corporate buildings that had been reclaimed by the state once the sea level had begun to rise into the city, he takes his clothes off and washes himself in the water. His bike lays behind him on the sidewalk, chained to a streetlight. The street is empty, no cars, just huddled refugees moving around, and the black asphalt suddenly terminates underneath the water. Farther out into the horizon are a few skyscrapers, abandoned during the floods of 2150, after years and years of rising sea levels. Lamposts dot the tides, marking the ghosts of roads as they lead out to the drowned remnants of a city. It is why they call what is left New Francisco. Better than Dry Francisco, at least.

The sea is cool against his skin; his phone says the temperature is 121°. Once he gets out of the water he dries quickly. He decides to visit the encampment. 

When he sleeps he dreams of himself as a child. For a brief moment, he is a small shape lying in bed, comforted by the oncoming night, safe and stable in the arms of the house. In this world there is nothing that is going wrong. Though the last polar bear in captivity will have died by his twelfth birthday, the world is fresh and innocent to him because he knows none of it, and so cannot remember how it has changed. He gets out of his bed, still in the dream, and walks with quiet steps out into the hallway of his home which he knows has burned down. There is no one there. He keeps walking. From the door where his parents sleep he can hear a faint sobbing. He is awakened suddenly by a notification. It is his paycheck. 

Later, still groggy with sleep, he opens his cabinet shelves. A moth flies out. He sets out a few slices of bread and vegetable spread. No meat, but he has been paid, so maybe he can splurge for a taxi ticket to find one of the grocery stores still stocked and not ransacked. He puts some protein spread on instead. It’s strange to him that he still thinks of bugs as something disgusting when he eats them nearly every day anyway. 

He grabs a camcorder with him as he leaves. He takes his bike out on the streets again. There are noticeably less people outside. Most of the buildings with ground level windows have had them shattered. A small child and a mother are running down the four way intersection. There are a few officers huddled around a body. He bikes quickly. 

It should take him an hour to reach the encampment but he takes frequent stops because of the heat. Biking through the interstices of streets he reflects on the skyscrapers that tower above him. Most of the remaining office buildings have become their own apartments. His news channel is somewhere near the financial district, and he thinks about his colleagues who’ve set up tents below their desks, weathering the storm. It must be a beautiful view from up there, he thinks. Scattered trash around crisp carpet, huddled men and women gathering around windows every night to watch the quiet city from their tower on the 50th floor.

There is a cordon of officers and men in camouflage uniforms circling the sidewalk around the park. Around the perimeter of trees that separate the arbor from the town is bright orange tape. 

He considers briefly trying to use his journalist pass but he knows they won’t care. He hangs back inside a shop whose doorknob has been blunted off, as if hit with a sledgehammer. He watches people with guns patrol the sidewalk, laughing to each other occasionally, and then disappear behind the trees into the park as others appear from between the trees to take their place. 

His stomach is beginning to grumble. He shushes it out of reflex, and then almost laughs to himself. 

In another few minutes that feel like hours, a military humvee rolls down the street. Soldiers jump off and open the trunk and a group of refugees trickle out, escorted two by two by the men. None of them resist. 

More humvees roll down the street and as the trickle begins to be a flood, a crowd of refugees walking into the trees, he lowers the cap on his head, rolls on the floor to get some dust on him, and then walks out to join them. 

The soldiers flank them once they reach the perimeter of trees. He pushes away densely leafed branches as they thwack him in the face. Amidst the foliage he can’t see how many people are ahead of him or behind him. He’s lost in the stream of bodies, stinking to hell in the sun. 

Once they’re clear of the trees he places a hand on his brow to cover the glare. The encampment is wide, has always been a beautiful grassy lawn. He remembers once as a kid playing a soccer game in the field they had. He always used to complain to his father about the lamppost being dim, who just looked at him and laughed. In my day, he said, we just played in the middle of the day. We didn’t have to wait until night. Lucky, he replied. Lucky. 

The grass is covered in brushstrokes of brown and grey from his vantage point, a hill a little higher than the park. It is dotted with people. As he approaches, he begins to weave through men and women and children and dogs lying sleeping or trying to sleep on dirty mattresses and trash bags and each other. As he makes way into the heart of the encampment, the people begin to be replaced by tents, crammed next to each other and crammed on the inside with people as well. A few of the soldiers break ranks to open the tents. Smoke drifts out, sometimes, or sometimes the soldiers will

drag a few of the refugees off and place them in tents. A child screams for their mother somewhere behind him. The sound is quickly replaced by the dull chatter of the park. 

He becomes aware of music playing in the background, bright loud pop music. They are reaching the center of the park, what was once a grand outdoor amphitheater. People sleep on the benches in the pit of the podium and the benches lining the audience stands. The whole theater is surrounded by a vineyard; he sees people planting things and tending and watering the soil. The smell of trash is unbearable but nobody seems to mind. 

There is a tent close to the theater stage, well in the embrace of the vineyard, as brown, withered vines and trash bags created a thatched roof over what must be twenty people crammed into three tents. A soldier grabs him and pushes him into the mix. The other refugees stare at him. He stares back. 

After a while they all begin talking. They ask him why he’s there. He almost responds by saying he’s a reporter, that he wants to record their stories, but he realizes that’s not really true either. “I don’t really have anywhere else to go,” he says. Then thinks about it. “I don’t know where to go.” 

Somebody passes him a flask and he gulps it gratefully. Listens to the chatter of conversations. “Hey, what was that song–” 

“What song?” 

“You know, the one that goes nah nah nah, da da nah nah nah–” 

It takes a few minutes, but the conversation turns to reminiscing. From the way that the group brings up cheeseburgers and beef and salmon and others with frustrated, weary eyes he can tell that this is a common theme. And he doesn’t blame them. 

He does not usually talk about the past. What’s gone is gone, his parents said. They never told him too much about the world they lived in. He would ask, constantly, and never realized until he grew up how painful it would have been to hold the knowledge of a better existence lost to you before you ever had the chance to cherish it.

But there is something pleasant about talking with the other refugees and so he does it together with them until the sun goes down. The smell of trash subsides, or he’s gotten used to it. Somebody has brewed wine in a trash bag and they pass it around in red solo cups, water bottles, a mug. Anything. There’s laughter. 

Somebody jogs into their gathering, all warming themselves outside a small fire of receipts, newspapers, and trash. “It’s time for the play,” he says, and then walks off. He looks quizzically at the rest of the refugees as they hasten to put out the fire and walk towards the theater. 

Later, he finds himself wedged into the amphitheater’s stone seats as men and women in tattered clothes and halloween costumes re-enact Romeo and Juliet. A few of the soldiers watch from the sides of the stages, hands brushing the butt of their guns at first but then they just chuckle and watch. The warm press of bodies in the seat row feels comforting. He laughs and laughs and even cries at the end. They all do, or maybe he just can’t tell, that the sounds of his mirth and tears mingle with the crowd. It’s like they’re all one organism for that night, underneath the stars and the frigid wind. 

He lies awake for a while in the tent after the play. And then gets up and leaves, early in the morning. Somebody stirs as he unzips the tent but nobody stops him. He lingers for a second, just in case somebody does. It is silent in the park. 

He is walking the New Francisco streets without anywhere to go. His bike is in the abandoned storefront where he left it. The soldiers seem to have left the perimeter of the park. He sits in the shop, sunlight beginning to stream through the broken windows and looks at the footage on his camcorder. It is the play. He watches it over and over again.

ULAANBAATAR 2237

Enkhmend Altansukh

Golden rays shone through the curtains, with speckles of dust floating along gently. Light breeze filtered through the crack in the window, bringing in smells of freshly cut grass. The chirping of birds could be heard. And in this serene scene sat a man, his physical appearance indicating he was no older than 20. In front of him was a letter, explaining what had happened, what his purpose was. As the letter explains, he was one of the few survivors from the cryo-sleep experiments the government had initiated. While the science behind it was sounds, too many complications within the body had rendered 94 of the 100 participants dead. The world he woke up in, it was different from all he had seen before. Unbelievable events occurred almost daily in this age of science, but this was a miracle. Picking up the letter, he gave it a read once more: 

“Dear Mr. Dashdelger,

As you have been notified by our agents, you are one of the six surviving members of our cryo-chamber experiment. Currently, it is the year 2237 and from your perspective, you’ve been travelled 200 years into the future. Your memories are a bit foggy due to the lack of brain activity in cryo-stasis, but rest assured, as you do about your day like you usually would, your memories will return. After sunset, our agents will come collect you and we will listen in on your observations. I look forward to listening in on the thoughts of one of our predecessors. 

-Dr. Miller”

It was a surreal experience. But, with his memories all jumbled up from his 200 year-long ice bath, he had no way of truly taking it all in. So, he did as the letter instructed, and walked out to enjoy his city. As he walked along the streets of Ulaanbaatar, Dashdelger could see many things different from what he’d known. He’d walked this route many times in his own era but it was unrecognizable now. The tall walls that had been soundproofing between his villa and the railroad was gone, and so was the railroad. In its place stood buildings made of seemingly pure silver, taller than most in his time. The streets that used to buzz with car alarms, traffic, and people shuffling about their day was now nearly empty of cars, roads that used to be dangerous transformed to platforms for pedestrians. Nearly everyone was walking, the sun ‘s bright shine illuminating a bright way that seemed impossible outside of old people’s villas in the US at his time. Baffled and overwhelmed, Dashdelger just went along with his routine, taking every small thing he could in. The skies were no longer gray with smog, not a single car in sight, everyone had smiles on their faces and the streets were colored green with the number of trees and vegetation. Nearly every 5 meters stood a tree, providing shade for the denizens of a peaceful city.

Almost all day was he like this. Overwhelmed. He managed to run into one of his fellow survivors and learned what exactly had happened. His companion has explained that Ulaanbaatar has changed to become one of the hallmarks of harmony between human and nature. They both knew that wasn’t the case in their time and resolved to find out exactly how it happened, and what a fruitful journey it was. While they hit a few setbacks at first with the libraries they knew being museums now, but they managed to find out that it all started with a “Save our park” movement in 2021. They were there when it had just started, but it was nothing but a few posts on Facebook back then. Apparently, after they’d gone into the induced sleep, people who were in possession of lots of money funded the “Save our parks” project by buying the entire land and turning it back into its former glory. The process had been to buy all of the land, cultivate it from the near wasteland it had become and make it available for the general public but not allowing people to litter and desecrate. Many common citizens saw how effective it was, and so did the rest of the financially endowed. With a lot more people taking interest in saving our city from becoming a gray and black wasteland, it was only a matter of time before all unused or misused specks of land were transformed into beautiful parks. But change takes time, and Ulaanbaatar had far worse problems than lands with dead grass. The air pollution was a one of the biggest in the world and such a problem was trying to be fixed even before they’d been in cryo-sleep. However, help from the west had been exactly what they’d needed. A timely project and invention had ushered our world into a new era of sustainable energy, leading the charge to purge out all pollution and remedying what humanity had done to nature. With the proper leadership, mankind was once again becoming one with nature. They were still the apex predators, not as destructive god-children, but as benevolent beneficiaries. 

Too soon had the evening come, and sure enough, the agents Dr. Miller told them of arrived and showed them to their meeting spot where they were hoping to get some answers regarding the drastic changes Ulaanbaatar had gone through. And as soon as they saw the faces of the other four, they knew they weren’t the only ones. Dr. Miller arrived not too long after and questions began to fly. Answers with as much detail had been given in kind. From their 200 year-long absence from the world, it seemed all of them had realized being in a hurry never truly means anything. So, they all took their sweet time, taking a break from the massive dumps of information when the first rays of red indicated the sun was rising. Dashdelger struggled to function with the massive headache as his thoughts tried to wrap around what Dr. Millers had disclosed. He said that after the “Save our parks” project had made official; the government had been looking to do further ventures into saving the environment but they didn’t need to take the initiative. Citizens, particularly those born in early 2000’s and lower were participating and contributing very actively. From what he guessed; it was due to their generation being able to see the first signs of their predecessor’s actions’ consequences but being early enough to stop it. And it wasn’t just them, with various genius inventions, social/economical/environmental shifts meant that humanity was a whole were heading towards a new era. 

Dashdelger was baffled. It was the next day and his brain had finally sorted enough for him to fully understand the implications of all he’d heard. The world was a better place now, and Ulaanbaatar was just a small glimpse into what kind of future he’d arrived in. The current globe-wide project all countries worked towards was removing the pollution from the sea. Just that statement alone boggled the mind. The things the future (past?) generations had accomplished made him feel awfully inadequate and shameful about his own. It would be justified, seeing his children’s generations went down as the saviors while his own generation were the ones who ruined the environment in the history books. It was humbling. Then he looked up and all his worries became insignifact. He realized his own feelings held no value in the grand scheme of things. Maybe that what they failed to realize and their children succeeded in. They’d known to put something else before their own feelings, ambitions, and wants. The sky was blue, not gray, and Dashdelger knew that even if what the current generation was doing failed or backfired, the next would stop in and fix it. Nature has a way of persevering like that. But for now, he had much smaller things to do. Like enjoying his new city, still Ulaanbaatar, but in the year 2237.

References: 

Children park in 1983

How the park was planned in 2004

Recent situation in 2021

Social movement in April, 2021

Alqueva

by André Pereira

Oujda I A Photograph of Sidi Maafa

By Nasreddine EL Guezar

CONFERENCE

           “Have a good day, love! I hope you like it out there, I hear that Morocco is a warm and welcoming place!”

           I read the message my husband left me as I was heading to the conference room at the University Campus of Technology and Expertise in Oujda, Morocco. It was only seconds before an usher welcomed and guided me to the main conference room. I entered the place and found my way through to my seat next to a young blonde woman, who was scanning a pamphlet of the conference. I sat and observed calmly the spacious room. I could easily distinguish the languages and accents I heard around me.

           The young woman next to me seemed restless.

           “I am not usually a whiner, but isn’t it way too hot in this country,” she said to me, longing for a conversation. “I was boiling outside!”

           I smiled and nodded in agreement.

           “It is not what I expected; there are no green spaces in here; besides, everything seems artificial and phony.” She continued. “When I go back to my town in Switzerland, I will hug the trees in my yard.”

           “I guess we are living in the Wall-E world,” I responded in a humorous tone.

           She looked puzzled for a moment but acted like she understood my analogy. Perhaps she was not familiar with classic environmental movies. Nobody watches movies these days. I wanted to lighten the atmosphere with a relevant fact.

           “I learned that the city of Oujda has become one of the hottest cities in the Mediterranean.” I sensed that I did not express the degree of discomfort she felt, but I went on and introduced myself to her: “I’m Márcia Amaral, an environmental photographer and artist from Brazil, but my husband and I have been settling in Sweden.”

           “Interesting, I never understood why real people are still doing photography jobs these days, to be honest,” she said. “AI Drones have been taking care of that for ages now!”

           I felt a little offended, and I wanted to give her an idea about my art project, but she continued:

           “Kate Reber from Switzerland, you can tell I’m the youngest here,” she said proudly. “I was invited here after leading a protest group in my high school about a tree they cut down in the schoolyard.” She chuckled. “People who saw my protest video called me names like the future environmental activist. Oh, look, the screen is changing!”

OUJDA

           The large screen displayed a video about the host city, Oujda. The North-Eastern Moroccan city was chosen to hold the Mediterranean Climate Conference for the 2190 edition. Every year, the conference organizers selected an environmentally vulnerable city from the Mediterranean region to host the meetings. The conference had been home to politicians, policymakers, engineers, scientists, activists, artists, and scholars from different parts of the world. They came together to converse and reflect on the environmental situation of the Mediterranean region, which had warmed 30% faster than the global average.

           Besides its vulnerable ecosystem, the cultural diversity and Mediterranean closeness of Oujda made it an ideal city to hold the MCC conference this particular year. The city is less than 60 km away from the Mediterranean basin, and it has been characterized mainly by its border position. The video put on view several sites that used to be the landmarks of the city, namely the old medina, the great mosque, Lalla Aicha Park, and Sidi Maafa Forest. The video then focused on the last site, Sidi Maafa Forest.

           Moments later, the screen changed again. This time it showed two short videos with two dates, 2020 and 2190. Both dates were for the forest of Sidi Maafa, and the videos that were shown next were staggering. Some people in the audience chattered audibly after seeing them. Along with the first date, the video showed a woody green forest, rich red soils, and flocks of birds chirping on a variety of trees and plants. The second video revealed a completely lifeless desert.

           The display was then followed by an IPCC report about the climate in Oujda. In 2020, the climate was generally influenced by the interior Mediterranean climate, mild with dry, hot summers. The hottest month was July, when the max temperature was about 35℃. Things, however, changed in the last century as the report demonstrated. The inhabitants of the region experienced episodes of drought coupled with a phenomenon of desertification. Rain did not fall for the last six decades in the whole oriental region of Morocco, which made Oujda and its peripheries look deserted. The report concluded that Oujda had become the hottest city in Morocco, hitting its highest temperature ever recorded: 50.8°C.

            Following other videos, images, and reports, the audience participants were invited to a field excursion at Sidi Maafa to see with their own eyes the changes that had occurred in the place. 

            “An excursion to the Sidi Maafa Desert? They must be kidding!” Kate Reber shook her head in disbelief. “I am heading back to the hotel,” she added before she slowly disappeared among the moving crowd.

            SIDI MAAFA

           We boarded big, hydrogen-powered tour buses. The buses were obviously new; I wondered if they had even been used before. The passenger who sat next to me was a local resident. I learned from him that the Oujdi community did not appreciate the introduction of ecobuses. Water scarcity made them resentful towards governmental initiatives. Through the massive windows of the bus, I could see many WaterForAll signs on the walls of the buildings we passed by.

           On the excursion, we were given juice and water. I put a bottle of water in my pocket and started taking photographs of the sites we passed by in Sidi Maafa. I was immersed in a photograph that captures all the visible features of the land until someone nearby asked me:

            “There isn’t much here to take photographs for, is there?”

            Turning to my right side, I stood up in curiosity to meet a bald, middle-aged man with a badge that said Smith Beard, a British environmental scientist. I felt the name was familiar.

            “Uh, well, the extinction of a whole forest is a thing after all, isn’t it?” I replied in a friendly manner.

            “Right! As scientists, I wonder what more we could give as proof of the gravity of climate change effects.” He seemed upset. “I have researched the past climate of this city; Rainfall was at least 400 mm per year. After 170 years, look what we have here, arid land with scorching temperatures and no rainfall.”

            “I like your recent work on the climate of the region, Dr. Beard,” interrupted a man in a gray suit, with a self-assured smile. “Sean Harddy, with double d, a US AI investor. Friends call me Hux.”

            I introduced myself in exchange, but Dr. Beard did not. He did not seem comfortable in the presence of Harddy. The two seemed to have met before.

            “You like science, Mrs. Márcia?” Harddy asked me with unquestionable confidence.

            “It gives us the data!” I answered in short giggles.

             “Data isn’t doing anything nowadays.” Harddy reacted with a smirk. “We are on the threshold of a new century, and the environmental changes are still taking place.” He noticed a slight annoyance appearing on the face of Dr. Beard. “Science has been giving us data and facts, but data were just numbers, and facts were misled by people’s emotions and anxieties. Confirmed information that climate scientists give is nothing but climate fright to people.”

            “And of course, you AI investors pursue the profit, wherever it is,” Dr. Beard responded. “I saw your company’s last ad about that app that claims its users can instantly feel environmentally optimistic and less anxious about world problems.”

            “That’s how it works, Dr. Beard, don’t blame the investors! Look, I love trees and clean air, with pleasant weather too, but scientists in recent decades did nothing but scare people about the Earth’s climate. They fed the thirst of environmental activists, politicians, and even us, the investors.”

            “Are you saying we need a new approach, Mr. Harddy?” I intervened.

            “I don’t think we can do anything about it,” replied Harddy. “It is those folks who think we can change that are deluded. Humans aren’t responsible for climate changes and even if they were, they could do nothing about it. What humans can do is maybe prevent pollution, rethink resource consumption, and improve recycling. Controlling the climate opposes a true environmental sense!”

            “Okay,” Dr. Beard commented. “So, every climate scientist is nothing but a scaremonger, according to Mr. Harddy, with double d.”

            “Do you wanna know how many ‘the world is ending’ meetings I had to take up?” Harddy said calmly, looking at me. “I have been hearing those alarming calls backed up with numbers and reports from scientists that the signs of ecological collapse are so imminent. The warnings were basically the same in the last two centuries. Nothing happened, humanity, my friends, has been adjusting to environmental changes.”

            “Harddy, or as your friends call you, Hux, aren’t you simply speaking from the playbook that the climate change deniers spoke from two centuries ago?” asked Dr. Beard with minor agitation. “While many cities in the world are having the worst summer storms in decades, wildfires destroy land on three continents and islands are being swallowed by the ocean, you say we just sit there and watch? I think you got it all wrong. You speak as if science spread environmental fear and terror, yet it is people’s ignorance and uncontrolled emotions that were behind that!”

            “You are a photographer, right?” Harddy turned to me, ignoring Dr. Beard’s last statement. “Why don’t you take a photograph for us to commemorate the date. Beard and I have different views, but we like debating with each other, just like siblings, right, Smith?”

            Dr. Beard did not respond but reluctantly agreed to take the picture. I took the photograph and promised to send them a copy.

            The groups dispersed as we headed back to the hotel.

            HOTEL

           I sat in the lobby of the hotel. It was a delight to listen to the soothing music that was mixed with the quiet murmurs of the people in the background. I sensed it was a convenient moment to type a text to my husband about all the details of my encounters today. Right after I sent the message, notifications from Kate Reber were popping up on my phone screen. She posted several shorts expressing her support for the misfortunes of the Oujdi people who protest every day for equal water distribution.

           I turned off my phone and felt a deep need to reflect on everything that happened in my day. I reviewed the data shared in the morning presentations. Then I looked at the photos I took, examined them carefully, and pondered the forest that was drastically transformed into a desert. I also thought about my conversation with Reber and the one between Beard and Harddy. The local protests came to my mind too. Unhurriedly, I tried to put it all together and connect it to see what I could learn from it all.

           My moment of reflection was then interrupted when my husband called.

Chengdu I The Hope for Meaning

Saloni Sharma

Hybrid Technology offers mirroring and reprogramming of the natural gametes enabling single organism production of offsprings via external fertilization in our state-of-the-art-laboratories set in all major rehabilitation facilities. Originated at Chengdu’s Science City, the technology is now adopted by all major sovereignties. In the 4th phase of restoration of the third 10-year plan (2120-2130), Hybrid technology will be implemented in animals, both human and non-human after the succesful results in plant hybrids. Hybrid plants have ensured food safety for the implementation and generation of more hybrid species. The present plan aims to reinstate the ecological balance with the production of human and non-human hybrids and restore social order.

(Manual for Social Restoration, published in 2120)

Why would have they accepted me? I am not accepted here, how could I expect otherwise on the opposite side of the border? Have I not got any place in this world?What is my business really? Who am I? I’m a vagrant, a migrant, a hybrid…

These thoughts kept haunting Aasha as she lay on the floor of her facility unit.

It was time for strength training and she couldn’t even conjure enough strength to get up off the floor. But in an instant she erected her limbs and stood upright parallel to the wall. The thought of missing her food pills instantly charged her up with energy. Her stomach growled in anticipation as she made her way towards her meal. She swiped her card in the common pantry to dispense her pills. Today’s menu included Schezwan Potatoes and Sour Cream Onions. She swallowed two pills of each. The third one — Gulab Jamun, she sneaked in her pocket to plant outside.

This is not even remotely close to the actual sichuan flavour.

Aasha couldn’t help recall the first time she tasted the sichuan flavour — in wholefood rice form — at a rickety shack in Chengdu. Rice crops were banned in all tropical sectors many years ago when water was over. That is when hybrid fruit production was accelerated. In China, there’s water prosperity and even the poor can eat rice. When Aasha took the first bite, she smelled and tasted multitude of fragrances in a single bite — garlic, pepper, lemongrass, ginger. She can never forget the overwhelm. Excited and hungry, she gulped down three wholefood bowls. But the food couldn’t sit in her stomach for long. She experienced excruciating bowel movements that expelled the feces immediately after.

Wholefoods are unhealthy. They cause polarity in the system.

*

At the gym, she stood in the digestion position for exactly five minutes for her food to expand. She was already beginning to feel full and felt better about showing up for the strength training today. If not anything, it’d keep her guilt and shame at bay — at least for a while. She turned on the floating visual and connected with the Sportzone channel. Others were already there. She sent apologies to the e-captain and quickly began her static running.

After 5 minutes. Her sugar levels began depleting. Limbs were losing coordination. Something was wrong.

A message popped open in front of Aasha. EC: Aside

Aasha immediately logged out of the Sportzone and connected in a Direct Meeting with the Captain.

“You called for DM, Captain?”

“Your functions aren’t optimal.” “I’m sorry captain.”

“Psychic stability! Now!” “Yes, Captain”

Aasha swiped off the floating screen and wiped off her sweat. Then, she scanned her pulse and oxygen. The numbers didn’t feel accurate. She made her way back to her unit and scurried to change herself into comfortwear. She looked herself in the mirror. A pale reflection stared back at her. Their eyes were locked and tears began welling up. Aasha lowered her glance to read the tattoo on her reflection’s right arm. It read 真.

“Truth”, she muttered.

***

“There’s a storm approaching again. The power might be out for sometime. Let’s wrap up quickly. Tell me, Aasha. Your e-captain states FUNCTIONS NOT OPTIMAL.”

Aasha enlarged the floating screen to get a close look at Dr Shantaram. He had a black mole in the crevice between his left nostril and cheek — the size of a chickpea, Aasha estimated.

“You cannot serve the nation with an unhealthy mind, you know. Do you remember your goals?”

Aasha kept silent. She knew the drill. It wasn’t her first session in psychic stability. There had been multiple such sessions with the previous facilitator before her relapse over a year ago. However, this was her first encounter with Dr Shantaram.

“State your goals!” the voice was sterner this time.

Aasha surrendered, “Perform the tasks, provide for the facility, prepare for the calamity, protect the sovereignty.”

“System spots dissonance in your voice.” Aasha was silent again.

“I see in your file that you’ve been rehabilitated thrice?” “I relapsed, then re-registered.”

“You left the facility! Thrice?!” Aasha did not respond.

“So I see. You were last rehabilitated on 16.07.2201. So you’ve just returned it seems. That explains why your performance isn’t so… let’s say desirable.”

Before Aasha could respond, the screen vanished — power cut.

*

“My parent’s name was Aasha too.”

Aasha tried to study the expression on Dr Shantaram’s face. This time he seemed more candid and relaxed. The session ran on backup power and the lights in each of their background was very dim.

“Do you know the meaning of your name?”

Aasha didn’t have to respond. Dr Shantaram would respond anyway.

“Hope. And my parent did have a lot of hope I tell you. That’s why they had me in the first place. Otherwise why subject a poor spirit to the miseries of this world by conceiving them in a beaker! Perhaps, they didn’t know that the moment I’d be born, I’d be the property of North-East Indian sovereignty.

Anyway, I digress.”

He’s a hybrid!

Dr Shantaram read the expression on Aasha’s face and softly uttered, “Ya, I’m a hybrid.”

Aasha was not sure how to respond to this; she didn’t have to as Dr Shantaram continued.

“I’m a hybrid, a fortunate one at that! Fortunate to be serving this facility, the nation and inspiring young misguided hybrids like you! Do you know how I got to this position?”

Aasha was getting used to his style of communication.

“I was transferred to so many units in far off facilities… But I was determined to prove myself and be useful… So many challenges… I was tested for not just physical but mental stealth…”

Aasha zoned out and began painting her own picture of Dr Shantaram in her mind.

Perhaps, he doesn’t have any mind at all. For the mindless, it’s a smooth-sail — mindless does not resist. Head of the psychic stability — Hah!

As he was nearing the end of his soliloquy, Dr Shantaram interrupted himself to ask Aasha with a keen look, “Why did you go to China? You could go to Upper Europe, or Antarctica. Although I know UE and Antarctica haven’t taken

any migrants for many years and trafficking is also impossible via sea and air now. But why dare flee to another sovereignty? You know you wouldn’t have been accepted anyway.”

“There exists a history as old as 6000 years. And we don’t have any history at all — we’re fighting for the sovereignty of individual sectors that we don’t even belong to. And I wanted to find a community of my likes.”

“Community!” Dr Shantaram chuckled. “Child, you’re so naïve! We hybrids do not have any community! Our community is our service. That’s our survival.”

Aasha felt unsettled. She could feel the rage taking over her mind, but she was determined to not let him win over. With an exhale, she lowered her blood pressure. Dr Shantaram must have noticed the shift in her mood measurements.

“Did you go via the land route?”

Aasha fixed her gaze at his image on the screen and blurted. “I walked the path of my ancestors.”

*

“These powercuts make operations so difficult! No wonder the facilities in

N.E. sector are underperforming,” Dr Shantaram complained.

“So tell me quickly why did you relapse and go to China? You were seeking hope too, let me guess?”

“Seeking truth!”

“Ironic, I’d say. Hope seeks truth!”sneering he continued, “Hope is living in falsehood!”

Then in an instant his eyes looked away, as if in recollection from a past life, then with a raised eyebrow questioned — as if to himself, “Or is hope in the truth?”

Aasha’s eyes lit up.

***

The blaring siren shook Aasha off her sleep. She checked her wrist. It read 1600 hrs SUN EXPOSURE. Dr Shantaram prescribed a two hour sleep session and she was grateful to him for that at least as she didn’t have to toil in the production today.

Slipping into her hazmat suit, Aasha made her way towards EXIT A which opened in a wide landscape with hundreds of trees erected in straight lines alongside the long walking track leading to the Dietary Lab.

Rays of light disoriented Aasha’s vision. She felt the heat in her body radiating through her shining body suit. Queasy and unsure of the way, she found fellow trainees in the distance ahead. They were all teenage hybrids, like her — but younger and immature.

A dozen or so hybrids had gathered in clusters of two or three. It had only been ten days since Aasha was rehabilitated again to the N.E. facility. All the fellow inhabitants were new to Aasha. Old compatriots were already stationed in Environment Security Bureau. Some might have also joined the Protection Forces. She had very limited recollection of the past. However, this was not the cause of her present uneasiness. She was consumed by thoughts on another matter — a matter reverberating in another space and time.

Shaking herself out of the daze, she began treading forward.

Fellow inhabitants were walking ahead of her on a bricked path laid out in a

an uneven herringbone configuration. Aasha followed, looking down. She amused herself by stepping on every third intersection of the bricks below her feet. In her mind, she rewound the conversation with Dr Shantaram.

How can service be a community to anyone! Community builds on a place with people sharing the same context. And I don’t have a place to call my own. I don’t have people that I could say are mine. And I don’t have purpose to belong anywhere.

Anywhere but here, perhaps — back to NE Rehabilitation Facility.

She felt the urge to swipe open the floating screen and go through the transcript to corroborate her self-judgement about the performance she gave out at psychic stability. However, she could only do so after returning to the unit when surveillance was lower.

After continuous walking in peripheral compound for half an hour, tired, thirsty, Aasha paused to catch her breath. As she looked around to find fellow trainees, her gaze fell on a tree in some distance from the turn of the track.

Was it here before?

All the trees around the N.E. Facility were hybrid — producing artificially flavoured fruits which were harvested and sent to dietary labs for synthesising food pills. N.E. Facility was known for its sweet and spicy flavourings. Their Masala Tomatoes and Pickle Mangoes were exported to all the habitable continents left. Aasha’s parent worked as a harvester and this is how she knew where her food came from. In fact, it was her parent, her mother, who nurtured her interest and curiosity in non-human hybrids.

This tree before Aasha however, looked different. It had a slender trunk and an unnatural, but a natural, bend towards the solar sky. As she walked closer, Aasha observed that its trunk was slightly grazed and charred at the edges below. She went and stood under its foliage. Then, took one step closer and reached her hand out to touch the grainy bark with her gloves. Lowering herself, she examined the charred edges and stroked them gently.

This tree was a non-hybrid non-human.

***

As soon as she was back in her unit cell, Aasha read the transcript of her session with Dr Shantaram. She scanned through the bottom of the page almost immediately because apart from her vital signs and goals, the entirety of the conversation was redacted.

She again rewound the conversation in her mind.

“Hope is in the truth!” She ascertained after deep thought.

It was time for supper but Aasha chose to ignore the alarm. Instead, she ducked under her bed and reached out for her bag. An olive-green vegan- leathered diary fell on the floor.

She picked it up with a deep sigh and began flipping the pages.

*

Guanghan, Deyang, CN

18.07.2200

19:37:43

City of the 22nd century — Chengdu.

I’m here in Chengdu — the city of miracles — almost here. It was a tumultuous journey but, I made it. Spirit of my parent would be so proud. I will recreate my life here, as promised.

Seeing her radiating smile next to this diary entry, Aasha couldn’t help but smile back into the page. So very excited she was to learn the truth about her existence. Chengdu is the epitome of Hybrid Science and Spirit, and the genes of her ancestors were created right there.

Guanghan, Deyang, CN 23.07.2200

21:30:15

I ate Sichuan curry with rice today in whole food form! It was very hot and very heavy. I felt polarity in my body right after though. Nonetheless, it was an experience worth remembering.

Migrant hybrids are stationed outside the city at the subarban altitudes. This is where I live.

Next to this entry was the picture of Aasha’s in her bedspace unit. Her neighbours came to Chengdu with the same intent as hers — to find a space for themselves. Living there was temporary until years passed and they could not get the permit to enter the city.

Guanghan, Deyang, CN

7.08.2200

23:41:03

I’m recruited as a handyman to collect twigs for fire generator. This is a temporary arrangement which will assure shelter and diet. A girl next door has got the pass to the city. I might get mine soon.

That girl’s pass was stolen, Aasha recollected. There were countless migrants living in peripheries, trying to gain entry.

Moving to a new place and making adjustments in alignment with the new environment is very difficult.

So is coming back.

Aasha kept her diary aside only to pick it up right after.

*

Guanghan, Deyang, CN 31.03.2201

00:38:19

I’m here for 8+ months now. I work and sleep. My only interaction is with human- bots. They are not kind.

Guanghan, Deyang, CN

05.04.2201

01:06:45

I collect twigs from the trees for my food. I give my water to them in return — in secrecy, of course. Water is gold and hybrid trees are efficient. They do not require water, they say. But I know that they do. The human-bot doesn’t understand that this earth is depleted of water.

Guanghan, Deyang, CN 06.04.2201

00:55:19

A human bot came and said, I cannot plant my seed here. I cannot water the trees. It’s their trees. The earth is theirs. The sky is theirs. I do not belong here.

Was it the human-bot or a huMan who said this?

Guanghan, Deyang, CN 07.05.2201

02:14:57

I was placed in detention camp for planting my seed. I’m back now. I came here to find my truth and realise my potential — to trace back the footsteps of my ancestors. I think, they were not real. Nothing is real.

A bright moon hangs on moonless nights. This moon does remind me of my family when I look up in the face of this moon — and long for my family that doesn’t exist.

The trees are artificial, the moon is artificial, the earth is artificial. And if it is so, huMan made it. It belongs to them. Not me. So where do I belong? What belongs to me?

Am I artificial too?

Chenghua, Chengdu, CN 10.05.2201

01:45:43

I got the tourist pass today to enter the city. My tokens are over but I’m going back. I went to the Panda Retreat instead of the Science City. Something in me said, that I wouldn’t belong there. So, I chose to visit pandas.

I looked at many. All of them had traces of life — preserved and survived by huMan. We cannot survive without our body suit. Countless non-humans died. Panda lives — victory of culture.

Aasha could relate to the panda, she too lived in a cage, closely monitored. She too was preserved for her gene. Looking at the panda, she felt a desperate urge to return back to the cage she’d come from.

***

A yellow-white leaf fell out in Aasha’s lap as she closed the flap of her hard bound diary. A buddhist monk had handed this leaf on her journey in the silk

route tunnel at Jibin. It was a brief encounter, but she remembered it vividly.

She stared at the leaf and saw in it the dingy tunnel that she spent twelve days walking in.

The journey was tiring and Aasha did not have the strength to go on, yet she persisted. There were hundreds of others moving along on foot with her. Without proper sources of hydration and sun exposure everyone just kept walking like zombies. There were people from all corners of the subcontinent — trafficking themselves collectively in small groups to avoid any kind of suspicion or threat. Some had lost their lands and livelihood to the sea, some were hybrids or other lesser minorities hoping to rebuild their identity, some were fleeing the new strain of viruses, but all were migrating with the same hope.

At a junction which branched out in all directions, her group was made to stop at a threat signal. Some were panicking and some were too exhausted to resist. Amidst the congestion, they decided to climb out into a connecting village that was on the border of Tibet and Sichuan — to rest and refuel their spirits.

The place was alive and everyone in Aasha’s group suddenly felt alive themselves as they walked past it. Aasha was walking on a street unknown, towards an unknown destination with people she barely knew. She was nervous but excited with anticipation.

Then, Aasha spotted a tattoo parlour on the way. She was determined to go inside and commemorate this moment on her body. A renewed Aasha who will rebuild a new life henceforth, she ended up spending all her tokens to get a permanent imprint that would remind her to keep going.

As she came out of the parlour, everyone in her group turned to look at the hybrid’s tattoo. At that moment, Aasha met the eyes of a buddhist monk who was travelling in the preceding group — that had to cross the tunnel a day

earlier; however, because of a landslide, the exit was blocked and they were stuck with the same lot as Aasha’s.

The monk walked over to Aasha and expressed admiration for her spirit. He gave her the leaf as a symbol of luck and said — remember who you are.

Soon after, they parted ways to go in separate tunnels.

There was nothing on the leaf, nothing written. It was an old dried leaf of a rare non-hybrid tree or plant.

Aasha looked at the leaf and recalled his words “Remember who you are…” Then she repeated the same words in a question to herself.

***

It was the middle of the night. She needed to oxygenate her mind. Aasha climbed out of her bed and slipped into her body suit.

She had escaped the facility check countless times, although in the records, she had only absconded thrice, which couldn’t have been left undetected as they were longer than simple overnight escapes. Aasha was masterful at cracking the security checks of the facility — a useful skill passed down by her hybrid parent. And tonight was yet another night to flee into the open sky.

*

Aasha ran out of the facility from EXIT C and circled her way around the periphery towards EXIT A.

It was dark, but she had worn her night glasses to navigate her way forward.

She was going back to meet the tree she had discovered in the afternoon.

When she got there, she took the Gulab Jamun pill she had dispensed for breakfast and in a small hole in the earth that she made with the heel of her shoe, carefully sowed it. This would become a hybrid tree of a rose flavoured jamun.

Hopefully.

She looked up at the non-hybrid tree from where she was still squatting. She rose and walked up closer. In an impulse she hugged the tree, feeling the uneven bark touch against her chest through her body suit. She took off her gloves, and once again caressed the charred edges of the tree. And as she did, she whispered, “You are my hope.”

And I am yours.

***

Madrid 2200

Julen Eizaguirre Aguirr

Hugo wakes up at 7:00 to start his last year at school. It is a special course, since this year the “National Integration Plan” is launched following the example of France, Sweden, Germany and Italy among others. After years of riots and protests in the suburbs, the regime of Carlota II de Borbón has created this plan for the integration of the children of immigrants, so that they do not remain outside of Spanish society. However, despite the fact that Hugo’s family is in favor of the regime of Carlota II de Borbón, they are afraid that her son will have to interact with suburban kids.


When they arrive to class, they all sit in their desks. They sit in a clearly differentiated way from one another. On the left of the class are the white children and the other, black children, all with a green bracelet that identifies them as children within the National Integration Plan. When the teacher arrives to class, he tells them that the final work will be a work in pairs, and that the couples will have to be made up of Spanish children and children from the suburbs. Seeing that there is no willingness on the part of the students to make groups among them, a computer program is the one in charge of making the pairs according to the hobbies and interests of each one of them.


Hugo has to take Ayo. Although Hugo does not want to mix with the new students, he is happy because he is with the most handsome guy in the class. Hugo introduces himself to Ayo and Ayo makes it clear that all he wants is to pass the course and that if he could choose he would be at the school in his neighborhood. After that awkward moment they pass each other the phone numbers to talk about the work. At the end of the classes, Hugo takes his capsule and arrives at his house in 5 minutes. However, Ayo goes to the bus station to get on the bus that after a trip of 1 hour and a half will take him to his shack, next to the national dump.


Hugo comes home very happy and tells at dinner that he has to do a final job with a boy from the suburb, the parents laugh and make jokes about the students in the National Integration Plan, in the end they tell Hugo that he is great to work with Ayo, but do not even think about having anything with him, that they do not want those people in the family. Hugo also laughs and tells them that he does not plan to have a black boyfriend who lives in the landfill.


Ayo arrives home, and does not arrive as angry as his family expected him to arrive. He has told his parents that he has to do the job with a boy on the other side of the fence, a white boy. The father reminds him that if he is going to that school it is so that neither he nor his wife ends up in one of the prisons in Galicia like his uncle Samir, where they force him to rebuild again and again the prison that is torn down by the hurricanes or flooded by the continuous floods. What Ayo’s parents want is for their son to finish the course so that the education ministry of Spain leaves them alone.


The next day everyone returns to class and they start with Spanish history classes. The professor tells how, because of his ancestors, the sea level rose as nobody before could imagine before which also created a climate of storms and hurricanes that would force 99% of Spaniards to move to the center of the peninsula, Madrid. Although it was almost like a desert, thanks to new technologies, temperatures were bearable. The African students were happy with the content of the history class, since it was the subject their parents had warned them would brainwash them.

After the history class came the social sciences. The professor explained that the lack of sex education and religious customs without any sense made continents like Africa multiplied their population by 15 in the last 50 years, making this continent uninhabitable. The spirit among the students of the National Integration Plan begins to warm up. The professor continues explaining that Europe has saved Africa by facilitating their entry into the old continent. Raffik replies that Africa is uninhabitable because it is totally contaminated, that for hundreds of years it has been the landfill of the West, and that now they live on the outskirts of the city, separated by a fence and that they still live in landfills. The answer of the professor of social sciences is that if they had adapted to the new culture from the beginning there would not have been the revolts of 2190 that almost led to a civil war like in Italy, and was the reason for the creation of the Madrid Wall and the ghettos on the outskirts. He also reminded him that if it were not for the Spanish landfills their families would not have anything to eat, since almost everyone is in charge of recycling and in return the Spanish Government gives them some subsidies. Before such explanation, Omar and Raffik exploded, insulted the professor and broke his desk. State forces appeared and neither Raffik nor Omar was seen again by class. The director of the school explained that they were changed school, although in truth everyone knew that they were sent to Galicia, like the uncle of Ayo. Upon arriving at the dump, Ayo explained what happened at home and his parents asked him to please do not do any nonsense that would endanger his family.

Ayo continued going to school every day, and on Friday afternoon he used to stay at school with Hugo doing the work. Over time and although they both had prejudices of each other, they began to establish an increasingly friendship relationship. Hugo was attracted to Ayo, but he could not imagine a relationship with him since they came from completely different worlds. Ayo for his part did not consider a relationship with a boy and in addition from the city.

On Friday they finished the work, they stayed talking to each other at the school until they closed it. They did not realize what time it was. Ayo no longer had buses to his house, because of the floods that week there were fewer buses than usual to the suburbs. Unexpectedly, Hugo offered him dinner and sleep in his house and when both appeared at home and explained the situation, Hugo’s parents were correct and gave him dinner to Hugo and Ayo. Ayo was surprised at the good reception he had at Hugo’s house but Hugo explained that they did it so as not to be labeled as racist and classist.

After dinner, they went to Hugo’s room. Ayo wanted to thank him for not letting him spend the night in the street illegally since he could be arrested or beaten.

-Hugo, thank you very much for feeding me and letting me into your house.
-Don’t give them to me, in fact I have to ask your forgiveness, at all times I knew what time it was. I also knew that today you had fewer buses due to flooding in your neighborhood. I wanted us to have dinner and spend the night together, because I think I’m falling in love with you.
-Fuck Hugo, what are you saying, dude? I do not know what to say…
-I want to apologize Ayo ..
-It does not matter Hugo
And then it was Ayo who approached Hugo and kissed him in the mouth, after
that kiss they spent a night of passion and they fell asleep side by side with
their naked bodies.

The next day, Hugo’s mother came to Hugo’s room to wake them up and saw what had happened, woke them up scandalized and left without saying anything to the kitchen, Hugo and Ayo dressed as quickly as possible and Hugo went to the kitchen to talk to his mother.

-Mom, I’m sorry, I’ve fallen in love with Ayo, I have not done it to annoy you.
-No son, the only thing we have asked you is that you do not bring blacks in
the family!
-Mom! Do not be like that, Ayo is a good boy give us an opportunity, please!
-Not talk, you have a lot of good guys in the city, forget about that black that
lives amon shit, you will not see him again!

The mother of Hugo, got into a capsule with Ayo and went to Ayo ́s house to
explain to his family what had happened and to make it clear that she was not
going to allow his son to be near Hugo.

Ayo’s parents became very angry with their son, they blamed their son’s homosexual behavior on the new school and they considered taking their son out of the National Integration Plan. After meditating, they decided not to remove him
from the program since they would be the ones sent to the prisons of Galicia, what they did was to throw Ayo out of the house, who had to build a small shack in the neighborhood. Ayo was left without friends in the neighborhood, the neighbors broke their shack again and again and used to insult him in the neighborhood. In addition, the father of Ayo organized a wedding with a girl from the neighborhood of which there were also rumors that she was a lesbian.

On the other hand, Hugo’s mother and father made it clear to Hugo that they did not want any kind of scum in their family. If they saw him again with Ayo, they would take more drastic measures.

Time passed, and even though Ayo was married to a girl from the dump, he continued to go to class so as not to embarrass his family. Hugo also went to class and every day at the end of the classes they were looking for a moment to be together without anyone knowing … However, one day the Social Sciences teacher saw them together and did not hesitate a second to tell the Hugo’s parents.Hugo’s parents went into a rage, they did not know how to get Ayo away from Hugo, but suddenly he came up with an idea that he could carry out.

Hugo’s father works in a high position of the regime of Carlota II de Borbón, which was carrying out a plan to better integrate the children of immigrants into society. After several meetings, he convinced the people who make the decisions that they had to throw the immigrants out of landfills, since they lived in painful and unhealthy environmental conditions. In the same way, they would have to move all the inhabitants of that landfill to the north of Madrid, where there was no pollution, but neither was there fertile soil, nor almost water, since it is all sand. In addition, Ayo would be sent to another school away from Hugo’s.

And so it was, under the pretext that they wanted to help immigrants, a private company took control of recycling in Madrid and expelled all the immigrants who live there north of Madrid. The vast majority of immigrants were happy with the change since they had talks with scientists who told them of the dangers of continuing to live. However, a small minority opposed the change and were sent to Galicia.

Ayo was forced to move north of Madrid with his wife and the National Integration Plan assigned him another school. Hugo and Ayo did not know anything about each other even though they used to think a lot about each other. No one dared to write a message until June.


A wave of heat arrived in Madrid in May to stay, night temperatures did not drop below 27 degrees and during the day they could reach 60 degrees. In the new neighborhood of Ayo there was almost no water and fights for food happened every day. On June 15, Ayo’s wife went to the market for food, where she fought in the market for 1kg of lentils and received a knife. The ambulance took 30 minutes to arrive at the scene, too late for Ayo’s wife who bleed to death.

That night Ayo cried inconsolably and promised himself to change the destiny of his life, took courage and searched his list of contacts to Hugo, told him what was happening and that he needed his help.

Hugo, reading the message, wept with emotion and replied saying that he could not stop thinking about him and that he would help him if he needed it. They stayed the next day on the wall to see each other through the fence and talk. Hugo brought him food for the week and pills to make up for the lack of water. That’s how they spent the whole summer, staying every 2 days on the wall to be together for a while imagining a future together.

In the end, Hugo’s parents found out what his son was doing and what he was still seeing with Ayo. They managed to understand that his son was really in love with Ayo and that there was nothing they could do. Hugo’s father decided to convince his wife to support Hugo’s relationship with Ayo.

Ayo suffered homophobia in his suburb as well as insults for dating someone from the city. Hugo’s father used that argument with Carlota II de Borbón to convert Ayo into a refugee and thus be able to live freely in the city and he got it. After performing all the procedures Ayo began to live as a normal person in the city and took off the bracelet that identified him as a student in the National Integration Plan.

In the end, Ayo met Carlota II de Borbón and was a key person to carry out effective actions and plans for an effective integration of the people of the suburbs in the city.

Napoli 2220

How the fuck this sidewalk crumbles under my feet, I am almost felling on the ground (n’appoco vaco ‘nterra). It is so destroyed that by every step I consume more the pavement than the shoes.

Everything accumulates on what remains of the asphalt, placed there in a past defined only by the misery in which they left these areas. The dust is getting thicker and thicker. The hot wind, if it blows strongly, forms a cloud that scares you just looking at it. Then you stop trying to understand on which side of the sidewalk you will be able to walk as soon as it starts to fade. This is the method, so you do it every time you have to get to the fountain. The line to get water from the public well is getting longer and longer. You cannot imagine the number of armed guards alongside the stream of thirsty desperate people. Everything has a clear order at the well; no one would ever jump the line.

The queue is composed with every kind of people in terms of gender, race, and age. It is such a long ordeal that in the end one should deserve an eternal blessing. We look like beasts of burden waiting to arrive at the trough. You sweat like dogs in this rain of boiling sun and it is impossible even to lean on the scorching metal sheets of the old abandoned cars. I’m hot and tired; the humidity gets into your bones. My body feels heavy as when that epidemic that transformed us all came into our lives. First the cough, then the blood from the mouth. Masks and ambulances in spite of sunglasses and car rides. Someone proposed the mandatory tags around the neck, as if we were soldiers in a war. It was first the curfew that saddened people, then the distrust that ended up destroying human relationships, the very few human relationships that had managed to resist the misery.

It became difficult to make eye contact without being suspicious. Human contact dropped to a level never seen before. We would have paid for a hug or for feeling a head resting on our chest. We stopped looking, talking and listening to each other. Instead of the happy ending story, we showered ourselves with skepticism and hatred. Diversity ceased to be a wealth. The world began to live hidden, in fear. Everyone walked constantly looking over their shoulders without knowing exactly what or who they should expect. We strengthened our limits, trying to overcome our fears. However, we ended up being commanded by fears, managed by those who knew how to maneuver them and us, like puppets. Even after the pandemic, we were still overwhelmed by laws, decrees and controls. Restrictions for everything, military hospitals instead of public ones, dozens of checkpoints to control the city. There it was Naples, but without freedom.

Meanwhile, I smile looking at the plastic container that I carry with me; they made this stuff disappear to make it come back stronger. With slogans like “plastic stays for life”, they have convinced the world that shit is beautiful and we have to eat it. Everyone knew that plastic is the only thing that truly remains forever, especially those who produce it. They knew it was the biggest shit and for years it had really disappeared. Then, in the void of the crises and wars that followed, it came back into vogue again. If I asked you what is the first thing that comes to mind, it would be a plastic object. Now, for instance, I can think of the tank that I hold in my hands, my backpack and my computer. Shit, plastic all three.

The sun is everywhere, the reflections of the glass left in dilapidated buildings blind me as when the Government Building at Vomero [an upper class neighborhood in Naples] caught fire, in the institutional citadel. They say it was a good neighborhood, I wasn’t even born when the fire happened, I think the area stayed the same. If I could touch the horizon line, it would be hot. The heat is bestial; it seems that Naples is on fire. Everything is glowing, except the people. Yet there have been years when the revolt was real; entire areas were set on fire by the subalterns, the poor, the revolting souls. The water crisis even led the populations to attack the springs in the mountains. The army, the death of so many people and the repression stopped everything. Now, however, no, it is no longer the era. It’s only been a few decades but it feels like an era. The water runs faintly as I look at it with froth at my mouth. I imagine myself attached to the fountain for an hour. But not, this is just in my mind, these twenty liters are not even halfway, a tragedy. The queue behind me starts cursing, but I’m not the target, luckily it’s the slowness of the fountain. Come on [Jam] fucking can, I have to go away.

Twenty liters per person per day for each member of the family. Sunday forty, so people are happy. The truth is that there is water, only they sell it in the four / five big cities that are still left. Luxurious megacities that can only be accessed with the special card which proves that you are a permanent resident. What the fuck those rich people know, living in the their vices without virtue. They never had to make more holes in their belts. Never fasted so someone else in their family could eat. With a dignity bought in a supermarket displaying vegetables producing by assembly lines, they don’t know the rest of the world but decide its fate. Between laughter and fake truths, they pat each other on the back and compliment the women they have at their side. Scaly and slimy, they stick together, crave each other and fatten each other. I’d make them starving. It wouldn’t be good or bad, it’d be just right.

It’s really hot, I want to shelter instead of burning in this hell of concrete and debris. I close the door immediately. Better to stay in the shade without air than to feel this dragon wind capable of lighting a cigarette on your skin. And now I would like to light a cigarette [mò ce vulesse], it would not last anything, two deep puffs and over. I’d just throw it against the wall and fuck everything. A thousand ashes would shine for a single moment. I put some music on my pc to divert attention from my addictions. I also open a very old folder. Surely, I have already seen it with the superficiality that characterizes me when under the blunders of substances I do things I don’t remember. So, instead of stuffing my veins under my wrist, this time sober I take a look at what file I have. Photos, people, writings, murals.

Memories, thousands of memories. Glories and mistakes. People, a lot of people [nu cuofono e gente]. There are also photos from my childhood. Secondigliano [an underclass neighborhood in Napels] was quite different at that time. The bar downstairs is no longer there, but there are three clubs for the registration of volunteers: a little more water and some more bread, that’s all they get. I go fast; I want to see this one, not this one. I want to remember this, not this. This is something nice, this is something bad, this is hum…. I also find photos of my grandfather’s grandfather while diving from the Maddalena Cerasuolo bridge and, if you go on in years, there is one of my father diving from the Arenaccia bridge. Some photos show my grandfather still in swaddling clothes on a boat trip off Garibaldi Square. ([The two bridges and Garibaldi Square are at the present far away from the sea). 

I recognize the area because the father had his father photographed while he stepped on Garibaldi’s head, which at the time was coming out of the water. Now the head can no longer be seen; what remains is only the sea. Years ago it was possible to go to swim in Carlo the Third Square, now it is enough to arrive in Capodichino Square to take jump into the water from the the Leonardo Bianchi building. A mansion from the late 1700s. Four hundred years of history never fixed, so it is now almost destroyed, half collapsed. The airport was removed from here about fifty years ago, after a revolution against climate change. Airports were attacked, vehicles seized and people began to leave Naples and Italy. They called them climate migrants but no one wanted them, wherever they arrived.

Men, women and children, all of them. The same style as always, detention centers, filing, treated as illegal immigrants. Some aircraft were also shot down in flight, I don’t remember exactly where but it happened. Many friends have left and I have lost contact with most of them. Now the airport is towards Avellino, in the mountains, surrounded by barracks so no one attacks it anymore. I look at some images on the web, the ones that explain how the terrestrial globe was before.

Everything has disappeared, all submerged. Downstairs, in the streets of my neighborhood, what is underground is a black market that tries to give you what you can’t find anymore anywhere; today as before the rich still have the resources to get what they. If there is work, it is only for those who want to deal with the sea. The strongest are the forced owners of the kilometers of shore, with adjoining buildings for hotel use. They are the ones who took power by force. Parastatal forces with their own army and their own economic and social organization. With the money they have at their disposal through contracts, properties and voting packages, they establish the balance of power with the state. Today there is no longer a gap between the rich and the poor, there is an abyss. No more middle-class, as they say. Who has money commands and keeps all things. Those who don’t have resources, try to survive day by day, if they can. We thought there was a better world; instead this is what we got [chest e’].

My grandfather, may rest in peace, participated in the Climate War between 2157 and 2167; he said that history is cyclical, it always repeats itself. There are the poor, the rich and those who do not care but are  good at complaining. Yet, if you talk to the older ones, everyone tells you that there was a time when it was clear that it would come to this. All point to 2043. After seven years, all states should have stopped using fossil fuels. Instead, they began extensions and fake laws allowing continuing using fossil fuels. The outbreaks of revolt in the states that were called “weak” increased dramatically so that the allied forces began with wars. They exported “friendly governance” they said, but in the end they occupied the territories by force. We are lucky because, fortunately, there are still pockets of resistance. Luckily, someone still has faith; and not in God.

Dry throat, water is never enough. A sip every time and the glass is half empty without being enough. Then fuck everything, everything down, even if the sun continues to punch me while the heat squeezes my neck until I suffocate. There must be a distillation of something left in some piece of furniture. I look for it desperately without remembering that it is there, in the only furniture left intact. I squint my eyes and burn my throat convincing myself that in the end the alcohol is never lost. Perhaps this is not the case in this case. An ice cube would do well. Beautiful, fresh, like the snowfall of 2206, over ten meters of snow.

People out on the street feeling the shivering of the cold on their skin. All looking for a breath of fresh air. Then it snowed so much that we were locked in the houses. We came out after a month, without even imagining what we would find in front of our eyes. Dozens of roofs and balconies collapsed, buildings crumbling under the weight of all that ice. And then the snow, a mountain of snow. An infinite grayish expanse with blue and purple veins. That time I erased the memory of a white snow forever. But it’s hot at home too. I have to get off, I can’t stay any longer, I have to take a swim. I look for the shadow where possible, I walk towards Calata Capodichino. In front of me a group of kids [na paranzella e guagliuni] and a few more people, all headed towards the sea. And then again sidewalks destroyed, again slalom among the garbage. An old man stumbles and ends up on the ground, sure he is torn apart. He gets up immediately, wipes his knees, brushes the dust off the rest of the rags he’s wearing and keeps walking. Without a grimace of pain, the facial muscles show nothing, no expression crosses his face. We all know that compared to the daily misery that we constantly experience that fall is comparable to nothing. By now we have also learn how to fell down.

Now only the sea can save me, otherwise my thoughts will cause a sunstroke. Five minutes to arrive, take off your shoes and hope the water isn’t hot as usual. After a few dunes of I don’t know what, I can see the water. Some families have brought their children playing on what is a cobblestone bank. The older ones plunge from half destroyed building that were abandoned after several floods. An irreducible old woman still occupies her unsafe apartment to end her life in those four walls that now look more like a dilapidated box. It is clear that the lady wants to see her memories die where she raised them, I understand her.

Today there is also someone who rents umbrellas, gives you an old rim of a few wheels to put the umbrella on, after all, if there is no wind, it stays up. Immediately a dive and I go out trying not to see that patch of mud that was there until a week ago. Dozens of hands of amused young people cling to the old inner tubes offshore. Some kids mimic a chase in an abandoned vehicle that still has a steering wheel that excites the imagination.

The body of water today also manages to reflect people. It seems they are trampling themselves into an abyss which is after all not so distant from this one we all inhabit  What city must be down there, what we left behind, what we lost. What we have left, what we need to take back. Sometimes, when the sky is clear, you can see people on that other hilly area. We see them, them us, in half a kilometer of debris on a steep wall that ends up in the water. I would like to ask them what landscape they see from there, if it is as bad as the one we see from here.

The siren that warns of the imminent arrival of a tidal wave makes people prepare quickly. The screams of the parents bring their children back to shore, someone lends a hand to the elderly. The umbrella rental recharges everything on its vehicle and goes off at full speed. I put my shoes and my shirt back on. The sun still spits fire and the coolness of this sea lasted half an hour. Behind me the waters ripple, the strictly hot wind begins to get stronger. The clouds on the horizon, charged with lightning, look like containers of light ready to explode. It’s all covered already and it’s still fucking hot. Hot air, hot wind, hot tornado. This time where the high water will go, what damage it will bring and which lives it will break. Who knows one day who will owns all this nothing.

The foam grows as the waves begin to rise, you don’t even know what fucking color it has. Even today the sea will throw up on us all the rubbish it is full of, we will throw it back in some deep hole in the hinterland. Ruining the world by poisoning the poor, overcoming the limits of disgust over and over again, has remained the primary instinct of those in charge. Better to stick to your self-preservation instincts. The water on the shore begins to be too cloudy, the air thickens as it fills with dust. The scorching wind starts to blow stronger and is not a good omen. Half a cigarette on the ground invites me to block it with one foot to prevent the wind from carrying it away. It’s so dented it looks like a fuse. Now all you need is a lighter.

[1] The two bridges and Garibaldi Square are at the present far away from the sea.

Original version in Italian

Come cazzo si sgretola sto marciapiede ogni volta che ci cammino sopra, n’appoco vaco ‘nterra. Si consuma più marciapiede che scarpe tanto che è fraceto.

Tutto si accumula su quello che resta dell’asfalto, messo li in un passato definito solo dalla miseria in cui hanno lasciato queste zone. La polvere è sempre più fitta. Il vento caldo, se soffia forte, forma una nube che solo a guardarla fa paura. Allora ti fermi, aspetti di capire su quale marciapiede potrai passare appena inizia a svanire. Questo è il metodo, così fai ogni volta che devi arrivare alla fontana. La fila per prendere l’acqua al pozzo pubblico è sempre più lunga. Non immaginate guardie armate di fianco al flusso di disperati assetati. Il pozzo si autogestisce, la fila non si salta. Stanno tutti al loro posto ordinati, semplice. C’è tutto, ogni genere, razza e età. E’ un calvario così lungo che alla fine ci vorrebbe na benedizione eterna. Sembriamo bestie da soma in attesa di arrivare all’abbeveratoio. Si suda da cani sotto questa pioggia di sole bollente e risulta impossibile anche poggiarsi sulle cocenti lamiere delle vecchie auto abbandonate. Sto caldo e st’afa ti stancano e l’umidità ti entra nelle ossa, le senti pesanti come quando venne quell’epidemia che ci trasformò tutti. Prima la tosse, poi il sangue dalla bocca. Mascherine e autoambulanze a dispetto di occhiali da sole e giri in macchina. Qualcuno propose le targhette obbligatorie al collo, manco fossimo militari in guerra. Fu prima il coprifuoco a intristire la gente, poi la diffidenza che finì per distruggere i rapporti umani. L’unica cosa che era riuscita a resistere alla miseria. Diventò difficile guardarci negli occhi senza essere sospettosi. Il contatto umano dimunuì ai minimi storici. Per essere stretti in un abbraccio, sentire una testa che si appoggia sul petto avremmo pagato. Smettemmo di guardarci, parlarci e ascoltarci. Al posto della favola a lieto fine ci inondammo di scetticismo e odio. La diversità smise di essere una ricchezza. Il mondo viveva nascosto, andava avanti intimorito. Camminava guardandosi continuamente le spalle senza sapere esattamente cosa o chi avrebbe dovuto aspettarsi. Rafforzammo i nostri limiti per non superare le paure. Finimmo però per farci comandare da quest’ultime, gestite però da chi le paure le sapeva muovere bene, come le marionette. Fummo travolti da leggi, maxidecreti e controlli, immediatamente dopo la fine della pandemia. Restrizioni per tutto, ospedali militari invece che pubblici, decine di check point a controllare la città.                                                                                                                   

Li fu Napoli ma senza libertà. Intanto sorrido guardando il contenitore di plastica che mi porto appresso, sta roba l’hanno fatta scomparire per farla tornare più forte. Con slogan del tipo “la plastica resta per la vita” hanno riconvinto il mondo che la merda è bella e ce la dobbiamo mangiare. Lo sapevano tutti che la plastica è l’unica cosa che resta veramente per sempre, soprattutto chi la produce. Sapevano che era la merda più grande e per anni era davvero scomparsa. Poi, nel nulla delle crisi e delle guerre che si sono succedute, è ritornata di nuovo in auge. Se vi chiedessi qual è  la prima cosa che vi viene in mente, sarebbe un oggetto di plastica. Non voglio farlo ma subito mi salta in mente sta tanica che stringo tra le mani, uno zaino e un computer. Cazzo, plastica tutti e tre.

Il sole è ovunque, i riflessi dei vetri rimasti a palazzi fatiscenti accecano come quando prese fuoco il Palazzo di Stato al Vomero, nella cittadella istituzionale. Dicono che era un quartiere bene, non ero manco nato, penso sia rimasto lo stesso. Se riuscissi a toccare la linea dell’orizzonte sarebbe rovente. Il caldo è bestiale, pare che Napoli vada a fuoco. E’ tutto incandescente, tranne la gente. Eppure anni di zone messe a ferro e fuoco dagli ultimi, dai bisognosi, dagli animi in rivolta ci sono stati. La crisi dell’acqua portò addirittura le popolazioni ad assaltare le sorgenti sulle montagne. Gli eserciti, i morti e gli arrestati fermarono tutto. Ora però no, non è più l’epoca. E’ passato solo qualche decennio ma sembra un’era. L’acqua scorre fioca mentre la guardo con la bava alla bocca. Mi immagino attaccato alla fontana per un’ora. Finito il flash sti venti litri manco stanno alla metà, una tragedia. La fila dietro bestemmia, non sono io l’obiettivo, per fortuna è la lentezza della fontana.  Jamm latta del cazzo, devo andare via. Venti litri a testa al giorno per ogni componente della famiglia. La domenica quaranta, così la gente è pure contenta. Chell l’acqua ce sta, solo che la vendono nelle quattro/cinque, grandi città che sono rimaste. Lussuose megalopoli in cui accedere solo con il tesserino da ricco residente storico. Che ne sanno questi, chiusi nei loro vizi senza virtù. Non hanno mai dovuto fare più buchi alle loro cinte. Mai digiunato perché qualcun’altro della loro famiglia mangiasse. Con una dignità comprata in un megamercato con la frutta uscita da una catena di montaggio, non conoscono il resto del mondo ma ne decidono le sorti. Tra grasse risate e finte verità si scambiano pacche sulle spalle e si complimentano per le donne che hanno al loro fianco. Squamosi e viscidi, restano fra loro, bramano tra loro e ingrassano tra loro. Li farei morire di fame. Non sarei né buono né cattivo, sarei giusto.

Mò fa veramente caldo, voglio ripararmi invece di bruciare in questo inferno di cemento e rottami. La porta la chiudo subito. Meglio stare all’ombra senza aria piuttosto che sentire sulla pelle questo vento di drago capace di accendere una sigaretta. E mò ce vulesse proprio na sigaretta, non durerebbe niente, due boccate profondissime e via, finita. La scaglierei pure contro il muro e vaffanculo. Mille ceneri brillerebbero per un solo istante. Metto un po di musica sul pc per distogliere l’attenzione dalle mie dipendenze. Apro pure una cartella vecchissima. Sicuramente l’avrò già vista con la superficialità che mi contraddistingue quando tra gli svarioni delle sostanze faccio cose di cui non ricordo. Allora, invece di strisciarmi di roba le vene sotto al polso, stavolta da lucido mi guardo che file c’ho. Foto, di persone, di scritte, di murales. Ricordi, migliaia di ricordi. Glorie ed errori. Gente, nu cuofono ‘e gente. Ci sono pure le foto di quando ero piccolo. Secondigliano era un po ‘ diversa da ora. Il bar sotto casa non c’è più, mò ci stanno tre circoli per il tesseramento dei volontari: un pò di acqua e un po ‘di pane in più, that’s all. Vado avanti velocemente, questa la voglio vedere questa no. Questo lo voglio ricordare, questo no. Chist’è nu fatto bello, chist’è brutto, chist’è mmm. Ritrovo anche le foto del nonno di mio nonno mentre faceva i tuffi dal ponte Maddalena Cerasuolo e, se vai avanti negli anni, ce n’è una di mio padre che si tuffa dal ponte dell’Arenaccia. Alcune foto ritraggono mio nonno ancora in fasce in una gita in barca al largo di piazza Garibaldi. Riconosco la zona perché il padre si è fatto fotografare mentre calpesta la testa di Garibaldi che all’epoca usciva dall’acqua. Mò la testa non si vede più che il mare chissà di quanto si alzato ancora. Prima il bagno te lo facevi a Carlo III, ora fermiamo la macchina a piazza Capodichino per fare un tuffo un pò più giù del Leonardo Bianchi. Un palazzone della fine del 1700. Quattrocento anni di storia mai aggiustati, così è finito, mezzo crollato. L’aereoporto da qui l’avranno tolto una cinquantina di anni fa, dopo una rivoluzione contro il cambiamento climatico. Vennero assaltati gli aereoporti, sequestrati i mezzi e la gente iniziò ad andare via da Napoli e dall’Italia. Li chiamavano migranti climatici e negli altri paesi non li volevano. Uomini, donne e bambini, tutti. Lo stesso stile di sempre, centri di permanenza, schedatura, trattati come clandestini. Qualche velivolo fu pure abbattuto in volo, non ricordo precisamente dove ma è successo. Molti amici sono partiti e di pochi ne conosco le sorti. Ora l’aeroporto sta verso Avellino, sulle montagne, circondato da caserme così non l’assalta più nessuno. Guardo qualche immagine sul web, quelle che spiegano com’era prima il globo terrestre. E’ scomparso tutto, tutto sommerso. Giù da me invece di sommerso c’è pure un mercato nero che prova a darti quello che non si riesce a trovare più, tanto mò come allora chi tene ‘e soldi cade sempre in piedi. Il lavoro se c’è è solo per chi vuole occuparsi di mare. I più forti sono i proprietari coatti dei chilometri di riva, con annesse palazzine ad uso hotel. Sono quelli che si sono presi il potere con la forza. Forze parastatali con un loro esercito e una loro organizzazione economica e sociale. Con i soldi che hanno a disposizione tramite appalti, proprietà e pacchetti di voti, stabiliscono il rapporto di forza con lo Stato. Oggi non c’è più un divario tra i ricchi e i poveri, c’è un abisso. Niente più middle-class, come si dice. Chi ha soldi comanda e tene tutte cose. Chi nun tene niente campa alla giornata, se ci riesce. Pensavano ci fosse un mondo migliore, chest’è, niente. Mio nonno buonanima, ha partecipato alla Climate War tra il 2157 e il 2167, diceva che la storia è ciclica, si ripete sempre: ci stanno i poveri, i ricchi e chi se ne fotte ma è bravo a lamentarsi. Eppure, se parli con i più vecchi, tutti ti dicono che c’è stato un momento in cui si è capito che saremmo arrivati a questo. Tutti indicano il 2043. Dopo sette anni avrebbero dovuto, tutti gli stati, smettere di usare combustibili fossili. Invece da li iniziarono proroghe e leggi farlocche per quello e quell’altro stato. I focolai di rivolta negli stati che venivano chiamati “deboli” aumentarono a dismisura tanto che le forze alleate iniziarono con le guerre. Esportavano “governabilità amica” dicevano, invece alla fine occupavano con la forza i territori. Siamo fortunati perché, per fortuna, esistono ancora delle sacche di resistenza. Meno male che qualcuno ha ancora fede e non è in Dio.

Gola secca, l’acqua non basta mai. Un sorso ogni sempre e il bicchiere è mezzo vuoto senza bastare. Allora fanculo, giù tutto, anche se il sole coninua a prendermi a cazzotti mentre l’afa stringe il collo fino a farmi soffocare. Deve essermi rimasto un distillato di qualcosa in qualche mobile. Lo cerco disperatamente senza ricordare che è li, nell’unica mobilia rimasta integra. Strizzo gli occhi e incendio la gola convincendomi che alla fine l’acool non si perde mai. Forse in questo caso non è così. Ci starebbe bene un cubetto di ghiaccio. Bello, fresco, come la nevicata del 2206, oltre dieci metri di neve. La gente fuori, per strada a sentire sulla pelle i brividi del freddo. Tutti alla ricerca di una boccata d’aria fresca. Poi nevicò talmente tanto che restammo chiusi in casa. Ne  uscimmo dopo un mese, senza neanche immaginare cosa avremmo trovato davanti ai nostri occhi. Decine di tetti e balconi crollati, palazzi sgretolati sotto il peso di tutto quel ghiaccio.  E poi la neve, una montagna di neve. Una distesa infinita grigiastra con venature blu e viola. Quella volta cancellai per sempre il ricordo di una neve bianca. Ma però fa caldo pure a casa. Devo scendere, non si può più stare, devo farmi un bagno. Cerco l’ombra dove possibile, mi incammino verso Calata Capodichino. Davanti a me na paranzella ‘e guagliuni e un altro po di gente, tutti diretti verso il mare. E allora ancora marciapiedi distrutti, ancora slalom tra la monnezza. Un signore inciampa e finisce a terra, sicuro s’è struppiato. Si rialza subito, pulisce le ginocchia, si scrolla la polvere dal resto degli stracci che ha addosso e continua a camminare. Senza una smorfia di dolore, i muscoli facciali non mostrano niente, nessuna espressione attraversa il suo volto. Lo sappiamo tutti che rispetto alla miseria quotidiana che viviamo costantemente quella caduta e paragonabile al nulla. Ormai siamo diventati anche bravi a cadere.

Mò ce vò sulo ò mare oì, perché non siano i miei pensieri a provocarmi un’insolazione. Cinque minuti per arrivare, togliere le scarpe e sperare che l’acqua non sia calda come al solito. Dopo qualche duna di non so cosa, riesco a intravedere l’acqua.  Qualche famiglia s’è portata i bambini che giocano su quella che è una riva di sanpietrini. I più grandi si tuffano dai palazzi abbandonati dopo diverse inondazioni. Qualche anziana irriducibile occupa ancora il suo pericolante appartamento per finire la propria vita in quelle quattro mura che ormai somigliano più a una scatola fatiscente. E’ evidente che la signora vuole vedere morire i propri ricordi lì dove li ha cresciuti, la capisco. Oggi ci sta pure uno che affitta gli ombrelloni, ti da un vecchio cerchione di qualche ruota dove infilarci l’ombrellone, tutto sommato se non c’è vento resta in piedi. Subito un tuffo ed esco, tanto non si vede manco più quella chiazza di melma che c’era fino ad una settimana fa. Alle vecchie camere d’aria al largo ci sono aggrappate decine di mani di giovani divertiti. Alcuni ragazzini mimano un inseguimento in un veicolo abbandonato che però ha ancora uno volante che stuzzica l’immaginazione.

Lo specchio d’acqua oggi riesce anche a riflettere le persone. Sembra stiano calpestando se stessi in un abisso non troppo distante da questo. Che città deve esserci la sotto, cosa abbiamo lasciato, cosa abbiamo perso. Cosa ci è rimasto, cosa dobbiamo riprenderci. A volte, quando il cielo è limpido, si riesce a vedere la gente su quell’altra zona collinare. Noi vediamo loro, loro noi, in mezzo chilometri di detriti su una parete scoscesa che finisce in acqua. Vorrei chiedergli che paesaggio si vede da la, se è brutto come quello che vediamo noi da qui.

La sirena che allerta l’arrivo imminente di un’onda anomala fa preparare la gente velocemente. Le urla dei genitori richiamano i figli a riva, qualcuno da una mano ai più anziani. L’affitta ombrelloni ricarica tutto sul suo mezzo e va via a manetta. Rimetto le scarpe e la maglietta, mi asciugherà e si asciugherà. Il sole sputa ancora fuoco e la frescura di sto mare è durata mezz’ora. Alle mie spalle le acque s’increspano, il vento rigorosamente caldo inizia a diventare più forte. Le nuvole all’orizzonte cariche di fulmini, sembrano contenitori di luce pronti ad esplodere. E’ già tutto coperto e fa ancora caldo cazzo. Aria calda, vento caldo, tornado caldo. Stavolta l’acqua alta dove arriverà, quali danni porterà e quali vite spezzerà. Chissà un giorno tutto questo niente di chi sarà. La schiuma cresce man mano sulle onde che iniziano ad alzarsi, non si capisce manco che cazzo di colore abbia. Anche oggi il mare ci vomiterà addosso tutta la monnezza di cui è pieno, noi la rivomiteremo in qualche buco profondo nell’entroterra campano. Rovinare il mondo avvelenando i poveri, superando più e più volte i limiti dello schifo, è rimasto l’istinto primario di chi comanda. Meglio tenersi stretti il proprio istinto di conservazione. L’acqua a riva iniza ad essere troppo torbida, l’aria si infittisce mentre si riempie di polvere. Il vento torrido inizia a soffiare più forte e non è un buon presagio. Mezza sigaretta a terra mi invita a bloccarla con un piede per evitare che il vento la spazzi via. È così ammaccata che sembra una miccia. Ora serve solo un accendino

Johannesburg I The Maltese Embassy

By Adam Potterton

The steel door clangs shut behind her casting the small concrete entranceway into darkness. Her breath clouds in the icy air. A shiver runs up her spine and her body gives an involuntary twitch. She pushes open the wooden door. Light spills into the entranceway casting it in soft orange. She feels the warmth from the room wash over her and it brings a faint smell of disinfectant mixed with cooking oil. At the bottom of the three steps is a coat stand and she takes her purple coat off. She examines the room. It’s small, some three meters wide and seven meters long. The floor is covered in a brown carpet patterned with orange shapes. There are the usual geometric ones and some other more interesting shapes the colour of whatever liquid was spilt. The bar is your standard plank of wood with stools lined up. An old man stands behind it. His chin rests on his chest. A game of soccer is playing on an old holoscreen. She feels a pang when she sees the red ground they’re playing on. The carpet muffles the stomps of her boots as she walks to the bar. She sits on one of the stools waiting for the man to stir. Behind him, there is another door that she presumes to lead upstairs. Next to it stands a large metal filing cabinet and another small counter. She is uncomfortably upright in the stool and his head has flopped further down his chest. They must have been like this for five minutes before she eventually removes a glove and raps her knuckles on the bar. She has a thin red band on her left thumb. The man slowly stirs, blinking up at her and giving her a smile.

            “Sorry about that. I dozed off. We don’t get too many customers these days. What can I get you?”

            She looks at the faded menu behind him, “No worries. Can I get an old fashioned? Thanks.”

            The man nods before bending to get a glass from beneath the counter and a clear bottle. He fills the glass up halfway before sliding it to her.

            “What’s this?”

            “An old fashioned.”

            She takes a small sip and gives a small cough, “It’s just vodka!”

            “Well, yes.”

            “But you said it was an old fashioned.”

            “It is.”

            “What do you mean it is?” She glares at him.

            “Well that’s all we have. Whatever you order it will just be vodka. But still, it’s nice to give the customer options.” He points at a silver urn behind him, “I can add some hot water if you would like.”

            “For the next one,” she sighs and downs the drink.

            He takes the glass. The scratch of the lid unscrewing blends with the low hum of a reclimatiser. The sides of the glass fog up as he pours in some hot water.

            “Cheers,” she sits with her hands cupped around the glass. “So why only vodka?”

            The man waves a hand in the direction of the roof, “I’ve got a little potato farm going above us. The highest floors are too cold to do anything in but one can use a small reclimatiser in some of the lower ones, if you have the energy.”

            “You couldn’t get some crop diversification?”

            “No,” he spits some phlegm into the bucket next to him. “I only know potatoes. The vodka is easy enough to make too.”

            She turns her attention away from him, focusing instead on the soccer and letting her mind wander. The old man is scowling at a knot of wood in the bar. He clicks his tongue before turning back to the urn. He fills a mug with boiling water for himself and then settles back to watch the holoscreen. The match provides poor viewing, one team content to pass and the other quite happy to watch them.

            “Shit game.” he refills her glass.

            “Yes, I’ve never cared much for soccer.”

            “No… I mean.”

            “I know,” she briefly smiles. “How about you? Do you care much for soccer?”

            “What a question!” His posture straightens as he launches into a “It was twenty one fifty… or somewhere there about, the maths gets tricky sometimes. Before all this ice shit, I don’t know if you’re old enough to know what things were like before this. Hotter I’ll tell you that much. We, Bafana Bafana I mean, were playing this consortium from the EU. It was in Ellis Park, a full house too. They had just finished a roof upgrade, and I must have been about seven or eight. Anyway, I was there with my uncle, ended up on his shoulders a lot in that game, and my what a game. I don’t know if my ears ever recovered. The vuvuzelas, well them combined with that roof – have you heard a vuvuzela? Well, they’re loud and after we scored the first goal they went off and the whole roof was buzzing along too. My voice was gone from all the singing and shouting just from that goal. The final score was two all but after that, I became soccer mad. It was a short walk home, but my uncle was worried I’d collapse from a heatstroke. Hold on,” he ducks out of the room.

            When he returns he is holding a large frame. He places it on the bar. “I got this one after another game. It’s Modise Moeng’s shirt. Do you know Modise? You don’t know what beauty is till you’ve seen him on the ball. Let me show you. Rose can you bring up highlights of Modise’s game against the USA, the 5-2 one. Just replace this other game that’s on.” The holoscreen briefly goes black as it searches for the video.

            She has forgotten about her drink in the bartender’s barrage. Seeing it again she takes another sip, “Great old fashioned.”

            “Thanks, I haven’t even done a bartending course would you believe it? But look here,” he points at the screen. “That’s Modise right there, see his movement. It’s so subtle, the way he uses it to draw players away from where he wants to go.”

            They watch Modise weave and bounce the ball between players. “Oh this is good. I still wish he had scored this.”

            The ball rolls to Modise on the left-wing, he drops his right shoulder sending the defender to the left before flicking the ball up to the right. He catches it on the volley and the ball arcs upward before dipping viciously down. The keeper’s fingertips just send it onto the crossbar. The crowd groans.

            “I celebrated that one a bit early when I was there. He died a few years later. Got caught out in a lightning storm. Switch back Rose.” The game from earlier comes on again.

            “These matches on Mars aren’t quite the same. The lower leagues can’t afford to maintain grass pitches that’s why it’s red, some pitch they’ve made from dust on Mars. But the real difference is the gravity, you see how the ball bounces just a little off? I think the players move a bit differently too. When you remember all the history around clubs here it also can’t be the same. I’m sure they’ll try recreate it but it will take a couple generations to get it right. I’ll be gone then, good riddance.”

            “Who’s playing now?”

            “M.K. Martians and Dons F.C.” he picks up a rag and wipes the bar. He moves along the grains of the wood. The rag swirls around the knots. He works according to some standard unknown to her. The minute extra bit of sparkle from this polish is visible only to him. “I’m Al, by the way, seeing as I’ve bored you with all that soccer stuff.”

            “Q,” she nods at him.

            “Another drink?”

            “Please.”

            The clear liquid spills sluggishly out the top of the bottle. Steam rises from the glass as Al places it back in front go her. “So Q, what do you do?”

            “I make deliveries.”

            “You’re a smuggler?”

            She glares at him, “I never said that.”

            “There aren’t many people who come to Earth these days, let alone Joburg, to make deliveries ‘cept smugglers.”

            “You asked me what I do, not why I was here.”

            “That I did.”

            A short silence falls between them.

            “So why are you here?”

            “Personal reasons.”

            “In Joburg?”

            “Yes.”

            “Well, what are they then?”

            “Were they. I came to look for someone but I didn’t have much success. I’m now waiting for the Mars-shuttle to orbit above.”

            “You should count yourself lucky you even found a bar down here let alone a specific person. There aren’t too many people who have stuck around. The bar is empty most nights.”

            As if to prove him wrong the clang of the first door can be heard. The wooden door swings open and a large man stoops into the room. He is wearing a black trench coat and one of those fluffy Russian hats with ear coverings. His eyes flicker behind his mask. The room looks especially narrow in his presence.

            “Hello Themba.”

            “Sawubona Al.” He walks over and clasps Al’s hand. “How are you?”

            “I’m good, I’m good. How are you Themba?

            “Same old, hey.”

            “I have a new customer,” Al waves at Q.

            Themba nods at her.

            “I’ve got your stuff over here,” Al reaches beneath the bar. He brings out a fresh bottle of vodka and a basket. It is mainly filled with potatoes but Q also notes some kale, carrots, and mushrooms.

            “Thanks Al, take care.” He walks to the door, the basket and bottle clenched in one hand. He swings the wooden door closed behind him.

            “A regular.”

            “I thought you only did potatoes?”

            There is another clang as the metal door shuts behind Themba.

            “Oh. Well I have some other small crops going. Enough to keep myself and two of the families nearby fed.”

            “Are things bad here?”

            “So so. We still make do and that’s what matters.”

            “Have you ever thought about leaving?”

            “No. I can’t say that I have, at least never seriously.”

            “Why not?”

            “Joburg is the only place for me,” he looks at her. “I couldn’t just throw it all away. My family has been here since the beginning. Add in this bar. Well it was actually a couple streets down but the building collapsed so I reclaimed this one. But that bar down the street, it had been a dream of my great-grandfathers. Now maybe I’m just sentimental but I’m not throwing it all away. There’s so much for me to remember, not just for myself but for everyone.”

            “Noble.”

            “I don’t know about that. It’s just all I can think to do. When’s this Mars-shuttle coming over?”
           

“Five am.”

            “That’s early.”

            “It is.”

            “You better have somewhere to stay tonight.”

            “My ship.”

            “Your ship?! You’re crazy.”

            “Crazy? How so?” She glares at him.

            “The cold! Not to mention that some of these buildings are liable to collapse at any second.”

            “My ship’s been warm enough the last two nights I’ve been here.”

            “You’re lucky it’s summer. Two nights.” Al shakes his head. “I won’t have it. Tell you what. I usually lock up at twelve, maybe one if I have a customer. After that the bar’s empty. I guarantee it’s more comfy than your ship if you need a place to stay.”

            “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

            “I can’t be sending someone out into the cold. My mother would die of shame. No, no, it’s nice to have some company. Otherwise, I’m just going to stand here in front of the soccer dozing for the rest of the night.”

            “Alright,” she forces a smile. “I’ll take you up on it.”

            “Excellent. For a moment I was worried that you’d be too stubborn,” he chuckles. “You know my mother once ended up housing nearly half this street.”

            Q thinks of the blocks of flats lining the street, “This street? Impossible.”

            “I swear. Granted there weren’t as many flats then. I don’t remember it really well, I was quite small at a point believe it or not, but it was one of her favourite stories.” He drinks some water. “Now that kooky scientist group who caused all this damn ice weren’t around yet so things weren’t quite as cold back then but the weather was a tad unpredictable. Anyway. There had been some tremendous winds, well I’m told, for almost the whole week and while the days were usually manageable the nights could get quite dangerous. Are you hungry by the way?”

            “Oh. Not really.”

            “Ah, I’ll get some chips going anyway. Can’t hurt can it?” Al cranks his neck and hops up. He pulls a small metal basket and chopping board out from under the bar. After laying these out he walks to the filing cabinet. He slides open the bottom drawer, selects some potatoes and kicks it closed before walking back. “Now where was I?”

            “I believe it had been a week of tremendous winds.”

            “Oh yes.” He starts cutting the potatoes. The dull thunk of the knife as he slices the potatoes keeps a steady rhythm. “Now these winds were almost hurricane-like in their intensity and after three days of creaking and groaning the power lines started collapsing. Now when I was little I always thought of it like some dominoes falling but I doubt they fell altogether.”

            “I like the image. Pylons tumbling.”

            “It has a nice scale, doesn’t it? So all the power was out. The wind was still going like crazy and the frosts at night were getting deadly. You can imagine how having no power would affect things. By this time it was pretty hard to come by gas which didn’t help. So my mom ended up taking people in. We had this early reclimatiser. It was atomised so the power wasn’t a problem. In the end, it must have been about thirty people all crammed into this little three-bedroom place. I’m surprised we even needed the reclimatiser with all the body heat. We were crammed in there for five or six days. My brother and I didn’t mind, we were at the age when people are endlessly exciting, but I’m not sure how my parents coped. My mom was a lawyer and there was a big mining dispute going on but somehow she still managed to keep everyone fed and somewhat happy.”

            “She sounds like a great woman.”

            “Oh, she was. She left far too early, diabetes. You would have thought that shit wouldn’t happen anymore but it did.”

            “I’m sorry to hear that.”

            “It’s what happens.”

            Al scoops the chips into the basket. He gives the basket a jiggle as he walks to the small countertop. With a wave of his hand a contact plate appears. He places an old pot of oil on top of it. Immediately the surface begins to dance with bubbles. He dunks the chips in.

            “I hope you don’t mind me using oil. I just think it doesn’t taste the same without it.”

            “That’s no fuss for me. Where did you manage to even get a hold of oil down here?”

            “Trade secret,” he tweaks his nose. “I can’t go telling you everything just yet now can I.”

            “Got to stay one step ahead of the competition?”

            “Exactly. As you can see it’s working well,” he says, gesturing at the room. “But what about your family?”

            “Uh. I don’t have nearly as much to say about them as you.”

            “Come on, there’s got to be something. I mean you’re speaking to a man who hasn’t been to Mars.”

            “Well,” she picks at her sleeve. “Mars is alright. My dad and I went to live there when I was pretty young. He was a plumber-”

            “There are always jobs for plumbers.”

            “Exactly. He ended up working for the sewer works but he hated it. The part he liked about plumbing, apart from it paying the bills, was getting to meet all these different people. There’s an intimacy in plumbing was what he liked to say. But up there he’s just in the sewerage works all day.”

            “Sounds shit.”

            “That’s poor.”

            “I know, I know. But couldn’t they just use those robots there?”

            “They could, and do to an extent, but I think they find people more cost effective.”

            “And your mother?”

            “She couldn’t find a job so they refused to take her up. She was meant to join us at a later point but I’m sure you know how that usually goes.”

            “Fucking hell,” Al’s face darkens. “All that stuff about a better world and they still end up keeping families apart.”

            “It’s bunk.” Q takes a sip of her drink. It has grown lukewarm since her last. “We kept in touch but the communication dried up when I was about fifteen. Most families couldn’t even keep it going that long with the cost so I guess I was lucky.”

            “Do you know what happened to her?”

            “She died. But I don’t know about the years between then and whenever she died.”

            “Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.”

            “As you said, it’s what happens.”

            “I’m old I can say that. The chips!” Al dashes to the pot. The chips are a golden brown and take turns swimming up to break the surface of the oil. He hoists the pot onto the chopping board. He gives another wave and the contact plate disappears. “Sorry to interrupt. I just don’t want these overcooking.”

            “No no, please. They smell delicious.”

            Al lays out a cloth on the bar top and places the chips on it. “Can I top you up?”

            “Just some water for now.”

            Al leaves the chips to drain and refills Q’s glass. “How did you find out she had died?”

            “Thanks. Um. It was on this trip. I had been postponing it for a while, I’d even been back to Earth a couple of times in the past two years but had always avoided Joburg.”

            “Been back to Earth a couple of times. You must be a smuggler.”

            “Maybe. We don’t need to worry about that for now though.”

            “Understood. So this was the trip?”

            “This was the trip. It was a little anti-climatic in fact. I had expected a grand search maybe, little clues to follow, or hell maybe even for her to just still be here and I wouldn’t have to look at all.”

            “But?”

            “Well in the end it was all too easy. All that distance and time makes you think they’re lost in a funny way. But I went to our old street.”

            “Whereabouts?”

            “Auckland Park.”

            “Oh, just down the hill.”

            “Yeah. So I went there. The house we had stayed in was gone, collapsed probably. I left my ship and was just walking up and down. I mean I didn’t really know what else to do – I’ve never gone looking for someone. So I was walking up and down and feeling a little silly you know, like what did I think was going to happen?”

            “What did?”

            “Well, I had been strolling somewhat aimlessly for a couple of hours when this old lady poked her head out of one of the houses. She gave me this whole long spiel about the cold and it being dangerous. I mumbled an apology and was going to walk back to the ship, get some sleep or something. I wasn’t feeling too enthused about the possibilities of finding her. But I decided why not ask this woman if she knew anything, I mean she was on the same street. Next thing I was being bundled inside for a cup of tea amidst a bunch of exclamations of how much I’ve grown, honestly I couldn’t place her face at all. I felt a little bad but I was young. She was a friend of my mom’s, told me that with her asthma and the cold my mom just deteriorated more and more. In the end, pneumonia got her. It’s funny, something like that is a non-issue on Mars but here all those sicknesses could still kill people.”

            Al smiles gently at her, “I’m sorry you couldn’t see her one last time.”

            “Me too, me too. They had buried her up at the Brixton cemetery so I got to visit her grave. It was a bit haphazard. I.” Q sighs, her thumb has been rubbing a chip in the glass. “I… just.”

            “I know.” Al scoops the chips onto a plate and sprinkles a liberal amount of salt over them. “Here you go.”

            “Thanks.” Q takes a chip blowing on it lightly to cool it before popping it into her mouth. “God these are hot.”

            “I would hope so. Would you like some tomato sauce?” Al now gets a large glass bottle of red sauce out from under the counter. “Now this is something you won’t get on Mars. Not the tomato sauce but the brand. All Gold. My grandad knew this guy, Meneer Wessels, who was a bit of a hoarder. The company went under, well before you were born probably, but he had a room which was filled, wall to wall, with these. They’re technically expired but you can’t take those dates seriously when it comes to sauces.”

            “Sure, why not.”

            Al pours out a large dollop next to the pile of chips giving the bottle a slight twist as he finishes. They sit for a while, taking turns to swirl a chip in the tomato sauce, their eyes on the soccer. It is the 75th minute and M.K Martians find themselves under growing pressure. The one all draw they had held up till now is looking increasingly tenuous.

            “I’m glad I made these. One thing I’ve learned here is that people always have room for chips.”

            “They’re excellent.”

            The pile of chips grows smaller and the Martians’ defence has disappeared. By the 85th minute, they find themselves hoping, more than anything else, that the opposition doesn’t score a fifth. Disgruntled fans are filtering out of the stadium and the commentary has turned to speculation about the manager’s future.

            “Not looking good for him.” Q waves a chip at the holoscreen, a stray bit of tomato sauce flying onto the table. “Shit, sorry about that.”

            “Don’t worry,” the cloth has reappeared in Al’s hands and he is quickly wiping the bar top clean. “It certainly isn’t, for the whole club in fact.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yes, they were one of the first ‘Mars’ clubs so to say in that they weren’t just expressing nostalgia for cities or teams people had abandoned long ago. But there was some economic regulation stuff. You know they manage to make all that seemingly more and more complex just so it’s hard for a layman like me to understand. But let’s not get into economics.” Al scratches his head. “So, their owners ended up violating some terms or something and soon found all sorts of punishments and regulations against them. Since then it’s been downhill. They used to play in the Premier Division and now they’re kicking dust about in the third. I’m just glad I’m not a fan of theirs.”

            “Do you think they’ll stick around?”

            “Who knows. As far as I’m concerned all of the teams are the same these days.”

            “You still watch them though.”

            “That’s just because the habit is too ingrained.”

            At full time the players walk off to jeers and boos, the brief moment of ecstasy brought about by the first goal seeming so far away.

            “What’s the time by the way?”

            Q’s eyes flick to her watch, “Around eleven forty.”

            “Eleven forty and I’m already this tired. I’m getting too old for barkeeping.”

            “I haven’t given you much time to doze.”

            “That’s true. But any barkeep relying on dozing is not worth their salt.”

            “Don’t be so harsh. If I had to make a list of bartenders you’d be up there at the top.”

            “Hm. How about one more drink and then I think I’ll have to lock up. Another old-fashioned?”

            “Sure.”

            “Let me just go get some stuff for you for the night and then I’ll start making it.”

            Al walks out of the room. Q studies the pattern made by the residual tomato sauce. She checks her watch, no new notifications. She selects the news feed, an EMP blast in the Northern quadrant. Inane punditry takes place on the holoscreen. The door swings open and Q hears some heavy breaths before a mattress slides through.

            “Won’t you carry this around?”

            “Of course,” Q says jumping up. “You should have called earlier.”

            “Nonsense. It’s good for me to stretch my legs. Here’s a pillow and a light blanket. The reclimatiser will be left on so you shouldn’t need much more.”

            “Thanks again. This will definitely beat the ship.” Q drags the mattress around the bar laying it out on the floor with a thump.

            “Of course. It’s no sweat off my back. Now about that drink,” Al picks up a small crate and walks back to the bar with it. He lays out a cloth on the table and begins unpacking an assortment of items. Cubes of sugar, some bitters, a dusty bottle with what Q takes to be bourbon, and what appear to be mint leaves. “I’ve been experimenting with some genetics so this mint should have a more citrusy flavour. Orange trees are a bit tricky indoors.”

            He claps a leaf, “Here, tell me what you think.”

            Q pops it into her mouth and her eyes widen. It’s not just the sour sweetness but also the sheer amount of juice contained in the small leaf, “Wow.”

            “Not very natural at this point but I think it gets the job done.”

            Q watches as he begins preparing the drink. First, he throws a sugar cube into the bottom of a glass. Next, he sprinkles some bitters over the cube. He takes a small wooden pestle out of the crate and gently muddles them together.

            “I keep this crate for special occasions. Usually, I’m only making drinks for Themba and with him it’s usually vodka and some juice or in the morning a Prairie Oyster,” Al says looking up from his work.

            “Prairie Oyster?”

            “Some hangover cure he’s a fan of. Gin, or in his case vodka, egg yolk, hot sauce, and pepper. I would avoid it.”

            “You mean you have eggs too?”

            “Themba and his wife have some chickens, unbelievably well-trained mind, so I get eggs from them every now and then.” He pours out some bourbon before throwing in some ice cubes.

            “You guys have a small farm going between you.”

            “We need to, no one can afford the prices of things from Mars.” He twists two mint leaves and throws them in. Once satisfied that it is sufficiently mixed he stops stirring and slides the glass to Q. “Your old-fashioned.”

            “Thank you.”

            Al gets another glass and throws in three ice cubes before pouring some bourbon over them, “Cheers.”

            They drink in silence each lost in their own thoughts. Occasionally the sound of the wind howling outside reaches them. Condensation gathers on their glasses as the ice slowly melts. Q downs the last bit. She gazes through the bottom of her glass as the ice swirls around it. She puts the glass back to her lips and sucks the last of the melting ice into her mouth, finishing it with a crunch. She slides her glass back to Al.

            “I. Thanks, Al. For the drink, well for all this really.”

            “Of course, of course. I enjoyed it. It’s good to meet someone new.” Al swirls his glass. “The place is all locked up but when you need to go just wave at the door and it’ll unlock.”

            “Got it.”

            He stands up and finishes his drink, “I’m going to sleep like a log. Q I hope we meet again.”

            “Same. I’ll have to come back.”

            “I hope you do. Could make something with Themba’s eggs next time.”

            “That sounds great. Thanks. Again.”

            “Travel safe.” He gives her a nod and walks out. The lights in the room dim as he leaves. Q sighs and walks to the mattress. She pops a mint in her mouth and inhales sharply as she bites into it. The blanket is old and worn and flutters down as she throws it over the mattress. Her boots come off with a clomp and she slips under the blanket, wiggling some stiffness out of her toes. The mattress is lumpier than she had expected and it pokes into her back. She twists the red band on her thumb and goes through her breathing routine. The lights go off. She sets a mental alarm. The mattress swims beneath her.

The buzzing of Q’s watch wakes her up. Four. She lies in bed her eyes straining to make out the room in the darkness. The lights filter a muted orange into the room. The blanket lies on the floor, discarded at some stage in the night. Her mouth is dry and stale. With a groan she gets up to get a glass of water. She times out the start of the morning in her head. There’s enough time to do the morning stretches, the knots from the night’s sleep slowly getting worked out. At four-thirty, she puts on her boots and grabs her coat. She scrawls a quick note and leaves it on the counter, placing her ring on top. The door slides open when she waves it and she steps into the concrete entranceway. She pulls up her hood when she feels the cold. The door swings closed and the entranceway goes dark. With a groan the steel door slowly swings open. A rush of cold air makes her pull up her mask. The wind, funnelled by the buildings above, is racing down the street. Q steps out onto the pavement. She pushes her hands deeper into her pockets. Her breath comes out her mask in ghostly blue bursts. It is illuminated by an old sign’s feeble glow. ‘The Embassy of Malta’. The sign’s plastic has long since been yellowed.

            She looks down the street. At the far end, she sees the collapsed building which must have housed the original bar. She forgot to get its name. She hunches her shoulders forward and walks up the street. The ground is covered in a hard layer of ice and she holds her body stiffly as she makes her way back to her ship. Every now and then she casts a dubious glance at the icicles hanging from the streetlights. The brick-faced buildings look unnaturally smooth and shiny in their thin layer of ice. Q shivers looking at them. It is slow going walking on ice. She reaches the street corner. Her ship has started its defrosting process and steam rises from its blue and white sides. The drips from its nose freeze upon hitting the ground. The hatch slides open and she swings herself up and in. The faux leather seat still holds the night’s coldness. She flicks the switches on the dashboards and there is a cough as the hydrogen engine comes to life. The headlights set the world a-sparkle and Q narrows her eyes. A fallen street sign is frozen into the pavement, the lettering spelling ‘Putney St’ just barely visible through the ice. The engine roars as Q pulls the joystick back. The ship slowly rises as Q leaves the dark, grey world behind. She hovers over the tops of the buildings checking her ship’s screen to see the expected trajectory of the shuttle. The sky is a thin grey on the horizon. She keeps this to her right as she continues her ascent. The buildings shrink. The little red winks of communication between the Telkom and Brixton towers have long since stopped. As she continues climbing northwards she sees a frozen dam beneath her and has a flash of memory. They are taking a drive to Zoo Lake to go ice skating. She takes a deep breath and locks into the docking orbit. With the ship now on autopilot, she settles back. They are spinning on the ice; she is laughing as they fall. Snow falls on them as they lie on their backs catching their breaths. The last of the Egyptian Geese stand huddled on the island watching them.

Cape Town I The Meeting

By Jackie Chikambure

This is story has hypertext, any link you see in this piece of fiction can be clicked on.

“Okay, you’ve gathered us here, say what you need to say Nostalgi,” the President was impatient.

            “You know we don’t like being called that,” Kee whispered. The words barely made it out of her mouth, she was talking to President Grae! Kee lowered her head respectfully. Her brown hair would have fallen to the side, but it hadn’t been washed in a week and stiffly stood like an afro. She had had no time to fix it, there was no time, but as she felt Grae’s commanding presence and caught a glimpse of his taut, shirtless torso, she blushed and wished she had spent just a moment fixing herself up before this meeting.

            “Never mind him, Preserver, say what you need to say,” Thato gently urged. Despite the heat, Thato was always dressed in a black suit, and a heavy-looking golden cross sat on her chest. It represented continuous prayer for the days of the past and hope for a better future to come. Thato was a skinny, blonde, green-eyed girl who always wore a toothy smile. Kee shifted her glasses higher up her nose. She knew she ought to get her eyes laser corrected, but these glasses were the last thing her family had passed down from before the Elimination. Grae grumbled.

“A man turned 31 at The Preserver Colony last week,” Kee blurted.

This silenced the room.

            “Kee, you are the brightest sixteen-year-old I have ever met. I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your Leader and have no doubt you will lead your Colony well but making things up to push the Nostal…” he paused, “the Preserver agenda is frankly a waste of the Committee’s time.” When Grae spoke, it was always as though he was addressing a large audience, his voice vibrated throughout the walls. Kee thought the windows would shutter.

They were seated in the Grand Committee Room at UCT, University of Climate Tech. The President was at the head of the table, Thato, was at his right, there was an empty space to Grae’s left and Kee stood at the bottom of the long table, representing The Preservers. From the Grand Committee Room, located on Table Mountain, Kee had a view of the entire city. She marvelled as the blue waves lapped against the sides of Signal Hill; she was not used to seeing so much water.

            “Can I take off my mask here?”

Grae waved his hand gesturing that none of them had breathing masks on, so Kee gingerly took it off. The manufactured here air always felt too crisp. She choked and poorly tried to hide it.

            “I am not lying President Grae. We have an adult who turned 31.”

In one swift movement, Kee retrieved a tablet from her satchel and placed it on the table. The table lit up and a holographic screen rose in front of them. The title on the screen read:

The World Times.

“I have proof. Click on that. Read it. Just click on it.”

“Not this Nostalgi shit again, nobody reads! Grae dismissed the hologram without opening it. He drummed his fingers on the table, he had black rings tattooed across his fingers, five on each finger and four on this thumb, signalling how many years he had been alive.

“Let’s hear her out Grae. She is nervous being here.”

 “My ancestors came to Africa, the Motherland,” Grae sarcastically spat out ‘motherland’. “On a ship. Do you know they say back in the day people like her were inferior to people like us, so believe me I know what it feels like to not belong but look where I am? She must speak if she wants to be heard.”

Kee’s hands trembled. “Chemical toxicity and death associated with it is age and compound dependent, hence the adults can’t live past 30 with this air. Many are dead by 25, but we have a special section at the Colony where we infused the atmosphere with an organic compound made with Golden Pathos, Peace Lilies, Snake Plant, and Dracaena. This compound, GPSD, purified the air to how it used to be three centuries ago. A select group live there now and grow actual fruits and have gardens, real gardens with non-GMO food, and last week one of the adults turned 31.”

“It’s a fluke.”

“No President Grae, it is not.”

“What are you suggesting?” Thato asked, visibly intrigued. Thato belonged to the Denialist Colony who lived in the South. They didn’t call themselves the ‘Denialists’ though, they were the Yin Yang. Their motto was “Life is in Perfect Order” and their Colony prayed ceaselessly that God would deliver them safely to the promised land, after death. For Thato to show interest, Kee knew that she might have a chance at convincing The Committee to help her reverse global warming and climate change. To return the world to what it was, and humanity would have a chance to do it all over again. She turned her attention to Thato.

“I am suggesting that we mass create GPSD and chemically change the atmosphere to what it used to be, before our time.”

“Using what was it again, flowers?” The President laughed. “No.” President Grae calmly responded. “For one, the old days with their carbon emissions and messing around with the atmosphere is what got the world here in the first place and two, we have more important things to worry about. The imminent attack of The Sabos.  While you and your Colony work on pipe dreams of the past and The Denialists do nothing but pray, the Sabos are doing everything they can to cleanse humanity of itself by killing us all. Only my people are actively working on saving any semblance of the world we have left. So, thanks for your time but no.”

“President Grae, with all due respect,” Kee’s glasses dropped down her nose, she hastily fixed them. “What if your strategy to fight with the Sabos is wrong, what if the right strategy is to bring them onto our side? If we give them hope that humanity could be saved and is worth saving, they won’t keep trying to eliminate us all, what if -”

The grand doors slowly creaked open and four giant men with wide shoulders and red painted faces marched in. Thato clutched her cross and Grae reached behind the belt of his shorts for his weapon.

“Another committee meeting without us? Now I am starting to feel you are avoiding us,” the tallest of the Sabo men laughed, a very gruff laugh that filled Kee with dread. Kee had never seen a Sabo in person. They were more terrifying than the stories.

Thato moved closer to cower behind Grae and faintly mumbled a prayer. The President tightened his grip around the gun behind his back, his mind churning. He wondered how the Sabos had gotten into the building, his guards outside were most likely dead. Kee shuffled forward toward the leader of the Sabos. She could not believe what she was doing.

“And what tiny thing do we have here?” The leader of the Sabos bent down 90 degrees over the shuddering Kee.

“I am Kee. I am the new leader of the Preserver Colony.”

“Hello, little Kee. We will kill you swiftly.”

“No, please. We can stop fighting. You saw how that led to the Elimination, everyone killing each other, over what, the need for clean air only found in Africa? It does not need to happen again.” Kee held the tablet out in the palm of her hand. “I have another solution.”

The Sabo Leader towered over her again, peering at her tablet. Grae desperately wanted Kee to stop antagonising him. He motioned her to take cover but as she turned back to look at him, the President saw determination, not fear. It was hope that made her delusional. Was there actually hope for the world? Grae was certain all three of them were about to die but Kee kept her eyes locked on him and she mouthed the words then she invited him to join her.

 Grae did not move.

Johannesburg I In Dark Light

By Matthew Ross

The tunnel wasn’t entirely silent. There were constant hums and murmuring voices coming from different directions but it wasn’t clear exactly where. They created an echo chamber of discomfort that woke Axel from his semi-slumber. He hadn’t been sleeping properly for fear of what lurked in the darkness. He lifted his head slowly from his forearms and rested it on the tunnel wall behind him. He was in the same position he’d fallen asleep in, hunched over himself as if he’d been crying into his lap. Despite what he used to put his body through, he hadn’t grown accustomed to the thickness of the dust which coated the back of his throat and nostrils.

He remembered now that before he had fallen asleep he had faced the right side of his body in the direction he had been moving. There was no other way to tell. So now he got up and carried on walking, hoping not to step on anything that moved, or that had the potential to hurt him. The hums continued incomprehensibly despite Axel’s familiarity with South African languages. His inability to speak other African languages was his weakness, which made the unidentifiable hums fearsome.

Axel had lost track of how long he’d been making his way to the Sandton Station from Park Station. The Gautrain Underground had become his dark escape—his only option. While traversing the deep abyss, he fantasised about what it used to be like when the train was operational, carting people around the metropolis for ordinary day-to-day activities. A time when you had to pay for such a luxury. A time when routines were sobering, but escaping was easier.

His legs ached from bracing with each step as he was trying not to get his clothes too dirty. He needed to look decent which was made difficult by the filth on the ground and dust in the air. Axel often wondered what the dust would look like if there was light in the tunnel. Would it create a mirage that coloured the distant views like it used to do with Joburg sunsets? Did the golden horizon out there still match the gold-rich land? He used this as motivation to reach his destination, otherwise he’d never know.

He eventually stepped on something that yanked away from under the pain of his weight.

“Fok!” exclaimed a gravelly voice that echoed down the tunnel. It was followed by a deathly silence.

Axel gasped inwards, relieved his dusty vocal cords didn’t produce anything. It seemed as if the person to whom the voice belonged was shuffling in his seated or lying position. He heard what sounded like squeaking rats quickly scurrying away from this person as a result of the fright.

“Wie’s daar?” whispered the voice.  

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But… Why are you lying on the ground?” Axel whispered back.

“Mmmm.” The voice sounded cocky, slowing down and lifting its pitch carefully. “You only speak English, I hear. Fuckin’ watch your step, man. You’ll get killed very quickly.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“You’ll get used to it, man.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you another one of those mense looking for a way out?”

“When you say it like that, it sounds stupid.”

The other voice laughed. “Hey maar you’ve got a long way to go.”

“Do you know the way? It is this way, right?” He pointed, forgetting that the man couldn’t see him.

“Shhhhh. Careful. They’ll stop you. You must mos follow the rats. They will always find a way out.”

“Is that what you’ve been doing? Following the rats to get out?”

“Are you kidding? I’m not trying to get out. No way man.”

“So, you stay down here on purpose?”

“Nobody stays here on purpose. Maar, where else can we go? I’m Freddie, by the way.”

“Axel,” he replied, hunching down so his whisper didn’t have to travel far.

“Pleased to meet you, Axel.”

He felt comfort for the first time since starting his journey. He could tell Freddie didn’t have many teeth.

“Sê vir my, Axel. Why are you by yourself?”

“I have to get out of here.”

Freddie coughed a smokey chuckle. “Ja but you can never come back then.”

Axel was unfocused, trying to follow the sounds of the squeaking rats.

“What are you hoping to find?”

“I don’t know… A new life. But for now, water would be good.”

Freddie wheezed with laughter which progressed to a fit of coughs. He heaved up mucus and spat it out.

“Nee, my babies. Come back! These are my babies. Hold out your hand and I’ll show you.”

Axel didn’t trust Freddie enough but needed to find out more from him.

“Here,” said Freddie, “Waar’s jou hand?”

Freddie grabbed Axel’s hand and turned it, palm facing up. Straight away, Axel felt a small, furry animal with claws, tickling his palm. It immediately scuttled up his arm. Axel shook vigorously, sending the creature flying to the right. And it screeched upon landing.

“Hey, why the fuck did you gooi my baby like that? Poes!”

“I’m sorry. I got a fright.”

“You still get frights, hey?” Freddie laughed again, expelling more bile. “Do you believe in ghosts, Axel? You would if you lived around here.”

“Was that a rat?”

“These are my children.” He started talking to the so-called children.

Axel realised with alarm that there were many rats in the tunnel, all gathered around Freddie. “Can you show me which way to go?”

“To get where?”

“Up there.”

“Up where?”

“Where the ones who made it are.”

“Ag fuck them, man. What do you want from them that we don’t have?”

Axel’s fatigue tempted him, for a brief moment, to consider giving up and joining Freddie’s sloth-like life. “Just… can you tell me where to go or not?”

“The only way out is up, to the heavens where the gods dine with cutlery made from our gold.” Freddie chortled at his own comment.

“Am I close to Sandton Station yet? I can’t go up until I’m there.”

“Shhhh!! Don’t say that you mad fok.” Freddie laughed again. “So you’re looking for the light, hey?”

“Is that where it is? Where there’s light?”

“Follow the rats until you get to the light and then ask for a guy named Pieter. He’ll help you. But you better have some skyfs for him.”

Axel quickly patted his front and back trouser pockets but found nothing tradeable. “Freddie, do you have any—”

Freddie wheezed with laughter. “Don’t be greedy now, my cousin. I have nothing for you. Nothing but the happiness in my heart, and my beautiful children here. Now you better fuck off before that changes.”

Axel wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it sounded like he was still smiling. “Thanks, Freddie. Thanks for your help.”

“Follow the rats!” Freddie said as Axel began down the tunnel towards the light he couldn’t see. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he continued, “you will find him after the third station. You know which suburbs they are—the main ones, in order.  And don’t worry, only when you’re in the dark, can you truly see the light.”

As he walked through the darkness, Axel repeated “the third station” in his head over and over again. He remembered the stations stopping at Killarney, Rosebank and Sandton, but that was a long time ago, and they had all been above ground. Was it the same? Had he perhaps not known of another station? He moved slowly, keeping his ears open for the rats.

He didn’t like to be alone this long because sadness swelled inside him, slowing him down, reminding him of how sobering reality was. But he felt he didn’t deserve to go back, not after what had happened. He was too far down this road anyway. He did however miss the days spent outside, wishing he hadn’t taken them for granted. The warning signs had been clear in the way the rich had been building their shiny, incubated ‘Towers of Babel’ to escape the trash on the ground and the dust in the air, the same rich who had created all the rubbish and had mined the land to death. Axel used to be too proud to be part of the change he was seeing around him, but now he saw it as his only escape.

The hums became identifiable, and Axel could hear a murmuring community up ahead, speaking a language he did not recognise. French perhaps? He approached cautiously, thinking this had to be the Killarney station. He could see what appeared to be firelight on the side of the tunnel ahead of him. The sound seemed to be coming from the same place.

As he approached the platform, Axel was astounded by the number of people moving like a swarm of bees, holding flame torches above their heads, conducting transactions with vigorous arm gestures. There must have been about 200 of them, engaging in an entire trade economy of sorts which took place in a self-sufficient hub of a common tongue. Axel recognised their colourful, patterned clothing comprising three pieces seemingly made from the same material: one for the blouse, one to wrap around the waist, and the last to wear as a headpiece. He knew which country they were from, and he knew what business they were into. Previously, they had hijacked many of the buildings in Doornfontein, the place Axel wished he could forget.

His last encounter with them sent him down a gluttonous pathway of Apples—that’s what they called the common street drug they sold. Axel was reminded of the months that became a haze of unreliable memories. He lost his naivety to them having been introduced by his brother who was equally beguiled by their beautiful clothing and inviting characters, by their lifestyle of sex, drugs, and online crimes. Axel hadn’t seen his brother since then, and he still carries the blame. He was angered by their ability to carry on as if nothing had happened, as if the past didn’t exist. And they clearly felt they “owned” this area that didn’t belong to them. What annoyed Axel most was the jealousy he felt at their sense of community, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. But he had fallen for this before and wasn’t going to do it again.

Despite his aching stomach and dry mouth, he continued past them towards the darkness, away from the light of the first tunnel. After a while, he began counting the steps, hoping it would keep him moving. Every ten steps, he told himself to do “just ten more”. That went on until he reached 3480 steps. Lights appeared in the distance and the sounds homogenised again. Axel hoped it was a sign of underground Rosebank. These voices seemed more aggressive, like they were fighting with each other.

This time, his presence did not go unnoticed. As he approached, he could hear the language was different from what he had heard before, though he still could not understand it—African, but definitely not South African.

“Welcome!!” sang a woman’s voice. It was followed by an eruption of celebratory jeers from others around her. This was a striking contrast to the whispers by which he’d been previously addressed. “You are welcome. Come here, with us,” she continued.

Axel’s throat had dried out from breathing in the dust for too long. They looked like the ones from Ponte Tower. But he couldn’t be sure.

“You are welcome!” they all chanted. There must’ve been a couple hundred on this platform too.

“Do… Do you have water?”

There was a sudden silence followed by a collective laugh. Axel was absorbed into the masses which spilled into the main tunnel from the platform. They were all very affectionate, embracing him one after the other such that the direction in which Axel was moving was dictated entirely by their welcomes. None of them had water.

Axel was nearly carried to the staircase, the exit of which seemed to be barricaded from the outside. On the far side of the platform, several people lounged around on dishevelled cushions all pushed together to create one endless bed. Draped fabric cordoned off sections of the station, haphazardly creating separate rooms. It was cozy. Comfortable. The warm firelight and soft make-shift furnishings made this the most inviting place Axel had seen in a long time. It was almost romantic.

The ushering conveyed Axel halfway up the stairs. From there upwards, on each level, sat a bunch of strong, proud-looking men. At the top of the pyramid sat the grandest of them all, his massive body clad only from the waist down in colourful, striped trousers. Axel was positioned in front of him, and left alone.

The godly human looked down at him. There was a long silence and then Axel swallowed painfully and spoke.

“I don’t mean to cause any trouble. I’ve been travelling a long way and… I could use some help. Do… Do you have just a bit of water?”

Axel could feel the eyes of everyone else behind him looking at the back of his head, and at the man at the top of the stairs. Axel was the only one with dreads, tied up in a bun on top of his head. Everyone else had shaved heads. Everyone. And they were still silent. The only thing he could hear was his own pulse thumping in his ears. Eventually, the man cracked a smile, followed by a lazy chuckle, which sent ripples of relief through the crowd. The man gestured to someone a layer down from him, pointed at Axel and then at the fabric rooms.

One of the men on the stairs quickly stood up and made his way towards Axel, wrapping his arm around him so tightly that his armpit swallowed Axel’s neck. He led the way over to the draped rooms, yelling an instruction to a collection of thin men who stood around the sides of the pyramid. They all moved in different directions, on a mission to fulfill their orders. Axel was pushed onto a small heap of stained cushions which exhaled dust when his tired body fell onto them. Within moments, curtains of holey fabric were drawn around him.

He barely had time to sit up properly when a figure, wearing a puffy blouse tucked into a floor-length, vibrantly coloured and patterned skirt, came into the room holding a cup of water. The figure sat delicately beside Axel without spilling a single drop. She smiled at him and opened the slit in her dress to expose her legs rather lustfully. Axel was unsure of what to do, his eyes continually glancing to the cup. She leaned forward to offer him the water, smiling. Axel looked at her, in disbelief that anyone would be so willing to part with water these days. He looked at it swirling around in the tin cup. Then he grabbed the cup of water and drank it in three satisfying gulps, pushing her slightly aside in doing so.

She seemed startled by his greed, but remained by his side, elegantly sitting with her legs folded neatly to the side, like a princess. Axel had forgotten how soothing water could be, cooling his body from the inside, filling his blood with the elixir of life. He couldn’t help but feel distracted by her eager smile. And then it dawned on him: this was too easy. “What’s in the water?”

“What do you mean?”

“The water. What did you put in it?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“No one gives away water this easily. I should have guessed. How could I be so stupid!”

“What are you on about?”

“Don’t treat me like a child. I know your kind. And I’ve been down this road before: you give me something I desperately need, making it seem out of kindness, only to hook me onto whatever you’ve laced this water with, and then I spend the rest of my days wanting more and paying you back.”

The smile left her face. “This isn’t your first time. It’s funny, you seem so—”

“It doesn’t matter what I seem. I’m not going down this road. I didn’t run away from the last debt just to land myself in more.” Axel got up to leave.

“Then how are you going to pay for this?”

“Pay for what?”

“If you’re so experienced then you should know what was in that water.” 

Axel clenched his fists, not sure if he was angrier with her or himself, already feeling his body losing its strength. He crouched down to her level and looked her dead in the eye, grabbing each of her shoulders, remembering what Freddie said about fear.”

“I’m not afraid of you people.”

“Ah. There’s the inexperience I suspected earlier.” 

Before he could get a firmer grip on her, he felt himself being yanked into the air and thrown onto the floor, hitting his head on the ground between two cushions.  A while later, he opened his eyes slowly, aware of a dull headache. He was unsure of where he was as it was darker and he was no longer surrounded by the hanging fabrics. His body felt numb and his face tingly. Moving wasn’t an option. He was lying on a cold floor with his neck bent, head pressed against the wall behind him. There were a few tall figures standing around him, waiting for him to wake up—three of them, not allowing room for escape. Axel mumbled, knowing his numbness wasn’t a result of the headache.

“Ahh the thirsty man can’t move now, can he?” said a man with a thick accent, laughing at him.

Axel was able to move his feet and his fingers, but not much else, other than some sloppy rocking from side to side. He dropped his head to the left, seeing the tunnel he needed to traverse in order to get to the next intersection, to get to Sandton. His will was stronger than ever before, but his body was immobile. He tried to speak, but all he could do was drool.

“Next time, you won’t drink our valuables so quickly, will you?” asked a voice smoothly.

Axel was struggling to coordinate himself but he managed to sluggishly hoist his right leg over his left to sway his body onto its side. His mouth tasted the sooty ground while his right arm flopped forward, just as he hoped it would. He pushed against the floor, lifting his heavy body as if carrying the weight of the abandoned Gautrain itself. The men standing near him were laughing and commenting, enjoying his feeble efforts to get away.

One of them leaned down and grabbed the back of his neck. “Your debt will never go away. We own this tunnel. And there’s nowhere to hide, nowhere to go.” He slammed Axel’s face onto the ground again, cracking his nose. They left him there with nothing but wrath coursing through his muddled veins.

His eyes were heavy and wanted to close but he knew he needed to fight the drug. After what seemed like hours, he saw another blurred figure walking towards him from far away. The figure moved closer, stopping every once in a while until it was right next to him, hunched beside him as if trying not to be seen. This person held a flame to Axel’s face.

“Axel?” he whispered.

Axel could only move his eyeballs to look at the rather small man as if that were an adequate response.

“Let me help you up. We have to get moving. Quickly.” The stranger helped Axel to his feet, pulling his arm over his short frame to support his weight. “We have to walk now,” he whispered.

Axel could feel the urgency as the stranger ushered him along the tunnel with considerable force for his stature. Axel managed to slap one foot forward at a time while the tunnel spun around him. He mumbled incoherently.

“Shhh. Don’t speak.”

“Whreltheyf?”

“Shhh,” the small person lowered his voice even more. “I know what you’re asking but we don’t say where they’re from anymore. They have ears everywhere.”

“Hmmryoo?”

“Oh, I’m Pieter. I’ve been expecting you but I wasn’t sure you’d make it through the second station. Few people have since it was hijacked. Lucky they didn’t knife you hey.”

Pieter didn’t say much after that, needing to catch his breath and slow down his pace. Axel had so many questions but couldn’t form the words properly in his mouth. They seemed to walk for ages although there was still no change in the surroundings. But Axel kept going, knowing that he was nearing Sandton with each step. Eventually, Pieter sat him down on the ground, between the tracks and the wall of the tunnel, seemingly unable to carry the weight anymore.

Axel was finally able to gain some strength in his tongue to articulate his words better, although they were still quite slurred. “Why are you helping me? What do you want?”

“Nothing. Your brother got me out of my mess with them and guessed you’d be coming this way too, either to find him or to run away.”

“My brother? Where is he?” Axel was dizzy with shock.

Pieter held each of Axel’s shoulders and whispered carefully into his ear. “We are far away from the second station now so you should be safe. And it’s dark enough that no one can see you. I’m leaving some pills by your left hand side. Take them when you wake up but try not to sleep for too long. As soon as your body hits the floor it means you’ve dropped out of consciousness for long enough. The pearly gates are above us; just follow the light.

“Why are you leaving? Where’s my brother.” Axel could barely fight the fatigue anymore.

“I have to go now. Just remember, our mines may be empty, but our dust is made of gold.”

Before Axel could respond, he felt himself drifting off again, despite his urge to find out more. The exhaustion was like nothing he’d experienced before and he had no choice but to succumb to it. When he woke later, he wasn’t sure if it was the following day or twenty minutes later. He felt the familiarity of a hangover in his head so he assumed considerable time had passed. He padded his hand along the ground on his left hand side and was relieved to find the pills still there. He held them in his hand, still with his eyes closed, wishing the pills could take him away.

He opened his eyes and was surprised to see light, right in the palm of his hand. He wasn’t sure if it was the wearing off of the previous high but the pills were shining in the dark—a soft, golden light. He was familiar with the different types of pills, but he had never seen ones like this before. He remembered what Pieter said about their dust being made of gold and wondered if that had anything to do with what lay in his hands.

Axel looked to the right, down the long dark tunnel that lay before him, wondering if he’d ever get there. He thought about how far he’d come, realising that Freddie was right—he’d never be able to go back. He existed somewhere between two places no one dared to mention. And no one was coming to find him. He knew he didn’t want to go back, but didn’t know what lay ahead. Axel began breaking open one capsule at a time, so the contents fell into his other hand. He took a deep breath in, not knowing where this stuff would take him. But he knew his options were limited. If he couldn’t reach the next light, he would have to bring the light to himself.

Mbombela I HOW TO BAKE A CAKE IN THE 23RD CENTURY

By Buhle Zitha

‘Niki,’ Khensani roughly shook her best friend’s shoulder. ‘You have to get up.’

Nikiwe was momentarily disoriented as she groaned and pushed her away. She could still hear the ambient music from her bedroom’s hologram machine; the room emitted the sweet calming smell of sage, set to tranquil meditation music in the scene of a warmly lit spa. The hologram was meant to switch itself off in the morning with an alarm; Niki could still hear the music and smell the sage, which meant:

‘It’s still nighttime,’ she whined. ‘Leave me alone.’

Khensani huffed through her nostrils, annoyed, and she pulled the blanket off Nikiwe’s body. ‘We have a lot of work to do. Get up.’

Agitated by the sudden disappearance of warmth, Nikiwe reached up for the blanket, but Khensani threw the thing as far as she could behind her back. In one swift motion, Khensani located the remote and switched off the hologram, plunging the room in total darkness.

‘I’ll never understand why you’re so mean to me,’ Nikiwe muttered as she got herself up from the bed.

She was still practically sleepwalking as her friend led her to the kitchen. The lights switched on above their heads as they entered and Khensani turned to the fridge. ‘Cold water,’ she commanded.

The fridge placed chilled glasses on a tray in the door and dispensed ice-cold water into it. Khensani flicked droplets of the freezing water onto Nikiwe’s face. Shocked back to life, Nikiwe shot daggers at Khensani as she yanked the glass out of her fiend’s hand.

‘That was uncalled for,’ she said between clenched teeth.

Her eyes fell on the clock displayed on the house’s central control system and her face contorted with disgust. ‘Four-fifteen? You woke me up at four in the morning?’

In the background, behind the clock, the control system displayed a heavy thunderstorm. Over the past weekend, a fierce thunderstorm ripped through the Mpumalanga province, battering its capital city, Nelspruit, and surrounding areas. The worst of it brought hailstorms that battered homes and businesses and caused flash floods in informal settlements and in the northeast neighbouring town of White River. Lightning had struck a powerline that plunged Nelspruit and Barberton into darkness for two whole days.

The latest report from the Municipality was that the worst was over but howling gale-force winds were still knocking down trees on farm roads and moderate rainfall was still pouring down steadily.

Khensani didn’t care for any of Nikiwe’s complaining as she stepped  to the kitchen island, where a large, black box sat in the middle of the counter. ‘Ration Control just dropped this off.’ Her eyes came alive with excitement as her palms stroked the box’s surface area. ‘We need to get started if this is going to be ready by the time the courier arrives.’

Nikiwe and Khensani were best friends and business partners. They ran a café called the Brew & Chew in downtown Nelspruit, which was known for having the best mushroom coffee in town. As a pastry chef, Khensani had always been happy making a living off doing what she loved, but with the summer’s drought damaging crops all over the country she was forced to turn down orders because of lack of available crops.

Today, Khensani had forced Nikiwe out of bed before sunrise so they could get a head start on a new order that they hadn’t worked on for a while, a cake.

It had been several months since Khensani had accepted an order for a specialty cake. There had been a drought over the summer that had damaged maize and sugarcane crops. The lack of availability for ingredients forced her to pick and choose which orders she accepted. She turned down requests far more frequently than she liked. The hard part was having to deal with the varying degrees of disappointment, anger, and irritation from the orders she rejected. Once, she tried to present an alternative to a client by offering to print the cake instead of baking it. Her customer was so offended by the mere suggestion of paying someone to print him a cake he turned bright red.

‘Why the hell would I pay you to print me a cake?’ he roared. He waved his arms around, eyes ablaze with rage. ‘I can just do that myself, in the comfort of my own home!’

The café  had gone  silent as every patron stopped and gawked at the irate customer. That situation quickly dissuaded Khensani from ever suggesting that to customers ever again.

Today’s order was for a chocolate cake for the retirement party of a top executive at Hawthorne & Modise Mining Interests and they had specifically requested Italian meringue as the icing. The Brew & Chew offered animal-based products at a premium rate, when they were available, but Khensani took the chance to hike up the prices for chocolate and the traditional meringue just a little more. She had tried to persuade them to pay slightly more for Khensani to use dairy milk and butter for the sponge, but they backed off because they had considered that they’d splurged enough.

The timing of the order was unfortunate, and they would never consider accepting an order like this during a high-alert weather event like the storm, but the money was too good to pass up. They were determined to make it work.

Nikiwe dragged her feet across the kitchen to join Khensani at the island. She placed the glass of water on the counter and it lit up with thin circles of blue light rippled around the glass’s base.

‘Let’s make this more interesting,’ Nikiwe said, her eyes on the glass.

The counter’s surface turned a soft pink colour and the water’s colour transformed into a greyish liquid with a pink tint to it that released the light-bodied aroma of pinot grigio. Nikiwe giddily downed two big sips as her friend placed her hand on top of the box and green lights spiralled around the entire surface as it scanned her biometrics.

‘Ration Control delivery for the Brew & Chew Café successful,’ the large cube said in a pleasant voice. ‘The Municipality of Ehlanzeni thanks you for your cooperation.’

A dramatic smoke effect created by dry ice swelled out of the cube as the sides folded away. They stood over the kitchen island with their hands on their hips as they surveyed the ingredients laid out before them.

Usually, the cake would be made at the café, but they had to close the business because of the storm under the advisement of the Municipality. In the days leading up to the storm, everyone had hoped that the rain meant that crops would finally be getting their overdue nourishment. But, as it drew nearer, the Municipality made an announcement calling for people to evacuate the city and neighbouring towns. There would be shelters provided for people who didn’t have safety available to them; mosques and churches were providing sanctuary and every high school in the entire district from Barberton, through Nelspruit and White River would be opened to provide refuge as well.

To avoid food shortages, every household would be provided with rations to get them through the storm. The Ration Control Hamper only consisted of staples: maizemeal, eggs, milk, fresh produce and bread; toiletries such as sanitary pads and soap were available upon request on the application form. Everything else would have to be bought.

Khensani and Nikiwe could get a higher portion of rations from the Municipality for the Brew & Chew, as well as get preferential consideration for organic food. But there was always something missing in their parcel every month. In the ten years of the coffee house’s existence, neither Nikiwe nor Khensani could think of a single time when they got everything that they applied for.

‘Is this everything?’ Nikiwe asked.

Khensani shrugged, unconvinced. ‘It should be.’

‘Take a closer look.’

Khensani placed her right thumb on the closest corner of the marble counter and the table woke with a screen. After tinkering with some buttons, Khensani found the order confirmation receipt that the Municipality had emailed to her when she submitted her Ration Control application, where all the items she requested were listed.

‘Soy milk,’ she said.

‘Check,’ Nikiwe replied.

‘Flour?’

‘Got it.’

‘Eggs?’

Nikiwe’s long pause made Khensani look up at her. Nikiwe shook her head. As though they were communicating telepathically, they split into opposite directions and began searching high and low on both sides of the kitchen on the hunt for eggs.

‘Are you sure you even ordered eggs?’ Nikiwe asked.

‘Yes.’

They searched high and low, but the eggs were nowhere to be found. Finally, they met each other back at the counter, dejected, and looked down at the incomplete assembly of ingredients.

‘We probably don’t even have to make a real cake. We could just print one,’ Nikiwe suggested.

Khensani raised her eyebrows, horrified by the suggestion.

‘Okay, okay. No printing,’ Nikiwe held her hands up in surrender. ‘We’ll make a real cake and use aquafaba for the meringue.’

Aquafaba was the water in which chickpeas had been cooked. When chilled, it made the perfect substitute for egg whites and could be beaten into meringue just the same. Nikiwe and Khensani were no strangers to substituting ingredients. The existence of the Brew & Chew depended on them finding ways to produce the food that people liked, even when the traditional ingredients weren’t available. They regularly used apple sauce in place of eggs, found sweeteners in the form of dates and stevia, and relied on plant-based milks.

It was a perfect plan, but there was just one problem:

‘We charged them extra for real Italian meringue,’ Khensani said, pinching the bridge of her nose. ‘Made with eggs, not chickpea water.’

‘They won’t know the difference.’

‘Yes, they would. Chickpeas have a smell, which means the brine smells like them.’

‘Then we’ll mask the smell with coffee. Problem solved.’

Khensani chewed on her bottom lip as a knot of anxiety tightened deep in her stomach. Meanwhile, Nikiwe refilled her glass with water and put it back on the counter. She never got bored of watching how the liquid magically transformed.

‘Seriously?’ Khensani remarked.

Nikiwe glared at her friend from under her eyelashes as she returned to the kitchen island. ‘Don’t judge me. You’re the one who woke me up at the asscrack of dawn – I need to find a way to sustain myself.’

Khensani looked at the time on the fridge; if they were going to get this cake made, they needed to hustle. ‘I could find some at the Plaza.’

‘Ha!’ Nikiwe responded. ‘If the Municipality couldn’t get us eggs, what makes you think you’ll find them in that hole?’

‘It’s worth a try.’

Nikiwe extended her wine to Khensani. ‘I think you might need this more than me right now.’

Khensani was already pulling on her rain gear. ‘Get started on the sponge. I’ll be right back.’

It was still raining firmly as Khensani stepped outside and ran up to her waiting floodcab. It bobbled on the surface of ankle-deep floodwater that flowed downhill like a river. The cab’s doors opened automatically, and she climbed inside. The interior was a soft mint green colour and the heater turned on automatically. She paid for her ride by placing her thumb on the dashboard and the windshield came alive with a touchscreen.

‘Thank you for using public transit,’ an automated voice in the cab spoke up. ‘Based on the travel history provided to us by the Municipality, we recommend the following destinations.’

Khensani waved away all the options until the screen presented the Brew & Chew to her. The muddy terrain where the Plaza was located made it difficult to get there by car, so she would stop at the café and walk the rest of the way.

 The cab slowly began floating against the flow of the floodwater towards the middle of town. The ankle-level water wasn’t the only evidence of the past weekend’s storm. Shivering homeless people in tattered, dirty clothing huddled together around fires made in steel barrels, trembling as they sought shelter from the continuous downpouring. They watched Khensani’s cab passing them with wide eyes and long faces. It had been a long weekend for everyone, but she knew that the hail and stormy winds had punished them the most.

The floodcab slowed to a stop in front of the Brew & Chew. ‘Thank you for traveling with us,’ the voice said. ‘Please enjoy your day.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Khensani instinctively replied under her breath.

She stepped out of the cab and opened a large umbrella, starting to walk down the sidewalk. As she passed the grocer, she had an impulse. After a moment’s hesitation, she ducked into the dimly lit, sad-looking place. There was a faint stench resembling rotting vegetables and electronic music played in the background. Walking through the bare aisles filled her heart with dread. Had there been a time when the shelves were ever actually full?

Just as she suspected, there were no eggs. She did find the last two giant cans of chickpeas. She paid for them, much to her chagrin, by scanning her wrists at the pay point by the exits before she made a break for her actual destination.

The Plaza was several blocks down the street, too close to drive and yet, somehow, also too far to walk. That was the thing about Nelspruit; it was always in the middle, too small to be a city but too large to be a town.

About fifty years ago, there were rumours that the last bit of the province’s coal could be found in the land that the Plaza was built on. Hawthorn & Modise then began buying up the land and evicted the supermarkets, clothing retailers and hair salons that drove a third of the city’s economy. They didn’t find a single lump of coal in the company’s twelve years of operation. It became apparent that they were wrong about the coal within the first five years, but Hawthorn & Modise kept digging, expanding the mine further downtown, collapsing bottle stores and private medicine practices. They dumped their waste near the Crocodile River, the city’s main water supply, making the water undrinkable as it turned toxic. When strong winds blew over Nelspruit, they carried the mine dust with them; particles of lead and zinc, as well as substances a lot harder to remember, like kaolinite.

On her walk, Khensani caught sight of two skyscrapers in the distance, belonging to Hawthorne & Modise. The heavy clouds of black smoke coming from the buildings made them look like they were on fire. Nobody knew what they were burning in there, but it gave off a foul stench that descended on the city, so harsh that it made people nauseous and dizzy. It was such a problem that the masks became a necessary nuisance of everyday life. If memory served Khensani correctly, there were about five individual lawsuits pending against the company by their former employees who had contracted lung disease after working for them.

The failed mine had left a giant, gaping hole that looked like a deep, gaping wound gashed into the soil. In the years after the mine closed, informal traders had slowly trickled back what used to be the Plaza. They cleaned up what they could and worked together to create a network of tunnels and pathways, everyone carving out their own stall to sell whatever they managed to grow. Farming was allowed at a subsistence level, but commercial agriculture, no matter the size, was an offense punishable by imprisonment because of the damage it did to the soil. People grew just enough extra crops to sell at the market without alerting Municipal officials. Police officers tended to look the other way, just as desperate for something real to eat. The allure of organically grown food and cheap animal-based products was too good to penalise.

The Plaza was teeming with people despite all the rain. Makeshift gazebos on unsteady wooden pillars lined the leftover hole in the ground; they were topped with corrugated iron roofs, but those on the unluckier side of the spectrum had to make do with whatever kind of plastic they could find – another illegal item. Since plastic wasn’t biodegradable and nearly ubiquitous, it was easy to find and cheap to use.

The pathways were slippery and Khensani despised the way the dark soil discoloured her red boots. This was a minor issue compared to the problems of others affected by the thunderstorm though. She wondered how many of these vendors had their houses destroyed by the weekend’s storm. How did they get here? By floodcab, like her?

She went from vendor to vendor, methodically making her way through the network and asking asking them all in SiSwati if they happened to have eggs. They were all only selling what little they could harvest before the storm; decent-looking tomatoes, and fresh spinach, maize, and lemons. There were some who were selling the last of what miscellaneous stock they had, like sweets and snacks for the school children who took the bus to school from the Plaza. But no one had any eggs.

‘Animal products are hard to come by these days, even for us,’ one of the vendors explained to her. ‘We’re lucky if we can even find a chicken, let alone a hen to lay eggs.’

Khensani found herself quietly seething as she went about her search. Eggs weren’t the only unavailable animal products; milk and butter were also absent. She caught sight of Hawthorne & Modise’s skyscrapers again and her blood started to boil. She would put good money on whether the retiring executive could afford to have chickens who could lay eggs for him to whip up his own meringue. He probably had an entire farm of real animals to pick from; cows for steak, pigs for bacon. All that while everyone else had to get by on Municipal rations if they were lucky. She’d concede that this hypothetical farm owned by this hypothetical old man had been affected by last weekend’s floods as well, but it didn’t affect his access to food the way it did for everyone else. She felt a slight sense of vindication knowing she and Nikiwe had charged the company extra for the meringue. Nikiwe’s aquafaba idea was beginning to sound appealing. Even more appealing than that was the idea of just printing the cake, like Nikiwe had suggested right at the beginning. That would show them.

As she was thinking this, she felt a slight vibration in her right palm. She wrestled her umbrella into her other hand, sliding the grocery bag down her forearm. She looked at the back of her hand and a hologram screen appeared in the L-shape between her thumb and forefinger. Nikiwe made Khensani jealous with how warm and laidback she looked in the comfort of their house.

‘Are you drunk yet?’ Khensani quipped.

Nikiwe stuck her tongue out at her mockingly and Khensani laughed at her friend’s childishness. ‘Where are the eggs?’

Khensani huffed. She had spent over an hour wandering through the Plaza’s informal market with no luck and the cans of chickpeas in her grocery bag were growing heavier by the minute. ‘We’ve just got to keep the faith,’ she finally said, hoping her raised shoulders would project an air of confidence.

It didn’t seem to work on Nikiwe. ‘Just come home. We’ll use the aquafaba.’

‘Did you start making the sponge cakes?’

Nikiwe rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, boss,’ she said sarcastically.

‘You didn’t print them, did you?’

‘What kind of person do you take me for?’

‘I’ll look around for just a few more minutes.’

‘You won’t make it in time before the courier gets here.’

‘I’m here now anyway,’ Khensani argued. ‘Just half an hour.’

‘If you say so.’

The screen shut off as Nikiwe hung up. Khensani checked her watch. Her stomach rolled. She should have just stayed at home; printed the sponge cakes and used aquafaba and everything would have been perfect and easy and…

No! No negative thinking.  This was going to happen. It had to happen.

She took a deep breath to renew her energy and she wandered around the corner, further into the tunnels. The back of the market. It was less crowded here and darker, but a little more shielded from the rain. She was unnerved by gruff, husky voices calling her over, trying to get her attention. A cursory glance over the items on display immediately told her these were counterfeit items; there was a daily deluge of stories of how vendors used old printers for their food, using hazardous chemicals to brighten so they looked organic. It was one thing to buy food unauthorised by the Municipality, but it was a completely other thing to use your hard-earned money to buy fake unauthorised food. You only realised your mistake once you made it out of the Plaza and the redness of the apple you bought rubbed off on your hand, or what you thought was a banana was actually a stick of sugared chalk and clay.

It did seem a little ironic to her that she was put off by counterfeit food when she made a living selling coffee that wasn’t made from actual coffee. Of course it wasn’t the same, she decided; they were upfront about her coffee being made from mushrooms at the Brew & Chew. There were no inorganic or harmful chemicals in their food – they were selling alternatives, not fakes.

She found a middle-aged woman getting help setting up her stall from a little girl. Khensani didn’t know what it was that drew her to the woman. Maybe it was because she was the only one who wasn’t yelling out at her. The vendor had a kind look in her eyes and there was something in her than Khensani found motherly. Maybe it was the little girl. She wondered if the pair were mother and daughter; or maybe the little girl was the woman’s granddaughter. But it was mostly because her food looked like it was actually grown from the ground and made from an old printer.

‘Sanbonani,’ Khensani greeted politely. ‘I’ve been looking for eggs everywhere, I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me.’

The lady relayed the instruction to the little girl in SiSwati. Khensani felt her heart swell with excitement. She reigned herself in, reminding herself never to celebrate before the victory. After a few tense moments, the child re-emerged cradling six eggs in her hands. Khensani’s heart exalted. She reached for them, but the seller blocked her with her hand.

‘Two-ninety,’ she said.

Khensani’s jaw dropped and she let out an incredulous laugh. Two hundred and ninety rands for eggs? She had thought that the hunt for the eggs would be the hard part, but this was the real test. The lady was serious, though, staring her down.

‘One-ninety,’ Khensani negotiated, trying her best to match the intense gaze fixed on her.

The vendor plucked three eggs from Khensani’s pile. ‘Two-fifty.’

Khensani blinked at her. ‘Two-ten.’

The lady paused. Khensani heard her heart pounding in her ears. Finally, the vendor nodded and Khensani happily paid the negotiated price. She carefully placed the eggs in the bag, which she carried in her arms like precious cargo as she made her way back to the Brew & Chew to call another floodcab to take her home.

The decadent aroma of freshly baked chocolate cake was like the hug Khensani didn’t know she needed until she stepped into the house. She found Nikiwe in the kitchen, engrossed in an article projected between her hands. Khensani was even more surprised to find that Nikiwe was sipping on something new: a large mug of coffee.

‘Did the wine wear you out so soon?’ Khensani said jokingly.

‘It turns out that baking requires sobriety,’ Nikie replied as she looked up at Khensani. Her eyebrows shot up with excitement. ‘Success?’

‘Success!’

Nikiwe jumped off the barstool and reached for the bag. She lost her balance and her body lunged forward. She blindly reached for the counter to steady herself but her arm collided with the shopping bag, pushing it over the edge. They watched in slow motion as the shopping bag tumbled to the ground, the cans hitting the tiles with an ear-splitting clank. A pool of egg whites and yolks formed on the floor beneath.

‘Looks like I had more wine than I thought,’ Nikiwe said quietly to herself.

Khensani glared at Nikiwe in total disbelief. ‘Seriously? These cost a fortune!’

Nikiwe shrugged, apologetic. Khensani groaned as she looked down at the splattered eggs on the floor. She couldn’t bare the sight of her dejected front, head bowed and sombre.

‘What else was in there?’ Nikiwe asked.

‘The last cans of chickpeas from the supermarket.’

Nikiwe arched an eyebrow and Khensani rolled her eyes. While Nikiwe cleaned up the mess, Khensani drained the water from the chickpeas and reduced the liquid in a saucepan. She put the liquid in the fridge to chill before she could start whipping it. Before she made the sugar syrup for the meringue, she checked on the sponge cakes. They weren’t entirely cool just yet, but she was more surprised that Nikiwe hadn’t tried to steal a piece from them.

‘At least you had the foresight to buy the chickpeas,’ Nikiwe said in an attempt to comfort her.

‘Foresight?’ Khensani responded, as she watched over the syrup. ‘‘Or did I jinx it?’

Nikiwe shrugged. ‘One always meets his destiny on the path he takes to avoid it.’

Khensani retrieved the chickpea water from the fridge once it was chilled and whipped it. She added the syrup slowly, and then put cream of tartar and chunks of butter gradually as it puffed up and began to thicken. The smell of the meringue icing that she was worried about earlier wasn’t as pungent as she thought it would be. After they coated the cake with the velvety meringue icing, Khensani piped the message on the top: happy retirement! Enjoy your permanent weekend.

‘It looks like something my Gogo would make for her pastor,’ Nikiwe commented. She brought her finger close to the cake. Khensani swatted Nikiwe’s hand away before she could make any dents in it.

The rain was beginning to lighten as the day went on, but the heavy clouds kept the sky dark and dreary. The humanoid courier robot rang their doorbell at around half-past four in the afternoon. When Khensani and Nikiwe opened the door, it stood motionless and silent, waiting.

Nikiwe tapped its chest lightly and nothing happened. It didn’t move. There was no pinging or ringing or music. The thing stared at her. She and Khensani eyed the courier, standing still as a statue in their doorway.

‘Try it again,’ Khensani suggested.

This time, Nikiwe gave the courier a smack in the center of its chest and a panel on the robot’s chest opened. Khensani put the box carrying the cake into the slot. Once the cake was safe inside the courier bot, it extended its arm and a receipt rolled out of its wrist, which Nikiwe took. The robot turned and walked away. From a window, Khensani and Nikiwe watched the robot disappear down the street, unbothered by the rain as its mechanical feet marched along the sidewalk.

‘I can’t believe we still charged them extra for chickpea water,’ Khensani remarked.

Nikiwe patted her on the back. ‘No one will have a single clue.’

Khensani caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Should we call him back and give him a refund?’

‘No way,’ Nikiwe argued as she linked her arm with Khensani’s. ‘This is business, not personal. If anyone can understand that, it’s them.’

She pulled her friend away from the window and guided her to the sitting room, where two mugs of fresh, steaming coffee were waiting on the coffee table. The full-bodied aroma of the beverages coated the room as Khensani and Nikiwe took their mugs and plopped down on the couch in front of the hologram screen.

‘Trust me,’ Nikiwe said as she pulled a blanket over her legs. ‘They won’t notice a thing.’

‘Just like with our coffee?’

Nikiwe knit her eyebrows together. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You know – how it’s not real coffee because it’s made from mushrooms.’

Nikiwe blinked at her friend. ‘Everyone knows you can only make coffee out of mushrooms.’

‘Yeah, today. But, a hundred years ago, people made coffee from the actual coffee bean.’

‘Did you bump your head on your way to the Plaza? Because you’re talking nonsense.’

‘It isn’t nonsense. It’s true. This isn’t real coffee.’

‘Mm-hmm,’ Nikiwe replied flippantly, still unconvinced.

On the hologram screen, the opening score to their favorite movie soared and they settled in, letting themselves forget the day’s stresses.

Rome 2200 by Samperi

By Veronica Samperi

June 6th, 2232, 08:29 AM : The H501/V had stood still for sixty-five years at the coordinates 41°85’608″ N12°47’952″E. At this precise point, a hundred years ago, my grandmother Francesca Romana was leading her life in the streets of Rome. Born on September 22nd, 2133, roman town for five generations, Francesca Romana was part of the last land natives. She always told me proudly of her great sense of belonging, of an attachment, yes physical, but above all cultural and emotional, to a specific geographical place. She spoke to me almost obsessively about this place, the city of Rome, which I know only relatively today: it was the first metropolis in the West, powerful enough to influence culture, language, religion, society and art, in all its forms. It was the Eternal City, she told me. But another thing, my grandmother, used to told me “Without water, roses wither. Without treatment, nothing is going to last. “

I have seen few roses in my life, they are not flowers designed to withstand the current temperature and even less the chemical composition of the water that surrounds us every day. Thanks, or because – depending on your point of view – of the stories with which my grandmother made me grow up, I have always longed for things that I don’t even know: valleys covered with daisies, woods teeming with cyclamen and frozen waterfalls. Every day, on Vyta, I go in search of landscapes and places that my world has not known, and it never will, to reconstruct the pieces of a story that preceded me and that will remain, at least this one, forever.

I was born on November 24th, 2208, in the D section of the cruise named “H501/G”, the boat dedicated to the births of newborns in the South-West area of Rome, located for forty-one years at coordinates 41°52’00” N12°29’00″E. On June 3th, 2167, at 00:47, the first birth on – our – floating land, inaugurated a long tradition that literally broke the bridges with the past. With the law decree n. 29/2147 (so-called Quarzi), the obligation to deliver newborns was introduced into our constitution in the individual vessels dedicated to health, located in every pole of the national area. The first to have inaugurated this new method were my grandmother Francesca Romana and her son, not surprisingly, Primo. Furthermore, the law n.27 implied that there was no more than one child per couple, under penalty of expatriation to other poles for aiding and abetting.

 Since that day, there has not been a single birth that did not take place in the appropriate boats, throughout the national territory. When I was born, my grandmother was 75 years old, she always told me that I made her wait a long time, but it was worth it. She was my guide, and every single day of my life up to the age of 18, I spent my time with her. She said she had a mission towards me, that she wanted to keep in me everything that I would never have been able to see with my own eyes. I have always listened to her with ardor, ever since I can remember her, and even today, after six years of not hearing her voice, my days are marked by the memories of her that she sewed on me. However, the true purpose of her “mission” has only recently become clear to me. Maybe she didn’t understand it either: she wanted to apologize. She wanted to repay with me and in some way with all the generations that have followed her, to ensure that all the beauty that she has been able to give the world in the past was not lost. A little with anger, with melancholy but above all with a lot of unawareness, I think and live virtually the life of the past, in a city that I cannot cross, that I cannot touch with my feet, in order to preserve it. Just today, on June 1st, sixty-five years ago, people started their life on ships again, and if as a child I always wondered why this anniversary was not celebrated, as it was done with every anniversary, today I realize that it was the beginning of the end. The end of the old world, of the old life, of freedom. The beginning of new habits, traditions and uses to which people transplanted onto ships have had to get used to after years and years of living a completely different life. Every June 1st at 9:00 am, for sixty-five years, the sirens of our ships have been sounding together, to celebrate, but above all, to remember.

On May 25th, 2167, the evacuation of the old houses began, most of which occurred spontaneously, while others in a forced manner. Some families barricaded themselves inside the house so as not to give in to being transferred to the ships; others carried out extreme gestures: hundreds of dead were found in their homes, in order not to accept such an excessive solution. The days of the eviction, the water was not yet so high, many managed to escape with their cars, but the escape was never successful, due to the police located in each tollbooth, motorway or border with other cities, with specific provisions to bring the fugitives back to their reference boat.

The reason why people were so averse to giving up their lives was simply, because they didn’t know what they were getting into. Such an important limitation of freedom, there had not been since the years of the various coronavirus pandemics that followed: the first periods, to counter the contagion, people could not move from their homes, in a state of total lockdown, not then so different from the situation we live in today. We are all stopped, limited and blocked on our ships, forced to have contact only between us: it is like having a family of 6000 people and at the same time having a superficial relationship with each of them. But thanks to the stories of my grandmother and Vyta, I understood and saw with my own eyes what the ancient world was like, I understood what I was missing.

The people here lived in huge buildings, huge and very high structures that look like our ships, but stuck vertically into the ground. Everything we do on our ship, they did it in their homes or outside, depending on the situation. Some of these people lived in villas, or independent houses: even one person could live in an entire building. Today it is pure science fiction, if we consider that a ship currently has to accommodate at least six thousand inhabitants, distributed in two thousand five hundred cabins. However, most people used to leave their homes in the morning to get to their job or employment, whatever it was. Certainly what we do every day on Vyta, they did it in the open air, without simulation. They did everything for real. My grandmother, for example, used to go to work in museums, huge old buildings that housed thousands of works of art. Her job was to tell visitors what those attractions represented. Only when I grew up did I understand that in short, my grandmother as a girl did exactly what she has always done with me. She was in love with her job and I followed many of her visits guided by her, through the augmented reality of Vyta. She had two sisters and when they were young lived all them together with their parents, in an apartment right at our same coordinates, next to the ancient Saint Paul basilica. Built 697 years ago, it stood on the place that tradition indicates as that of the Paul’s burial, an apostle, with his tomb, right under the altar. I am so interested in the history of this church not because it is particularly devout, but my curiosity stems from the fact that, right inside, my grandmother’s grandparents got married. She told me about it with pride, as if that were the badge of something very prestigious: the sense of belonging to a place, a symbol. The Saint Paul basilica, however, was only one of the four Rome’s papal basilicas: the city was truly immense, among the most famous and loved in the world. People came here every day from far away places to visit its ruins, now flooded; the Colosseum, now destroyed; the many churches and monuments, which are no longer there, due to the current hydrological situation. The sea water, during the past years, due to its biochemical alteration, has progressively soured due to the absorption of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere, starting to corrode more and more the foundations of the old buildings, monuments, numerous and very ancient buildings. To avoid their collapse and the consequent danger to the population, the law 27/2131 was enacted: “Destruction and dismantling of ancient buildings, historical monuments, to prevent the collapse of the aforementioned, preserve the territory and facilitate the parking of residential vessels “. In fact, just that year, the city of Rome inhabitants life, and then of the whole Italy’s, changed forever. Ships were introduced as a form of housing, following the model of the Dutch government, which had been working in this direction for years. The first country to take such drastic and “outrageous” decisions, according to my grandmother, was in fact Holland, paving the way for all the other European states, finally allowing itself to be imitated by the whole world.

Russia, the last country to surrender, did so only after Lachta-centr collapsed on itself in 2171, causing 217 deaths and 344 injuries. “It took him a massacre to bow his head. But we all had to do it, without saying a word, ”added my grandmother, lost in her thoughts and memories, as if she were in that precise moment in front of the same scene. I saw, among other things, the fall of Lachta-centr: most people ran away everywhere, like springs gone mad, to run for cover; I witnessed brutal scenes of people jumping into the void from the top floors of the skyscraper; other people pierced by the remains of the structure, which collapsed to the ground like meteorites. Vyta fully returns the brutality of the events that took place, whatever they may be: they are never censored. It is the ethics behind Vyta itself, the political choice to show life as it is, or rather, as it was. You have the task of making people who have lost the opportunity to live on earth participate in any event, as long as the event is present and documented in your database. This artificial intelligence uses the collection of all videos, photos, short films, stories from old and new social networks, old videos from surveillance cameras from countless places. All these testimonies are put together, grouped, in order to recreate the same place or event, at 360 degrees, giving the user the feeling of being exactly there, with the help of the augmented reality viewer. We often talk about contact lenses that allow the user to enjoy the view directly from the irises, but they used them especially at the time of my grandmother, when there were people who could afford them, when the professions were varied and there it was a big social gap. The only good thing about this captivity, according to my grandmother, was that rich and poor literally found themselves “in the same boat”: at the time of the new provisions, all of them, poor, rich, old and young, were forced to face the same problem. It was no longer possible to move, travel, but then .. to go where? It was all destroyed, dismantled, demolished. That’s why Vyta entered our lives. A promise of freedom, of experience, of knowledge, and people have clung to it tooth and nail. Many, too many people I know spend their lives with the augmented reality viewer on their faces, and in this way people have created a life tailored for them. Without all this water around, without being pigeonholed in the iron cabins, without the obligation to travel only by taxi boat from one boat to another and with a curfew that forces them to return to their ship at a specific time. Andrea is one of my mum’s former classmate, for thirteen years he has not left the ship to carry on his existence on Vyta. He only disconnects to eat or to go to the bathroom. All the rest of the time, Andrea is busy with his “life”: when he is not working, he travels; he has a girlfriend; a house in the mountains and many beautiful designer clothes.  As I see it, all of this does not belong to him, but to his avatar. His girlfriend is called Marta and she lives at coordinates 43°27’47” N11°52’41”: Vyta gave me back the photos of an old city, called Arezzo. They met at work during a meeting and for years, according to the gossip of our ship, they have been discussing who should reach whom, at their respective coordinates. A trip, and in this case a transfer, is not a very simple process nowadays. It takes place by means of special boats, quite small, which make several stops in specific places, and each one gets off in the one desired. They are the replacement ships for the old coaches, as my mom told me. The journey is such a complicated process because there is a long bureaucratic process to deal with. She or he who is about to leave must submit an online application addressed to the appropriate organizations, within which he must explain the reasons for his departure; specify the ship of destination; declare the intention to remain indefinitely at the chosen ship. The movement can take place on the chosen ship only and exclusively depending on the availability of a bed or, even better, a cabin. As regards short-stay voyages, however, the laws to be respected are those mentioned above, with the exception of the third: a person must specify the duration of their accommodation on the chosen ship. I don’t have many friends who live near coordinates so far from mine: the longest trip I’ve ever made was to go to the ship of an old classmate of mine, Ambra, almost five years ago. As a child, Ambra lived in the same ship as me, we were inseparable, but due to her mother’s work, her family moved to the coordinates 44°29’38” N11°20’34″E, the ancient Bologna. I went there, obviously with the obligation either to stay overnight at her office, if available, or returning home no later than curfew, I stayed there on her ship for three days. I remember the many recommendations of my parents: from the moment a person does not respect the curfew, your phone sends the localization to the police, even with your mobile phone off, thanks to GPS. But this is rare, because the means of transport are always driven by the staff and never by individuals, so it is unlikely to be around after 11PM. Whenever I can, however, I go to see Massimo. I reach the Sisto ship, which is located at the coordinates 41°88’87’ N12°46’91’E. The name of the boat derives from the old monument that stood near that place, almost seventy years ago: Ponte Sisto. This bridge, which has nothing to do with our typical ship bridges, allowed people to cross the Tiber, the symbol of the city of Rome. In its memory, every single ship that today is stopped right where the river used to flow, is placed a plaque bearing an engraving:

“Here the blond Tiber shone, mirror of the soul of the ancient city”. Many times I have wondered about the meaning of that sentence. It was enough for me to see a single photo of the old city at night, with the lights and monuments reflecting on its surface.

The ship where Massimo lives is phisically the same as mine, also the view isn’t that different after all. Perhaps the only difference is that there are more ships around than in my house. At these coordinates, there are three Meat Labs, the laboratory-boats that deal with the production of synthetic meat. This artificial meat has been adopted since 2097, the years of the deepest environmental crisis ever recorded. In those years, thousands of people refused, some of them went on hunger strike going to protest at the institutional poles. Over the years, however, people had to adapt to this novelty, because most of the consortia and organizations that dealt with livestock farming were dismantled. Climatic factors were the first causes of abandonment of this ancient tradition: the food grown for animals was no longer edible due to the quality of the air and the presence of water, causing radical rot and terrible epidemics. The focus was therefore on the production of in vitro meat, a product on which scientists had already been working for over fifty years to save the situation.

I have never visited the Meat Lab for real, just through a guide on Vyta, which showed a ship just like the residential ones, but with huge machinery that, due to their size, replace the cabins. It’s estimated that in two months of in vitro meat production, 50,000 tons of meat are generated from just ten muscle cells of pork, one of several extinct animals, which, however, thanks to its stem cells capable of self-renewing, can produce others. My mother and father work in one of the Meat Labs, at Massimo’s coordinates, so very often it happens that I take advantage of the passage of the company boat to put my nose out of my comfort zone, even if it is equivalent to going to a context just like mine. He too would have liked to work in the lab, but our aptitude tests showed that we would both be more likely to “perform other duties” and bla bla bla. We were upset, there is no point in making fun of ourselves. Among the various possibilities of carrying out the tasks

offered by our company, that of working in in vitro meat laboratories is one of the most attractive. When we were both assigned to textile fiber workshops, he decided to contribute to the economy of our community, while I chose to continue to specialize in biology. Grandma Francesca Romana and I have always talked about many things, and there were very few that she really did not want to address: one of these was precisely the university topic. He dreamed of a very different education for my father from that dedicated to us new generations. She would have liked so much for him to study literature, economics, law, and the mere fact that these words are almost unknown to me speaks volumes about today’s consideration of these practices. There is no reason to deal with political or economic doctrines, because there is no way to change the rules and laws we live with, which are made specifically for our current situation. For example, the economy is not something that must concern us closely, on the contrary… or at least this is what schools have been offering for years, during orientation days. So girls and boys, after finishing high school, can choose to continue their studies and specialize in one of the following degrees: biology, ecology, chemistry. It happens if they don’t want to immediately carry out the aptitude tests to decide the socially useful job they are going to fill. They are very similar and certainly connected branches, but the meaning of the specific choice lies in the fact that upon obtaining the degree, the graduate will cover immediately exactly the role for which he studied: my grandmother has always called this procedure “science fiction”. This year I started my second year of oceanography: we study the few primitive species that still inhabit the seas, but above all the others, which are in daily mutation, due to the alteration of the waters that host them. The various fishes that swim under our ships are not edible and science, which for years has wanted to carry out the same procedure as in vitro meat, is trying all of them in order to alter their biochemical and genetic composition.

The main reason why I study oceanology, however, is one above all: what I study gives me hope. For months I have been busy comparing the various sea level data, starting from 2035 to today: never before has a lowering of the seas been seen as important as recorded at this time. During the lessons, our professors tell us that these are approximate data and above all not to be disclosed because they are sensitive data. In my opinion, however, they ask us not to talk about it because they could instill a glimmer of hope, and hope, we know, it’s the light that comes out of the cracks, but the cracks are uncomfortable. My professor, however, was unbalanced with me, she told me that there are rumors that the glaciers are slowly reforming. Perhaps this one life I know is just a stalemate, perhaps out of here, there is still something to believe in.

Perugia I Two pages of diary

By Veronica Pero

There were 5 minutes to go before the end of the year. Francesco, a young man of 22, was in one of the rooms set up in the Rocca Paolina in Perugia, the meticulous details of the latest cartography of his city fascinated and enveloped him, making him ignore the increasingly intense chatter coming from outside. A few meters away, in fact, the atmosphere was tense, more and more people reached Piazza Italia, agitated and sweaty screaming and running from one end of the square to the other, a chaos never seen before.

Then the silence.

Everywhere in the world suddenly fell a dull silence. Many found themselves under the clock tower anxiously waiting for the last chime. The tension was palpable. The streets, the squares, the forests were motionless. Francesco took his polaroid camera ready to take a picture of the city map. It was five seconds to 12:00, four, three, two, …  Flash.

–

December 29, 2200.

Dear Diary,

It was five in the morning, I got up, and like every day I walked for about a couple of hours. My goal was not to reach the bench at the end of the Corso, in the gardens of Piazza Italia, but for some reason, even though the path I walk along is always different, I found myself there, sitting on a bench that must be a few centuries old and that shows on those wooden planks, perfectly interlocked, the signs of time.

It was five o’clock and I left the house. There was a rather thick fog, cool and smelling of pine. The sounds I heard were those of traffic in the distance, the first birds and my own footsteps, which marked time with an annoyingly monotonous rhythm. A rhythm that I punctually decide to break by taking two steps with my right foot, with a little jog, and then returning to a slow pace.

I have been walking every morning for a couple of years to find myself. I look around and learn, reflect on what I see and what I have seen. It was six o’clock when the first stores started to open, the smell of fresh pine was replaced by the smell of chocolate, the mist gave way to the monumental buildings of the city center: the cathedral, the Sala dei Notari and the Fontana Maggiore located in Piazza IV Novembre.

While I was walking I remembered an old diary of my great-grandfather that my father gave me some time before, inside I found a series of photographs representing some old demonstrations in which he took part: that square had experienced struggles against gender discrimination, had hosted hundreds of young people who had the desire to be part of a change, had seen people gathered for the “Friday for future” and to fight for the right to abortion. I have read and reread that diary several times, and I feel like I really knew my great-grandfather, that I somehow talked to him and formed an extremely strong bond with him. I’ve looked at that same square and, perhaps because of the descriptions found in the diary, perhaps because indeed the air and the stones have been scratched by that continuous coming and going, I’ve felt the tensions and the joys of those who faced issues that seem to be taken for granted to me.

“In the end, those billboards carried through the streets were not a vain effort,” I said to myself. Today my steps took me through some of the inner streets, narrow alleys, medieval, and full of small museums and hidden exhibits. It’s fascinating to see how this small town doesn’t need large structures to enhance art. Culture seems to be one with the city: it characterizes and represents it.

Immersing myself in my thoughts, I finally arrived at my bench, a bench where I have spent several hours of my days, enchanting myself and observing a large cypress tree at the end of the street, in the last year I have often spoken to it. I do this to keep him company and always hope to get some response from him. I’m sure he’s experienced a lot over his years. On reflection, if anything has changed since my great-grandfather’s years, it is this: there are a lot more green areas than there used to be.

“Hi, a lot has changed over the last few decades hasn’t it?” I start to say, “How did you survive all these years, it must not have been easy for you I guess, on the side of the road I mean, I don’t mean to imply that you aren’t strong enough to live that long, but the conditions of your habitat were questionable.”

These are the questions I asked Cypress today, of course he didn’t answer me, at least not in words. I stood still enough to lose track of time, until I felt my eyelids weighing down. I closed my eyes and suddenly I heard a strange rustling sound as if the cypress was actually trying to communicate. A wind that I took for granted.

I walked over and sat at its feet, on a slightly raised root. I closed my eyes again and began to feel the tree with my hands, touching its roots and bark. I smelled its scent and heard the sound of tiny worms beneath it. Suddenly I became thirsty and instinctively poured some of my water on the tree, as if I knew it needed it. I sat at the foot of the tree for about an hour and watching the intertwining of its branches reminded me of when my father and I used to go to the Rocca Paolina to look at the map of the city. I was enchanted to observe the branching of the streets, their joining and dividing, I walked through them with my eyes, I was immersed in them. So I went again to the Rocca, not far from there.

This morning’s exhibition was particularly interesting. In addition to the map of the city and its reconstruction to scale in plaster, there was an old city map dated 2031. There was something familiar about that map, as if I had seen it before. I looked at it for quite some time until I started comparing them to see what had changed since then.

“Surely the outskirts of the city have been expanding while leaving the center unchanged,” I said to myself, but as I walked through them with my fingers and my eyes several times, I noticed something rather peculiar, a substantial difference.

“I used to walk those streets with my husband,” said an elderly woman addressing me.

“You see – she resumed guiding my hand – here I lived and here my husband, every day we both had the habit of going along this road to go to each other’s neighborhood and for years we never met” she said with a slightly nostalgic tone.

I invited her to walk the same route together again. That was the difference, each neighborhood was connected by green paths. We walked and talked for about half an hour, and as we walked, everywhere I turned, whatever corners I took, at least a dozen people were taking the same route as us and going from one suburb to the next.

Once I was driven home, the old lady turned to me and showed me an old photo, taken with a polaroid, of her husband, and suddenly it came back to me. A photo of the same map dated 2031 was in one of my great-grandfather’s journal pages. A chill ran down my spine. The idea of being fascinated and looking at that same map as my great-grandfather did, decades earlier, made me smile.

I ran home, grabbed the journal, opened it and picked up the photo. I looked at it closely and once I turned it over I noticed a small faded writing on the back. I tried hard to figure out what it said. I stood at my desk under a strong white light. The text read:

“To my great grandson, I have done everything I can to give you a better world, enjoy it as I have enjoyed mine, preserve it so your children can enjoy it as you and I did before them. P.s I know you don’t care but look at this beautiful map. I love you.”

Suddenly, somehow, I found myself. I hope that with this diary I can help my grandson as much as my grandfather helped me.                

Yours Alessio.

December 29, 2200

Dear Diary,

It was five o’clock in the morning when I opened the curtains of my window. Like every day this morning, a fog was hiding the streets, the buildings and the trees. I went down to the living room, got a glass of water and turned on the television, I had to give it a few taps to get it to work. The news of the day was not good, honestly by now I’m not hopeful that things will change.

“Heat wave expected from tomorrow through the end of the week. Temperatures will reach 50 degrees. Stay the… “

I turned off the TV and took the opportunity to take my monthly walk. I got dressed, but since the fog seemed particularly thick today I decided to wear extra protection.

The streets weren’t crowded, by now people are afraid to go out and anyway there aren’t great things to see except some old exhibitions to admire old landscapes. I have crossed via del corso, from Piazza IV Novembre to the gardens of Piazza Italia, I have not made great detours, I wanted to reach as soon as possible the benches on which to sit down and take a breath.

I sat down. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what was beyond the fog: some green forest in the distance, a blue sky, snow-capped mountains in the background. I know that what I would see, if I could, are extremely ruined roads, closed buildings, and a few pavilions meant to protect the few remaining parks, but I try to think that there might be something more. A cypress tree across the road was the only one that kept me company today, but it didn’t look very good – it was pretty dry. I reached out to touch it and its bark fell off at the mere touch of my hands. It is very weak, like us.

Half an hour later I decided to go home as the air was extremely thin, heavy and hot. Walking home I couldn’t help but notice that the only noises I could hear were the exasperating traffic and the cans and bottles thrown from the windows. People don’t even go out anymore to throw their garbage in the buckets, everywhere there are mountains of waste covering the streets. We have entered a vortex, a vicious circle that leads us not to care about each other, let alone the environment. By now, in order to survive, we have to move on. This situation is quite exhausting. In recent years there have been many deaths due to drought. Water and the few crops are rationed unfairly. My neighborhood is suffering from this. Most of the resources are sent to the wealthy part of town, which survives at our expense.

I recovered by breathing two deep breaths of oxygen from the reserve I keep in my pantry and climbed to the roof. From there I can get a better view of the longed-for horizon, as the dust is mostly concentrated at street level. Sitting on the now ruined tiles I look as far as I can, and the rays of the sun beating down on the steel walls that separate us from the wealthy neighborhoods mark a clear, impassable boundary, beyond which tall skyscrapers try to overcome the waste and smog that is accumulated on our side of town. Over there they pretend that nothing is happening and they pretend well. The only solution for me is to try to get to that place, seek shelter and maybe a better life.

“A better life for how long?” I wonder. After all, sooner or later, but I think soon, even on the other side of the wall will suffer what we live here today.

I went out in search of water: a good supply that would be enough for this week of fire. Finding it was extremely difficult, I should have gone to the stores this morning and avoided standing on the roof, luckily not far from the train station I found a rainwater basin, I should be able to filter it and make it acceptable. The shutters are closed, and night has fallen. The only thing to do is to hope that this time too will go well.

Yours Alessio

–

Francesco woke up from a sleep that seemed endless. He looked at the clock, it was 12 o’clock, exactly the same as a few seconds before, yet it seemed to him to have slept if not dreamed. More than a dream it seemed to him a memory, extremely vivid. He hurried out of the fortress, dazed and frightened, and it didn’t seem strange to him to see disoriented people looking around the square and the streets. He looked up at the sky and a strange aurora slowly dissipated into the ether. He didn’t have time to think about what he saw and what happened that he lent himself to help a girl up, she looked like she had hit her head hard and was barely holding on.

“Thank you,” the girl told him. “I think I hit my head hard and dreamed, I can’t quite remember.”

“Don’t worry” he replied, “you simply fell down. Let’s go find a bar and ask for ice.”

In the evening at home he thought a lot about that girl, the strange atmosphere that had been created, and the strange feeling of heaviness that had settled over him since 12:00 that morning. Francesco spent several hours tossing and turning in bed, trying to chase away that weight he carried inside: “is it possible that there is more? That it’s not just a feeling?” he thought. He began to reflect on what he had dreamed, closed his eyes to be able to better imagine it. At first he thought they were his visions, one of his usual nightmares. Soon he realized that he was not the protagonist of his dream and maybe he was not even the imaginary boy, although in reality they resembled each other, rather he was a piece of paper or perhaps a diary. He was in an outward position anyway.

By now the little bit of sleep had vanished, he picked up the phone, it was 2:00 am and a little out of boredom, a little out of curiosity, he began to search what could be the meaning of his dream, what lucid dreams were and more, but among Freud’s texts he found very little of interest. – What is a lucid dream -, – premonitory dreams, do they exist? -falling asleep on the spot, 12 o’clock on December 29, 2031, what happened? –

He began to scroll through the hundreds of pages full of links, articles about what happened on December 29: between the description of the night of St. David and some stories of civil struggles of decades before, finally appeared something interesting, a small blog maintained by a certain “Alicepop26”. A page entirely dedicated to a strange event that had happened to him that day, she had described it as a warning, a request for help from her future niece and her cat. “News from the future” he whispered, “I was hoping it would be something interesting, do you think it’s possible to get in touch with people from the future?!” he said turning to the budgie he had in his room, “I must have had a blood pressure drop and this will just be a fantasy story”.

He turned off the phone and covered his head with the comforter. His mind was racing and his thoughts were running wild. He turned the lamp back on, staring at the wall he began to think. He thought that it was ridiculous, that it was not possible that he had had a vision, that that was his nephew or something else, surely, if that was ever the case, he would not have wanted such a bleak future for him.

 He picked up the phone again and started to do a little research to understand in which direction the world was going, there were many unpleasant news. Among these, he noticed that what was the famous climate clock, now forgotten by many, that day marked the last year available to mankind to reverse course and be able to return to the earth a little ‘breath. Whether it was a dream or a warning was of little importance, it was necessary to act, took the photo taken that afternoon at the Rocca Paolina and wrote a small text on the back in the hope that one day it could reach his grandson. Society had arrived at a crossroads, the choices he would make from that day on would determine the future of the next generations.

London 2200!

By Oliver Hembury-Gunn

The graphited walls of derelict Camden morph into the brutalist concrete flats enveloping the canal, almost stagnant itself, the water slithers menacingly. I smirked a little bit as Shun Ren squeaked in pleasure: “Yanukasi won four awards for this you know? Including Time’s ‘Architect of 2200’, apparently this year was even more competitive cos it’s the turn of the century”, I commented banally. He smiled from the corner of his mouth, throwing me off guard. I was more interested in him than the ‘Camden 2000’ exhibition we were wandering through. After snapping a couple of pics, I told him “Let’s hurry up a bit and get to the market, right? That’s the famous bit anyway, plus I hear there’s this ZigPop© sake that’s really good.” He obliged and we strolled on. I was enjoying the walking, though – people don’t do that as much as they did in 2000 years ago. I eyed up the canal bridge (manually operated!) and thought the simplicity of it had a sort of a charm, it didn’t need any networks, signals or data, just a good old push. It didn’t distract me for long, my eyes swung to Shun Ren, following his tattoos, neck piercings and mods which flowed down the back of this head in a rusted iron style – very cool I thought. That was my first date with him – a bit strange for a first date, but I suppose I like antique, out-of-step stuff. It went well for a while with him, but he got too distracted by his high-power job for PAX so it came to an end.  

London’s got quite a lot of it, old stuff I mean. Some of the tube stations have been left like they used to be when it was built, and not transformed into the new Magnet Stations. There’s a big sculpture in Hyde Park built with the scrap metal of the HBSC tower that fell in the 2050s after one of the bigger typhoons of the period, you can float down the Thames on the original London Eye pods, I heard the fish are pretty special. There are also quite a few memorials for various peoples and species; they tend to be made with materials that can’t get refashioned back into anything useful. I find these a bit stark though, but I suppose they do work to remind people of what we came through and our mistakes of the past.

Yeah, it got bad here in London, but you probably want the whole picture. You see the scientists had been warning of these tipping points for a while, which could be triggered at any point. They were ignored, of course, that’s how it went back then, but even they didn’t quite get the scale of it. Not to be too negative though, humanity was getting better; after a while the COPs, carbon taxes, and global pleas for change meant that global emissions were falling, in 2050 they were about half of what they were in 2020 if I remember correctly. That was already far too slow for many, of course, but most of the rich countries would have no more than a few hundred thousand deaths. They knew they hadn’t had the worst of it, global temperatures were still shooting up at unprecedently rates from pollution churned out 30 years or so before. But when Thwaites glacier cracked, pretty much split clean in half, it gave everyone a horrible surprise. While everyone had been talking about preparing better for the extreme weather throughout the previous 30 years of ever bigger wildfires and typhoons, none of the rich countries really believed the tsunamis and droughts would get too serious for them, and the global south was already so downtrodden by the stream of climate disasters and endless neo-colonial exploitation that they could have barley been looking further than tomorrow. Anyway, when Thwaites cracked it brought half of the West Antarctic ice shelf with it and suddenly there was more ice drifting in the ocean than there had ever been. That kicked started it all.

Global see level increased 1.5m almost immediately, displacing over a billion people and didn’t stop increasing here. The lack of heat reflection from the ice shelves meant the dark sea absorbed heat quicker, further speeding up temperature rises and the Amazon rainforest, already chainsawed to a measly forty percent of pre-industrial levels, was decimated by wildfire: it’s the Amazon savannah now. The boreal forests in North America and Eurasia went the same way. The huge clouds of black gases released from the combustion unsurprisingly further polluted the atmosphere and the worlds’ lungs. Suddenly, there were a lot fewer trees to produce oxygen. Of course, with this all going, the East Antarctic ice shelf came to join the party along with a load of Greenland and Arctic circle permafrost. Sea levels shot up quicker than any prediction, and climate disasters started queuing up. The 2061 Lisbon tsunami shook Europe into believing they too were vulnerable. The 2065 equatorial heatwave lasted three years. Winter became hotter than spring used to be and summer became a whole new season in the space of less than a decade. Areas once with Mediterranean climates turned into monsoon climates. Somewhere about this point, a chemical leak wiped out half of Beijing, suspectedly sparked by a particularly intense lightning storm – that changed global politics I can tell you. It was chaos, global crisis, climate refugees, war…

The 2092 super-virus killed more than all the climate disasters. It took us 6 years to find a vaccine, that’s said to be the worst period, perhaps the blackest in all of history. In the UK, domestic, racist and sexist violence surpassed pre-2019 COVID pandemic levels, that’s hard to imagine now. There was an anti-immigration group with 10 million members called 4UK whose slogan was nothing more inventive than “Us First”. Parliament managed to outlaw them and ordered the social media giants to disable any member of 4UK’s internet, which worked a treat – about the best thing the British Parliament ever did if you ask me. It’s shocking, that was all only a few generations ago. But the UK was lucky comparatively. The Fiji Islands were disappeared under 5m waves, other countries were too preoccupied with the pandemic to send any help, only about half the population got out in time. Countless indigenous communities were wiped out, caught between the inhabitable places and a pandemic they had no immunity to. A few militia groups roamed Africa and eastern Europe ravaging any food and women they could find before the UN either negotiated with them or sent in the drone strikes. We now call these dark times the Wastocene Crisis.

But humanity responded. Within a few years, almost every country caved in to international pressure to let in unprecedented numbers of refugees (there may have been World War 3 if they hadn’t). People shared houses with refugees from all over, lived with less and struggled on. We had some things up our sleeve. Food supplies never completely failed due to our advanced genetic engineering techniques, neither did water due to advanced infrastructure systems, and we’d built robots for most manual tasks that worked much better in the extreme weather than humans did.

It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. The numbers of deaths were in the hundreds of millions, not billions. By then the PAX had been established and was already succeeding the corrupt UN as a global force for good. This time vaccine distribution was a lot more egalitarian and better planned than it had been in previous pandemics, so we dragged ourselves out of that one. The world was almost carbon negative before Twaites, so it was only a matter of time to survive the damage of pollutions a few decades ago. Things got slowly better.

Worth saying that in this whole period of turbulence no nuclear bombs were dropped which can be considered a real success all nuclear countries agreed in the Pyongyang Treaty of 2041 to slowly decommission their stashes. Admittedly, there’s a possibility that Venezuela dropped a hydrogen bomb on one of the Colombian armies at its border in the mid-2070s, but that’s unconfirmed, and South America really is a different story. By 2120 sea levels were at 2050 levels. Moreover, a series of accords continuing into the 2100s made far more peaceful and committed agreements than we could have imagined pre-crisis. We established global councils with deeply reformed governing and legislative structures full of correct process and anti-abuse measures. These governing structures weren’t universally adopted immediately, of course, but worked their way into most countries governing structures by the second half of the century. PAX countries, that’s all of them excluding South American ones, are now “triple carbon positive” as the ads love to tell us, although carbon emissions aren’t an accepted measure of climate risks now – it’s a too narrow measure.

The UK still exists, and London is definition still its capital, but country distinctions mean a lot less than they did two hundred years ago when Camden 2000 wasn’t an exhibit but part of the concrete block of London. Nowadays, the UK’s governing bodies are a series of specialised councils who give representatives to join a wider PAX general council – although it’s been recognised for a long while that local decision making is much more effective when possible. It’s not perfect. Take last week, for example, Zux, the biggest nanochip manufacturing company got fined 5000* for fabricating the inefficiency cost of its transport container recycle and reproduction.[1] It seems corruption at some level is pretty hard to get rid of. Indeed, every now and again some state or mega-hacker group claim they are being hard done by and that they should not have to oblige to the strict circular economy regulations when the climate crisis is over. But so far those haven’t got far and never got much popular support. People seem more content with this lifestyle. Yes, it’s still capitalist, technically, there’s a lot of belief in innovation coming from individual motivation, which I’m not completely convinced by. But it’s not that capitalism that marked the post WW2 to Wastocene crisis. We also really like personal abilities. This is our concept of freedom, that people should be free from social, societal and economic constraints to self-expression and anything that isn’t harming others. I think that’s pretty cool.

It’s not quite the same across all of PAX, many people in the lucky countries were pretty hesitant to pay for investing in the worse affected countries – this alone almost divided and finished PAX in its early days. But PAX persevered; my take would be that we realised capital growth didn’t matter in the same way when only cooperation could ensure we didn’t do this to ourselves again, although perhaps I’m a bit too optimistic. From that point that it was slow regrowth and relearning. Learning from places and peoples we’d neglected and harmed in the past. For example, it was a West Papua tribe who demonstrated how creating mangrove barriers gives soil stability and drainage systems to allow better agriculture as well as acting as an effective carbon sink.

Come to think about it, life hasn’t been too tough at all in my lifetime, I’m 28 now. No wars, life expectancy as high as it’s been and hate crimes few and far between. It wasn’t a straight road to get there though, my grandma told me about the nuclear muck-up. She said it was over the news when eventually scientists had solved nuclear fission after 150 years of trying – only for the first nuclear station in Bruges to go up in the biggest explosion in human history after 3 days in operation. There were cases of radiation poisoning as far as Ethiopia, and medical tech wasn’t as good as it was today. So we gave up on nuclear fission, tide and ocean currents provide most of our energy now, topped up by sun, wind, and a few alternative power sources. Gran did get to dive in one of the last living reefs though. I’m a little jealous about that, they are all just white now, bare and lifeless, a harrowing memorial for the consequences of humanity’s mistakes. Although I read an article where the department of genetic reconstruction claimed they’d be able to regrow those underwater ecospheres within my lifetime, that would be a sight.

That’s probably enough meandering through the past for now. Let me tell you about myself.

I’m an artist, a photographer really but I like to consider myself an artist. I’m only four years into my career, education is free up in the whole of PAX so I decided I’d had enough aged 24. Let me tell you the sort of projects I do. Remember I mentioned the Bruges nuclear disaster? After that everywhere within 600km of the plant was turned into a ‘rewilding park’, it was the biggest of 148 parks that created across PAX in an attempt to sink enough carbon to pull temperatures back down. Also to create breeding environments for the species that were almost all wiped out. I spent the last three months out there filming the first wild lemurs outside of Madagascar, where their habitat is only a fraction of what it used to be. I was also part of a wider team putting together a report of how relocated species respond to new predators. No lemur had ever interacted with wolves or the Eurasian birds of prey before for example. I got some great shots. In one a baby lemur is clinging to the back of a baboon, part of a colony that migrated from South Africa. The lemur was being raised amongst baboons, which was a bit of a shock to the team but nature can do that sometimes, go a bit different to what anyone expects, it’s part of what makes it wonderful – programs don’t work that way. I also got snaps of the last wild fossa, the lemurs’ traditional predators which were relocated from Madagascar at the same time. That’s a sad story, although not an uncommon one. The fossa were suddenly wiped out by a disease we still have no idea where it came from and within a single breeding season, they were gone from the wild. That’s just the way it goes with our reintroduction or environment creation programs, no matter how many geographical surveys and planning we do they sometimes go wrong.

Rewilding can get pretty political too. It’s hard to allocate funding to wildlife reintroduction when entire forest strips need to be created in order to stop desertification, or instead of crisis relief if our prediction instruments are a bit off and a hurricane is stronger than expected. Or instead of investing in some of the areas where most of the population had to relocate during the XXX still don’t have the kind of infrastructure and quality of life that most of us do. It’s a tough balance. Whatever you look at it life is still unfair like it’s always been throughout all human and earth history. Money and inequality are still what causes most conflict, perhaps that won’t change or perhaps we just need a bit longer.

I love wildlife photography, it’s what I always loved. I live in Welwyn, it’s a town just north of London. The magnet-rail takes 12 minutes to central London, maxing at a cool 330 km/h, though that’s nothing on the cross-national lines. In the other direction, it’s 23 minutes from the new Chiltern Park where giant sloths have been introduced successfully and under an hour to the Lake District and Snowdonia as well. So I spent a fair amount of my childhood with my mum in the parks snapping away on my One. Oh yeah, that’s the name for the device we have. A One can do pretty much anything you can think of for a digital device and even more again in the Metasphere too – I’ve had the same one since I was a kid, only now it’s made up of completely different parts that I’ve exchanged for the old ones over the years.

So we camped out in the wild which is still a pretty common thing to do, and I never really considered doing anything other than photography. A lot of my projects have been part of a bigger movement to showcase the natural world as part of the human world, to show us as interconnected and inter-reliant. I’ve felt fulfilled with this but sometimes all I do is organise camera drones and teach a computer program how I want it to edit the photos which I suppose isn’t all that surprising. At least I get to be out there in the thick of it once in a while.

My next project is pretty different. I’m going to South America and I’ve been prepping for the past few weeks. I’m going on a shoot for a clothing brand, Matticks, who plan to give out some of their new clothing line and take pictures of some South Americans with some Matticks models from all over PAX. It’s a brave campaign, to say the least, the idea is to depict Matticks as a cross-border brand and as a serious supporter of the Together World.[2] I’ll be honest, the main reason I took was that it paid more than I’ve got from any of my shoots. That’s because there weren’t that many people willing to take the job. You see, South America went a bit differently…

It had been hit really hard but climate disaster through the late Wastocene period and while Argentina and a few other countries were more prepared, most were not. The Venezuelan-Colombian war had ravaged the north of the continent. It had been a proxy war where the Russia-China alliance piled weapons and resources into Venezuela, and the USA and its allies did the same into Colombia. Some of the photos, videos and holograms that came from then make me feel sick. Then when all the flooding and climate disasters came chased by the pandemic you can imagine the chaos.

South America’s solution went a bit of a different path. After the foreign exploitation of the war, they understandably refused foreign intervention. A decade or so of fighting for resources eventually exhausted them out and suddenly all the South American nations signed a pact forming with a centralised government for the continent, a bit like PAX I suppose but radically more left-wing. Their mascot was Che Guevara, a revolutionary murdered 100 years before.

The United States didn’t take this too well with their long history against communism and didn’t pause a second to heed PAX’s calls for non-violence. The White House launched a cyber-attack so big it took out all communication networks across the continent for almost a year. They even prepped troops for a physical invasion, but the US east coast floodings and economic pressure from PAX made them give it up. Following that, South America ignored all our communications and refused imports or exports for the next fifty years. It’s rumoured many starved in the transition period but by the time the climate was stabilising satellite images showed a functioning and entirely self-reliant economy. They officially opened the borders to diplomats and rich tourists forty years ago, but not many get to visit.

I think what makes me most nervous is being a foreigner; that’s a concept that doesn’t really exist anymore in PAX. I’m going to be seen as an alien and as a threat. I’ve been taught my whole life that I’m a citizen of the world, not the UK or even of PAX, but in South America, I won’t be seen that way. The idea of encountering other human beings who distrust me is sad. Also, what if they are right? Sure, they aren’t as rich or as educated and don’t have half the tech we do but that does mean our way of doing things is better? Just look at what happened with colonialism.

I don’t want to make prejudgments. I am keeping my mind open as I venture for the first time into the unknown.

[1]* or ‘stars’ are now a globally accepted currency, but not the only currency (complicated – I know) and are based on squarechain technology – blockchain’s much smarter grandkid.

[2] This is the movement supported by individuals and organisations in both PAX and South America to encourage South America to join PAX, but it’s never got official support from either side.

Quito I Cities of Free Women

Nicolás Cuvi

Image by Francisco Cordovez

From the silent cockpit of the aircraft, with a 360-degree view, Francisco the peacemaker watched as the Quito plateau slipped away. Directly ahead it was clear, with no signs of rain, at least as far as he could see. Neither did the ship announce any storm alerts, so he decided to relax. After a verbal instruction, the machine confirmed the autopilot connection. He snorted twice, his particular way of ending something.

He glimpsed the mountainous landscape. Some of the colossi had a small white hat, a result of the previous night’s snowfall. They were ephemeral covers, which would last just a few hours until the snow melted and the typically arid landscape of the XXIII century Andes returned. It was pretty, no doubt. But neither that beauty, nor the prospects of a pleasant climate for the trip, alleviated his recurring uncomfortable thoughts: the certainty that he was fulfilling, perhaps, his last official mission to the islands. In the lower cell, he was transporting who was, possibly, one of the last rapists in his city. Maybe the last one, he thought. “It’s not bad, maybe just for me.” He called out loudly for two coffee pills and blackberries, then moved his burly six feet to the hot water station, dissolved the tablets in a thermos, and snorted again three times.

A month hence would be his seventieth birthday. It was impossible to postpone his retirement any longer, much to his regret. He didn’t feel old, but he was. His shaggy hair, disappearing in places, had turned gray a few years ago. But with a minimum life expectancy of 100 years, what would he do in the next 30 years? He hadn’t made plans, perhaps because he perceived that the moment would never come. He liked to capture the bad guys, but also had to accept that each day it was harder to do so. His muscles were toned; it was his speed that was diminished. That had become clear countless times, like the day before, during community workouts in the park, when he had finished among the last places of the two-kilometer race. It used to be he arrived first, and with a considerable lead. He snorted upward twice, waving a rebellious gray curl that fell on his forehead. He inserted the frozen blackberries in his mouth, and felt his teeth explode.

Below, the city, or what was sensed of it, was getting lost. From the continuous lining of the surface emerged some modern buildings, covered in vegetable green and yellow, distinguishable by their pointed shapes and sharp corners. Also, some ruinous masses of concrete and iron, abandoned for a long time because they were uninhabitable. Once luxurious apartments with views, they were now properties heavily exposed to intense daytime radiation. The buildings suffered from more than 100 years of human neglect, ever since outdoor activities had been limited to dawn and dusk, or walks and work at night. Some ruins had been covered, a few years before, with modern bio-solar panels, an ingenious way of reusing the obsolete infrastructure. Others were occupied by condors or birds of prey that, like humans, had adapted to twilight and nocturnal life.

The extensive vegetation was uninterrupted towards the wild areas. It was made up of trees such as pumamaqui, cedar, and hundreds of other species. Several showed leafy tops and were over 100 years old. They were called “guardians” because they protected the people from radiation and pollution. Francisco felt identified with these forms of life; he was also a guardian who protected the cities and their people. But most people were unaware of these elder green guardians. They preferred to stay underground, with artificial light and stable temperatures, in rooms, community centers, or recreational sites located two or three levels below the ground. “Cities of moles” they were called, alluding to an extinct species, with tiny eyes, which used to build and inhabit extensive underground galleries.

Among the outdoor structures, Francisco preferred churches, sites of spiritual worship in the past. He went alone, as his two daughters, like their mothers, preferred the virtual reality scenarios underground. When he suggested they go outdoors for a while, they called it old-fashioned. He assured them that these historical places helped people to relax, meditate, find themselves, recharge for community life. Sometimes groups were formed to share doubts, fears, insecurities, projects. There was a time when he reproached those important women in his life for being hooked on fantasies, ignoring the outside world, so different from the underground. “They haven’t even taken the few opportunities to fly a hovercraft,” he sighed. For them, the other cities and regions, not to mention the islands of plastic, formed by the accumulation of these materials over almost three centuries in certain points of the sea, were places to which it was unnecessary to move. When it came to reproductive sex, it was the men who traveled, although most women preferred their couples to be from the same city. It was not worth traveling, sometimes for long weeks on foot, facing the risks of bad weather or rural robbers, lawless people, bandits, who attacked the walkers. They preferred to know of other cities through virtual reality boxes, and from the tales told by people from other places when they arrived in Quito. They argued that encounters in virtual reality boxes, where you could have three-dimensional views and experiences with multiple speakers, were less expensive in terms of energy and less risky for the spread of epidemics. Those looking for adventure and long journeys could embark on cruises to other planets, asteroids, or megacities floating in the void of space, or travel the world on foot and by boat.

Eventually, he stopped complaining. They were a product of their time and the past. The Great Disconnection, characterized by energy shortages caused by the unique and strong solar pulses of the mid-21st century, together with the Era of Epidemics, promoted isolation, and autarkic urban processes. When the satellites fell to the ground and all electronics stopped working, there was chaos. Not even the countries with the largest reserves dared to go beyond their borders. When electronic communications were restored and power generation, always limited, was improved a couple of decades later, travel was resumed on a limited basis, mainly to maintain the spirit of planetary cooperation. Some individuals voyaged more: peacekeepers, diplomats, and students. Each citizen was also allowed to travel once every five years by collective aircraft to a nearby city, or every eight years to a distant city. And whoever wanted to could move at will on foot or in sailboats of different sizes. Many young people organized groups to see the world in this way. Several never returned, fascinated by other places. Francisco had used each of his trips to visit nearby cities. His goal was to walk and strengthen ties with fellow peacemakers in Lima, Cusco, Trujillo, Cuenca, Guayaquil, Cali, Bogotá, Medellin, Cartagena … He had studied his career mainly in virtual reality boxes and had trained martial arts in local dojos. He took exams for five years, and then spent a similar time training with several master peacemakers. Many things had passed in front of his eyes, but the women in his life did not even want to go to Guayaquil. He wanted to snort but held back.

Francisco left the cockpit and headed for the cargo area. He stood in front of his partner and apprentice of the last three years, the peacemaker Selena. She gazed absently toward the energized cell with translucent bars, where the prisoner seemed half asleep and lost. “At least the man doesn’t scream or cry.”

The anguish that this would be his last trip between Quito and the plastic islands, where the aggressors from all cities were sent, uncomfortably returned. A fundamental part of his life was moving in an aircraft over cities, mountains, and seas. He had undertaken more than 100 of the five-hour journeys between Quito and the vortexes of the Pacific Ocean, where the plastic islands floated. What would happen to his position? Urban peacekeepers had been a very important guild, but today it was a profession headed towards extinction, like fossil fuels or intercontinental travel. Capturing and transporting violent types, forest or plantation arsonists, animal torturers, and above all femicides and rapists, was less and less necessary. “These days, rural robbers give more work,” he said. “But they are not a priority, dispersed as they are, and because they limit themselves to stealing batteries and food, never raping or murdering. For now.”

Every so often the so-called “anomalies” appeared, people who were violent towards women in cities, known as such because cases were rare. They were mostly men who, for reasons unclear to him and much of the public, used force as a mechanism to get what they wanted. Why didn’t they go to the public rings to bring out that fierce energy, desire for blood and domination? The dynamics of the rings were similar to the ancient Mayan ball games, although the losers were not sacrificed. They revived the jousts of the Roman coliseums, whose stories of gladiators continued to be successful in virtual reality boxes. But they weren’t fighting to the death. Why did the anomalies not use those spaces? They wanted to dominate without consent. More than one influencer with millions of followers in the virtual reality boxes claimed that the anomalies had been driven mad by watching too much aggressive content produced until the beginning of the 21st century. They saw women, other species, minors, and elders, as objects. Several influencers, good communicators and journalists, clamored to restrict access to certain contents of the Pluriversal Library, although everyone knew it was impossible. There were Library mirrors all over the Earth, on inhabited planets and on space stations, everywhere. Most people, Francisco included, considered them in bad taste. But they were there and had regular consumers. “I hated reviewing those videos in my peacemaker courses.” He snorted twice.

-The world has changed fast. Too fast for my liking- he heard himself speaking towards Selena, who barely twisted her face a little.

He liked this apprentice. She was really big, something unusual and intimidating, ideal for chases and captures. And attractive, although he wouldn’t have the slightest chance of her choosing him to date. Selena was staring at the prisoner while chewing lavender pills. Her neutral look could mean anything. Francisco appreciated that neutrality, the scent of lavender, and the silence. It helped him to avoid the waste of useless conversations. The few moments in which they had talked served, from the first day, to make clear that she cared little about the whys of the work. Selena wanted, above all, action. Persecutions, arrests, inquiries, even false alarms. They had not stopped a real rape attempt in Quito for three years, which seemed eternal to him. In other cities, it had been like this for more than 30 years. The last real rape in Quito occurred 50 years earlier, when Francisco was an apprentice. The last femicide happened a hundred years ago; the subject was alluded to as savagery before the Age Shift. Maybe that’s why Selena was a statue before the prisoner, her first actual transfer and capture. “Do you hate it or do you feel compassion?”

Francisco returned to the upper cabin and monitored the weather. Meteorologists were not to trust; weather was more complex than a series of measurements, and experience had taught him to be vigilant.

The aircraft maintained its cruise elevation, two kilometers high. They flew over the city of Manta and headed out to sea. Yellow and dry, this coastal area was less inhabited than the highlands. Below, some ruins looked like old 21st-century periferal neighborhoods. These dystopian territories were of interest to him. In Quito, they had been made up of thousands of fragile rooms built with cement blocks and thin, rusty iron rods. Population decline after the Era of Epidemics and the later Age Shift had led to the abandonment of these precarious homes. A few families had stayed on, rebuilding some spaces as the facades of entrances leading to underground rooms. Houses built on slopes, previously abundant and always affected by landslides, were not even good for that, so they had been completely reclaimed by the Andean and opportunistic vegetation coming from the lowlands due to increased temperatures. Why had people built such insecure houses?

Many flat parts of the Quito plateau, previously covered with asphalt and cement, were regenerated as orchards. Farmworkers took turns at night, under artificial light, inside greenhouses or outdoors, sometimes supported by fans and heaters to ward off frost. In the orchards, animals, vegetables, and mushrooms flourished. Their main promoters, the urban agropops, argued that in addition to good food the orchards provided a way to cool the planet and create carbon sinks. Their biggest detractors, the robopops, argued that machines could do it. Agropops also pointed out that it was harmful to people to spend long times in the virtual reality boxes, that this way of living was dangerous for their own subsistence. They remembered that those kinds of disconnections, when people believed that food grew in markets or vending machines, or that it magically arrived in aircraft to cities, had accelerated epidemics and the Age Shift. The agropop movement emphasized that eggs were laid by chickens, that those chickens controlled pests in crops, that bees fed on real flowers, and that all this helped to have healthy food. Repeatedly, they alluded to the brutal impact of pesticides, known above all from a 20th-century book, Silent Spring. “No one wants to use poisons as in the past”.

He called out for an updated weather forecast. Storms obsessed him, especially over the ocean. Those sudden and intense curtains of white water, in the form of very strong waterspouts, fell without warning. In the mountains they did not at all help the aircraft and could disrupt communications, thus many rapists took advantage of them to act. But at sea they were deadly. A map unfolded before him. Zero rain. He headed back to the lower deck, where Selena continued in the same position. Was she analyzing the prisoner or just watching over him? Now the anomaly was drooling a little and muttering. He wanted to go over and ask him about his musings, but quickly regretted it, and instead decided to entertain himself for an hour. Back in the cockpit, he put on his helmet and searched one of his favorite repositories: “The Age Shift.”

Francisco´s ability to understand history was limited, and he always had doubts regarding the interpretations of documentaries and influencers. There was too much information and at times he felt lacking in filters to select it. He understood more about persecutions, arrests, and violent anomalies. There were some things that, however, were quite clear, such as the role of epidemics and solar pulses. The epidemics of the 21st century were crucial. Viruses first appeared in Asia and then from almost everywhere. Some said it was the revenge of nature, because people treated domestic animals badly, especially those that were useful for food, fiber, vaccines, or medical experimentation. Wild animals were being eaten everywhere and deforestation accelerated, taking away their places to live. Cows, chickens, pigs, and other animals lived huddled and stuffed with hormones on farms. “How unpleasant to eat a chicken with hormones, almost as much as a tomato with pesticides”. The first great pandemic was the Covid in 2019. It spread quickly. The resulting mourning and confinement left behind all kinds of consequences. The worst came years later, however: a deadly virus that was transmitted through water and air. The survivors began to think more locally and to subsist under more peaceful contracts. New epidemics arose, some contained at continental levels. Traveling became difficult, as entire countries closed their borders for years. They let you out, but do not re-enter. The stories of people trapped far from their homes were dramatic and no one dared to go far. If you left, it could be forever.

Then came the solar pulses and the Great Disconnection, the end of communications. It seemed somewhat metaphysical and strengthened the appeal of ​​whatever was local. The first cities to make radical changes were those with lesser violence and corruption indicators in the 21st century. Populations, fed up with states and politicians who did nothing but give flowery speeches, took the reins. They were not violent, although some things did require a certain use of force, particularly in the face of those who continued to applaud the cult of violence and domination. One of the first actions was imprisonment for femicides. As more urban territories were transformed, there were fewer femicides and rapists. In order not to waste efforts, it was decided to create a few global spaces to bring together the anomalies and, incidentally, improve the situation of the oceans somewhat. Since the 20th-century, various ocean vortices had concentrated vast spaces where the debris of fossil fuel civilization floated: the “plastic islands”. These degraded and released undetectable and toxic microplastics. In each vortex, huge machines gathered these plastics into large, compact islands, several meters high, floating like gigantic, multicolored rafts. The anomalies were banished there, condemned for life to collect the floating plastics around them, using collected flotsam to build-up the island they lived on. Food and water were regularly sent, and social organization left to their discretion, albeit with certain limits. Stories about those places were a mixture of myth and legend, even for recurring visitors like the peacemakers. It was said that at first they were chaotic systems located nowhere. Unable to reproduce, the populations of those islands slowly declined, and in some cases became peaceful. Those floating jails, the potential banishment for life, functioned as deterrents. Corrupt practices and, more slowly, rapes, ceased.

The peacemaker Francisco decided to view one of the documentaries on the change in relations between men and women. It was called “Cities of Free Women.” Before, urban areas were dominated by men, in a system called patriarchy. But his grandmother had been free to choose, as were his mother, couples and daughters. His granddaughters would be as well. They had chosen whether or not to have children, how many, when. No one had forced them to be mothers using physical or social violence. Before they had been raped, from a very young age, or forced for metaphysical or religious reasons or, simply, due to an abuse of power. Raped in their homes, in churches, on the streets, on the roads, even in educational centers. Raped on television and in art. “Being a woman was living at risk” Francisco thought. The Age Shift left those ideas and practices behind, in good measure with the aid of peacekeepers and the sending of violent anomalies to the islands of plastic.

In the documentary, it was explained that among the first people opposed to women’s free will, were those at that time self-defined as “socialists” or “progressives.” They were concerned that this would undermine their chances to decide the fate of many based upon the State´s authoritarianism. In Quito and other places, this group needed vast poor populations to dominate, and it was essential to control women, to make them reproduce sadness and submission. And it worked. Some women even publicly declared themselves submissive to their male leaders. As the Age Shift came about, those who called themselves “capitalists” were happy to see such futile and desperate resistance from their longtime opponents. They speculated that, as on other occasions, markets would finally adapt and impose themselves. But they did not count on the powerful inertia that the Age Shift had brought about. As the socialists fell, the capitalists went with them, since both were sustained by the domination of others. They all practiced obsessive violence against nature, which they called “a resource”. “It was a world too confused, manipulated by a few and settled into sterile, dichotomous thoughts.”

Others who opposed the end of patriarchy, aligned with socialists and capitalists alike, were the Catholics and their preachers. Francisco found it difficult to understand the religious practices in so-called churches. There was a kind of psychological collective control, based on fear, that allowed for the accumulation of land and money for at least two thousand years. Some historical videos from the Pluriversal Library showed their rites: people moving up and down, singing in unison, kneeling, making huge lines to receive a very thin cookie, sometimes flagellating themselves. According to the influencers and other less famous communicators, their ideology was more patriarchal than socialism and capitalism. In their books, women were punished, pointed to as inferiors, accused of human misfortunes for something called the original sin, incapable of leading spiritually, and, above all, exhorted to have many children.

According to some documentaries, societies of the past had opted for numerous populations that grew at an exponential rate. To a large extent, this was due to recurrent and socially accepted sexual abuse, the rape of girls and adolescents. Dark times when they weren’t even allowed to have an abortion; if they did, they were even held criminally liable. The video ended with exciting phrases about the present and the future. Still distracted by the information, Francisco removed the helmet, checked the meteorological information, glimpsed around without much conviction, decided that there was no risk, and went back to the repository. The repository had that ability to transport him and even dangerously distract him from his obligations. He chose an archive on the history of new martial arts and rings, sites that, according to influencers and other documentaries, were decisive in the transition to a postpatriarchal society.

As images of fights from the beginning of the 21st century passed, a thick voice-over slowly recounted: “Violence, blood, conflicts, adrenaline… Common for a long time, they still are, but now accepted by the parties involved. No one is hit or assaulted without wanting to. All thanks to … The rings!” The video was of course sponsored by the ring managers, in almost all cases, city governments financed by selling tickets, broadcasts, and multifaceted paraphernalia of objects and associated products. The blood and collective euphoria, the passionate and hysterical shouting, the dazzling advertisements, had replaced other coliseum, stadium, and track sports that were ultra-popular in the 20th and 21st centuries. Fights between men, between women, mixed. Anyone could participate from the age of 20, under very clear agreements. But they also confounded some people, who were content to go to the dojo to train, sometimes with simulators, without blood or noise. A minority.

Combats and conflicts were limited to the rings, under the acceptance of the participants. Never before had so many people been trained in martial arts. Academies and dojos offering courses in karate, taekwondo, kung fu, aikido, and judo, abounded. The rings were even more visited than the underground virtual reality boxes. People loved to see, hear and participate in fights without deaths. The recently invented fu-ta-ya included ingredients of ancient wrestling and had to be quickly regulated by the many accidents at home during unsupervised practices. Francisco was an expert in ancient and modern martial arts. When he felt the desire to hit someone, he approached the local ring, chose the soft mode with protectors, and ended up hugging his rival and a beer in silence. The video ended by emphasizing that, since it was not happening against the will of anyone, rings had become a good way to prevent the appearance of anomalies.

In a neutral voice the ship announced the arrival at the oceanic airport in 30 minutes. Already flying over the huge plastic island, in the distance Francisco could see the mountain of accumulated materials and the many structures built by the residents. Although new plastics were no longer being produced in the world, they continued to arrive from everywhere, compacted and placed as additional blocks on the mountain.

He switched off the automatic pilot and maneuvered to cross, at a height of 500 meters, the threatening electric fence that isolated the runway. In previous years there had been attempts by exiles to capture ships, and although they had been quickly prevented by the protocols for using aircraft, the fence was reminiscent of potential problems. Only one-way tickets were obtained to the islands. Human rights groups considered it cruel, but no city was open to receiving such people back.

The aircraft unfolded three wheels and landed vertically. Selena deactivated the cell and raised the prisoner, who remained crestfallen and silent. Francisco didn’t care who he was; his curiosity about anomalies had long since disappeared. Before, he had tried to help them, being empathetic to their state of shock. Some were repentant, asking for forgiveness, claiming that they had watched too many videos and gone mad from experiencing domination. They started by destroying trees, then clandestinely killing animals, finally women. The sequence usually repeated itself. This anomaly, about 50 years old, had tried to rape a woman in an abandoned area of ​​a metropolitan park, attacking her while exercising at dawn. The young woman activated the help button on her watch and in less than five minutes ten drones had arrived to make noises, film, and disperse some stun gas. The man was prepared and managed to take down five, but more arrived. Everything helped buy time. The victim had studied martial arts and liked the ring, so was able to defend herself. Fifteen minutes later Selena and Francisco were chasing the anomaly through the vegetation. She caught up and subdued him. Francisco arrived a minute later.

A concrete fortress was the only structure on the electric fence. There a door was opened that allowed a glimpse of a long tunnel through which the prisoner walked. In the background, another door opened and he entered the territory of anomalies on the floating plastic island.

Galápagos 2222: the giant tortoise and the sea

Gabriel Redín

Among green bushes and reddish myconias, hundreds of small flattened mounds, side by side, move slowly. They are the shells of Galápagos tortoises, the giant tortoises of these equatorial islands. A deep heat that announces rain pushes the Galápagos tortoises toward the mud puddles to cool off. Alejandro counts, again, the more than 200 tortoises that he herds. It is the fourth time he’s lost count, between images and questions that haunt his mind over an event the island can’t stop talking about.

It is the year 2222. The Galápagos Islands, as they are still called, hardly receive visitors from the outside world, in part because there are no ports at which to arrive. Humans live in the highlands of three islands, where they have fresh water and fertile land to farm. Those who seek to become “friars,” or local priests, practice the type of “herding” for which these islanders are known: in Cristóbal, the easternmost island of the archipelago, Galápagos tortoises are herded. On the other islands, friars herd sea lions and mockingbirds.

Alejandro has been herding tortoises for six years. This consists of caring for and accompanying Galápagos tortoises’ movements between the dry and rainy seasons–of course, without himself approaching the coasts, which is forbidden. The exercise of accompanying tortoises is considered a form of meditation, a way to connect with the origin of the families of Cristóbal, who are said to be linked to the tortoise. Those of Cristóbal are known for their quiet gaze, their slow speech, and, in general, for their serenity, which they consider their greatest virtue.

—

It has not been a day of contemplation or serenity today. With his long legs and quick breath, Alejandro walks across the grazing plain in the same untidy meander of his thoughts, which ponder what the event that has just occurred might mean. Finally, an aroma of freshly roasted coffee tells him he is arriving at Tres Palos, the town where most of Cristóbal’s families are concentrated. Every household is debating: is this a premonition of some untold thing about to transpire? Is it only a simple sea turtle?

What has happened is this: a few days ago, Raquel, another shepherd, went to town to spread the news that a Galápagos tortoise had gone into the sea. Quickly, the news spread throughout the island. Everyone knew the old story of the tortoise that hundreds of years ago submerged herself in the sea and, in so doing, flooded the coasts. It was one of those legends that grandparents told children, and that, although respected as a sacred story, most doubted could actually happen. It just seemed unlikely–that a ground giant like a 300-pound Galápagos tortoise, with a large shell and fat legs, could swim in the sea.

There was also the matter of who had recounted the event. Raquel, restless and disheveled, had abandoned the friar’s training, though not herding tortoises. Contrary to local norms, she even continued accompanying the Galápagos tortoises to the coasts, which according to strict tradition should only be done by the most prestigious friars. After the great rise in sea level that started some two hundred years ago, traveling to the island coasts, except on special days, was treated as a taboo–a provocation to the ocean. Raquel, in her stubbornness and frankness, considered it aberrant that islanders did not approach the sea. She insisted that the tortoise’s idle way of being – el estar de la tortuga – replicated itself in the rise and flow of the sea, that it was natural for humans to spend time at its shore. Because of these positions, Raquel was expelled from the community, which did not prevent her from sneaking out to visit her friends on certain nights.

—

Alejandro wanted to see it with his own eyes. He could not satisfy himself with the rumor of people who built the walls of their houses with their backs to the sea. Why would a Galapagos tortoise dive into the forbidden sea now?

As children, Alejandro and Raquel fantasized about what could be beyond the sea. It was a secret game, because just naming the sea was frowned upon in the town. As they grew, Alejandro kept a careful distance from these ponderings, while Raquel became more and more intrigued with the relationship between the tortoise and the sea. In reality, Alejandro often found himself wondering about the wide blue of the ocean that he caught glimpses of while herding the Galápagos. But no one could know that.

“I have to go to the coast, but I can’t do it alone,” he thought. “I need to talk to him.”

Elderly, with a speckled white beard and tanned skin, Julio was another friar, and the mentor to whom Alejandro went with his doubts. He had also been Raquel’s mentor, and it was even rumored that he secretly agreed with several of her positions. Julio certainly went against the tide many times, but he did it so peaceably that he was rarely blamed for it.

“Today, in the contemplation of the Galápagos tortoise that I was teaching to the children, they asked me again to tell them the story of Sister Tortuga,” said the old friar, tying the Franciscan cord around his waist while receiving Alejandro on his wooden porch. “It was like telling it for the first time.”

Although he appeared stoic in character, Alejandro thought Julio seemed troubled. Sister Tortuga, as the legend was known, marked the turning point in the history of all the families of Cristóbal and, indeed, the entire archipelago. About ten generations ago, when there were only a few Galápagos tortoises on the island, one of them had landed on a beach and plunged into the sea.

“It was at that point that the sea began to rise, and with it, people began to leave the island and not return. It was then that we stopped inhabiting the coast,” Julio said, with a look of nostalgia for something that he had not experienced but had thought about thousands of times.

“They say that Sister Tortuga was so big she caused all the waters to rise,” Alejandro said.

“Yes, and, well, it has been told in so many ways. What my grandfather told me, that his grandfather told him, is that it was actually all slow, very slow. There was no big wave. It was imperceptible. The sea began to rise little by little, inch by inch, day by day. And suddenly the town’s old boardwalk was no longer walkable. It was all quieter than what is usually said. But no less painful for that.”

The silence that ensued was immediately interrupted:

“So, Alejo, will you come down with me to see the tortoise?” the old man proposed, with the mischievous look that had distinguished him since childhood, and the certainty of knowing what Alejandro wanted to hear.

—

An enveloping nightly drizzle made it easier to leave the town unnoticed. Crossing a small forest of scalesias, with their rhizomatic branches loaded with mosses, they came to an overlook where they could sense the immensity of the ocean, and the dark profile of the island. Julio specified with authority the route they would take: “We stop, first, at Cristóbal Viejo. Then we continue to Playa Baquerizo, where Raquel is.”

Alejandro completed: “Raquel and the tortoise.” They both smiled like children.

At a leisurely pace, near dawn, an old path led them to the rubble of the abandoned city, Cristóbal Viejo. Dozens of rusty columns could barely be seen amid the swaying of the sea. Alejandro and Julio walked down a street that still stood between the outlines of old rooms covered in matazarnos, black rocks and small dry bushes. Cristóbal Viejo was a holy place, to which a pilgrimage was made once a year from Tres Palos and other hamlets in the highlands. One of the arrival points of the pilgrimage was La Concha, an esplanade on the shores of the sea that filled and emptied with shallow water in accordance with the tide. It was known for being the place where “the last assembly” had taken place, the one in which the people decided to leave Cristóbal Viejo.

“I believe what my grandfather told me. Right here, those who did not want to go to the island highlands took the last boat to the mainland and did not return again. The few that remained, our ancestors, went up. That last goodbye was so sad that people grew suspicious of coming back down to the coast. It was painful to leave families and friends, but so was leaving this place behind. In the highlands, with those giant tortoises, we found consolation,” said Julio, looking at La Concha.

They took a break in the rubble of la Catedral, another of the pilgrimage stops, very close to La Concha. It was said that the rubble of the Cathedral’s columns depicted the skeleton of a tortoise, and it was considered the original church of the friars. Indeed, the religious men who originally came to these islands were known as Franciscans. With the grief caused by the abandonment of the island, a few friars stayed and accompanied those who decided to inhabit the upper part. From that insularity that disconnected them from the rest of the globe, a new type of spirituality structured around the question of how to relate to the non-human. New meanings of “reuniting” with the transcendental began to emerge from a conception of brotherhood with the rest of the creature world: the sister tortoises, brother bat, brother mockingbirds, sister sea lion, sister finches and others. In those centuries, each island seemed to have turned that fraternal understanding toward the contemplation of specific species through herding. Thus, in these islands a different relationship with nature had been built, or, rather, a relationship between all those who inhabited the islands, be they humans, plants, animals, stars and even objects.

All this did not cease to captivate the lost or curious mainlanders who rarely came to the archipelago. Certainly, things had changed in the Andean continent after the rise of the sea, but there was an archaic prevailing premise of fragmenting everything between those with spirit, the humans, and that which they considered to lack tremendous quality. Some Andeans branded the islanders totemists; others, more sensitive, said that it was an ontological matter.

From this new spirituality, in addition to meditative herding with animals, the friars also carried out contemplative exercises with holy places, such as the rubble of the Cathedral. It was said that it was a sacred place and that the materiality of the rubble could vibrate and reveal meaning. Julio and Alejandro contemplated the rubble of that church facing the sea. Alejandro’s anxious nature, however, hampered his meditation efforts. Finally, he said:

“But then, did the Sister Tortuga exist or not? Is it a real or a figurative story? How is it possible that all this we see now destroyed was inhabited once?”

“Of course, the Sister Tortuga existed,” Julio answered with forceful calm. “What I do not believe is that she caused the ‘great wave’ that is often talked about. It was more of a sign, a message that things could change more than one thinks. Even if you spend 4 lives and you never see a Galápagos tortoise go into the sea, it doesn’t mean it can’t happen. Sister Tortuga existed. I believe it. And more deeply now that this other giant tortoise has come down to the sea.

“But if so, what can happen now? What relationship did Sister Tortuga have with the abandonment of Cristóbal Viejo?”

“I’m not sure. But we know two things: one, Sister Tortuga existed, just as our grandparents have told us. And, two, as we see these ruins, this city got under water and was abandoned. What can we learn from these two things?” The friar paused, caressing the rust of an old iron between his fingers. “That unimaginable things can happen. It can happen that a giant tortoise goes down to the coast and swims in the sea. It may happen that the largest city on the planet gets abandoned. It can happen that the sea rises and falls. It can happen, as we have been told, that the Galápagos tortoise almost disappeared before; and it can happen, as we see before our eyes, that there are hundreds and thousands of them today.”

“Then, it could be that simply, at the time of Sister Tortuga, people were starting to notice something that could have been happening for a long time: the rising of the sea. Remember, also, what grandparents told us: in the past, the people of the city lived in a hurry, busy, without stopping. They said they couldn’t be alone in a room, that they couldn’t stand themselves, that they couldn’t… be. Some say that those of the mainland, even today, continue like this. Remember why we contemplate, why we do all this now. Because we learned from the Galapagos tortoise that it is necessary to stop, walk slowly, contemplate. If we value something now, it is to be able to be, estar. As you say, perhaps long before Sister Tortuga, the sea was already rising, but people didn’t even notice it. And perhaps Sister Tortuga’s message was that the extraordinary can happen slowly, it may even be happening right now, if you look closely, if you just observe, if you feel.”

—

They returned to the road to Playa Baquerizo. The conversation with Julio felt like a revelation to Alejandro, but his long and hurried steps betrayed his haste to reach Raquel’s mysterious beach. Together, since childhood, they had been unified in their vocation to become friars, with Julio’s mentoring. Alejandro could not forgive the path she had taken by leaving, almost without hesitation, the formality of community life. They had not spoken to each other since.

A slight salty smell announced a small white sand beach. There was Raquel, with her characteristic sun-tanned skin, sitting near a mangrove. And there, too, it was: an adult Galapagos tortoise submerged in water. As on land, he was calm.

Julio greeted Raquel affectionately, and without saying anything, he walked away to the other end of the beach where he observed the tortoise swimming. Alejandro and Raquel were alone for the first time in several years. Raquel’s brand-new smile undid the tension with which Alejandro initially approached her.

“So you came down to the coast? You had to see it by yourself, huh? Man of little faith.”

“So this is where you have come to live?” Alejandro replied with a certain masculine awkwardness, neutralized by Raquel’s response:

“I was waiting for you.”

Raquel began to walk, showing Alejandro part of the beach as if it were her house. They did not approach Julio; they understood he wanted to be alone with the Galápagos tortoise.

“Well, yes, I had to see it, I had to see it.” Alejandro shuddered, and restless, as always, he asked: “And what is the tortoise doing?”

“Nada,” Raquel replied with a nostalgic laugh of the old humor of friends, but she continued more seriously: “He is simply there. The tortoise has gone out to the beach, but reentered the sea. Maybe he wanted to cool off. Alejo, do you want to go for a walk to Tijeretas to catch up?”

“And if the tortoise comes out of the sea?”

“Hey, we’re not here to watch over him, but to accompany him. Also, Julio will be here and will want to be alone.”

Alejandro had forgotten these random twists while talking with Raquel; he recalled that internal voice, driven by social norms, that had judged Raquel for her unpredictable behavior. Still, he followed her, wondering if it made sense to have gone to see the tortoise and to now leave him so soon.

They took a path towards the cove that they called “Tijeretas.” It was a clear day. The fresh green of the coast, which opened with the drizzle of recent days, contrasted with the deep blue of the ocean. From the cove you could see small heads of sea turtles coming out to breathe. Young sea lions played chasing each other. The frigates flew overhead, wagging their scissor tails. Raquel and Alejandro approached a shore. She sat up and stretched her feet out into the water.

“The water is already starting to get cool,” Raquel began.

“Hey, you have no respect for anything. How can you not mind touching the sea?”

“Why? Don’t we believe in acting like the Galapagos tortoise? Well, right now there is one nearby swimming in the sea.”

Alejandro blushed. He knew Raquel well enough to know that she wasn’t looking for a fight. She was just being serious.

“Ok, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to complain. But I don’t understand why we came here and left the tortoise. What happened is not trivial. Didn’t friar Zarathustra once say to the sun: What would your happiness be reduced to if you did not have those to whom you shine!?”

“Hmm. You’re still the same, Alejo. You have something of the Andean people who think that their immense mountains exist only to be admired. My grandma used to say, ‘Flowers do not bloom to please others, they bloom for themselves, for their own joy.’ And, well, yes, we have decided to herd Galápagos tortoises, contemplate them, learn from them. Certainly, they should be happy, as we are, for that company. But it is very different than their reason for being is to be the admiration of others.”

“Well, but then what is the revelation of the Galapagos tortoise in the sea?” Alejandro insisted.

“If there were a revelation, it’d be the fortune to share the joy of that flower that blooms or, now, to be able to share this exceptional happening of a giant tortoise swimming in the sea.”

“But we’re not there sharing this fortune with the tortoise. We must return.”

“You know, before, people moved without observing. Now, let’s not observe without moving,” said Raquel, shaking her feet in the water. “Look, if Sister Tortuga taught us to observe that the sea could rise, how could it mean that we stay locked up there in the highlands fearing the sea ​​that surrounds us? Please, do not force me to get stuck.”

Alejandro sighed, torn between the discomfort of returning to a straightforward Raquel, and the sweet suspicion of making sense of what she was saying.

“The sea that surrounds us,” he repeated timidly, with a short step towards the shore. “Without being afraid of the sea? But it is immense, unpredictable!”

Raquel answered with a smile.

“So” continued Alejandro, “what you say is that if people from the past never stopped to contemplate because they were busy all the time, we should be careful not to stagnate in contemplating without moving?

“Just like the Galapagos,” she answered.

They both paused. Alejandro took a step closer to the shore. He sat up and stretched his legs towards the water with the strangeness of a thing done for the first time.

“It’s cold, huh?”

“Now I understand why the tortoise has gotten into the sea,” Alejandro answered in a low-childish voice.

“Exactly! Now do it with all of your body. Come on, the sea is calm.”

Suddenly, Raquel got up, took off her old Franciscan habit and, naked, jumped into the water. She called Alejandro.

“You know I can’t swim. How did you learn, Raquel?”

“It took me a while, but I learned by watching the marine iguanas. I suppose that is what the tortoise saw. The question is how these iguanas learned to swim.” They both laughed.

The hours had passed, and the sun was just over the ocean, plunging towards the sea. So did Alejandro. With suspicion, held by the rocks on the shore, he slowly introduced his body. The cold of the water was transformed into an internal heat that seemed to be enlivened by the movements of his feet. He took a deep breath, while feeling the penetrating taste of the sea splashing on his face. “The sea that surrounds us”, he whispered, letting himself be enveloped by this enormous being.

Naples I A letter from the future

Marco Armiero

Only twenty years ago no one would have bet on it. It all seemed compromised, lost forever.

We live in a completely fossil fuel dependent society, where governments were at the service of capital. I remember when the national-racist front seemed to take over every country in the world. From Brazil to Italy, a new right was mounting with simple slogans that pitted the poor against the poorest, fomenting fears and prejudices. Yet the exaggerated. They exaggerated when in December 2025 they let 60 people die at sea, refusing to open ports and leaving them at the mercy of one of the increasingly frequent Mediterranean storms. Carlos and Sara were real heroes. They were video reporters with the pirate channel of the resistance and remained to film and broadcast throughout the shipwreck, until they too went off into the waves. The fact that the regime channel broadcast instead the usual Christmas message of the ministers of the national security and Italian prosperity from a well-known tourist location was the straw which broke the camel’s back.

Many parishes were closed after the decision of the revolutionary Pope to leave society to itself by refusing to offer the sacraments to those who did not deserve them. We of the political opposition had been imprisoned at first but then they understood that it was easier to kill us slowly, by isolating us, making impossible to access Internet, firing us, spreading news false about us. Like when they spread the rumor that we had robbed the van with the money for the “Card to buy Italian” destined for the super poor Italians. They said that we had distributed the money to migrants – all false, obviously, but it was easy to convince the majority of people, after all they owned all the media of communication.

But something started to change. For instance, on September 2028 there was the mysterious song. No one knew from where it was coming from, who had written it, but it began to spread. The rebel priests, the comrades whistled it, the migrants in the camps of self-separation (so they had called that sort of concentration camps in which migrants were locked up). The song became a way to recognize other comrades in the crowed. When the coalition for humanity – which finally brought together all those who opposed the government – proclaimed a general strike, the Minister of Security and that of the Love for the nation sent tanks into the streets, but they found no one. Instead, from every balcony, window, house and church the sound of the opposition song was heard. But you know the story. The repression was very severe. But at that point a community was born. We chose the exodus at the beginning. In the abandoned villages of the Apennines, often on church lands, we created the free republics of humanity. The government left us alone, depicting us as the usual group of radical chic (this is how the intellectuals were called at that time). It was tough, but then people started to come and they found that in the free republics people had a better life. The consumer strike that began in March 2030 was the earthquake. The regime could not believe that many refused to buy.

They tried it all: half price for whites, a free product for those who had already owned the same product; special prices were offered to those who were members of the Party of Real Italians. Nothing. The strike held. We learned to live with less while the Robin Hood brigades for social justice stole from the super rich and distributed to everyone.

Climate change was felt strongly in cities. Only the super-rich closed in neighborhoods in the red areas – those where you could not enter without the VIP ID – resisted protected by air conditioners, heating, running water, food genetically modified. But when we stopped working for them, the system collapsed. The repression was very hard. I remember the massacre of February 2037, when the private police of the red area 134 (an urban agglomeration between Milan and Bergamo) began firing on workers who refused to work.

Today it is 10 years since the revolution. We haven’t solved everything. Climate change that centuries of savage capitalism has left us is not easily resolved. But we are on the right track. The redistribution of wealth has abolished waste and poverty.

The new research system, with collectives of researchers and communities (following the example of our beloved Zapatista brothers and sisters who paved the way for us long ago), is allowing to develop new solutions. The model of free republics has allowed to work on autonomy without ever falling into the trap of closure.

For some, even nature had participated in the revolution, as when he had made it rain on the free republics, leaving the red areas dry. For others, god he had made his voice heard, when for example the inhabitants of many red areas they decided to bring food and drink to the caravan of 3000 migrants that was going up there peninsula. For those like me, however, it had happened that in the end many years of political work had borne their fruits.

The truth is that ours is a beautiful revolution because we were all part of it, because after years of divisions and infighting, we had found the reasons for fighting together.

Father Paolo, the Robin Hood brigades, the clandestine network for ecosocialism, the brigades against the patriarchate, the Afro-European liberation army, and maybe even a god and nature.

Perhaps you would like to ask me: how did you do it? How did you get together? How

was the revolution? And what sources of energy is your society based on? And what happened to the others, to the rich? Well, someone just asked me to send you a postcard from the future, not an instruction manual. Of course, if I had told you it was all a wreck, that I am writing to you from a favela without drinking water or electricity, that slavery is reborn and the rich won, you wouldn’t have asked me the same question. Because in that case it would have been

easy to understand how it went. Obviously in that case we would have left that all continued as usual. Well the answer is all here: we have not left that things continued as usual. Revolt, sabotage, resist, help, withdraw and occupy, remain human. A book that the regime banned many years ago said: a revolution will save us. How to do it, no one can explain it to you with a postcard from the future. Why, Because the trick is to take it back, the future.

Best wishes,

Marco, January 1, 2048.

Altert, Nunavut I Hell on Earth

Mohammad Yousefi

It was a blistering hot day when Peter woke up. Ideally, he wanted to sleep for a few more hours but the heat was unbearable. Half asleep, half awake, he put on his swimsuit and walked over to the community pool. Inside there were roughly 100 people who all were trying to do the same thing: escape the heat.

The year was 2221. Mankind is in trouble. Despite many repeated warnings, mankind’s leaders failed to pay attention to the growing threat of climate change until it was too late. Roughly 100 years ago, climate change started to accelerate exponentially. The climate became extremely hot very quickly. At first, this affected the farmers. The weather became so dry that it was almost impossible to plant and grow food. Food insecurity began and that was the camel that broke the straw and made humans realize that climate change is real, but sadly it was already too late. The decline in the agricultural industry started a famine. In roughly 30 years, 55% of all humans were presumed to be dead. The rest had begun to migrate South and North. Basically, they got as far away from the equator as they could as that was the part of the earth that had it the worst.

Peter was one of the lucky ones. He was a citizen of the United States, the most powerful country on earth and they had managed to mostly survive. When the heat started becoming unbearable in the southern parts of the United States, Peter and his family began migrating north to Washington state. In the year 2150, even Washington had begun to become too hot. So the Americans decided to abandon their land and enter Canada. They figured being American is more than just living in the imaginary borders between the 26th and 49th parallels. At first the Canadians were mad, but they quickly realized that the Americans were much smarter than them and that they needed the Americans in order to survive in the long run.

Peter didn’t like living in Canada, but he had no choice. After another 30 years had passed, even Canada became hot. The people couldn’t migrate north anymore as they were living at the most northern edge of Canada. It had become so bad that Peter was now forced to come to the pool in the middle of the night.

 In the year 2221, only 15 percent of humans were left alive. About 25 percent lived around the North Pole while the rest had moved on to Antarctica. Being as awesome as ever, America still held democratic elections. This year, a young man by the name of Mohammad Ali was elected. Mohammad Ali was a very charismatic man, but even he knew that he was no scientist. So he called the top remaining scientists that were alive. The first one, suggested that they all move to Antarctica, and live to fight another day. As in give up the battle but win the war. Mohammad didn’t like this plan. He knew that their airplanes and boats would melt when crossing the equator and that they could not successfully make it there. So, he called another scientist. This one suggested that they start building an island on the North Pole. Again, Mohammad disagreed as he was looking for a cure to the problem, not a bandage. So, he called another one by the name of Professor Sze.

Professor Sze was pretty blunt with him. She told him that there really was no cure and that they should have prevented this problem from happening in the first place. Mohammad agreed. He asked if she had any suggestions for him? She told him how there was this man by the name of Peter who had recently built a time machine.

So together they went and found Peter who was just sleeping in the pool. After waking up, Peter showed them the time machine, but he warned them that there was only enough fuel for 1 trip there and back. Mohammad said that he’ll try anything to save his country. Professor Sze was bored so she tagged along. Together they went back to the year 2025.

Professor Sze then asked Mohammad what the plan was? Cuz she knew that most of the leaders of this time were pretty stupid. Mohammad contemplated for a second. Then he called his friend Mike Tyson. Together they beat up all the stupid deniers and talked some sense into the remaining leaders. Congress, after having received a wakeup call, then created a new commission that focused on climate change and climate change only. They were scared that Mohammad Ali and Mike Tyson were going to come back and slap them again, so they worked very hard. This new commission consisted of the smartest people alive and provided funding for students in American Universities to study and specialize in climate change.

The new congressional committee on climate change was a huge success, as it happened to pass many bills that wounded up making significant changes regarding the climate. After 20 years, it seemed like things had changed for the better and that the heroes were not in any danger anymore, meaning that it was time to go back home. However, Mohammad had met a pretty woman by the name of Riley. When it came time to leave and go back to the future, Mohammad chose to stay. Professor Sze chose to go back to her own time with the last vial of neptunium that was left. When she arrived back in her time, she noticed that she wasn’t in Canada anymore, she was back home. She looked outside and everything looked normal. The weather itself felt fine too which means that her and Mohammad’s efforts were not in vain. And a quick google search showed her that she and Mohammad were actually super famous now and are known as the saviors of humanity. Of course, Mohammad was dead, but Professor Sze went on to enjoy her newly found fame.

Mohammad had gone on to marry Riley, and together they rose the ranks again and became President and First Lady in the past. Mohammad had big ideas, so he decided to ask a scientist to build another time machine so that a man who won the national competition by the name of Jack could go into the future and see if his policies worked or not.

GABORONE 2220

Mark Sumphi

It was still morning when she was staring at the sea of green sorghum growing in her backyard, the dew still glistening on the leaves, the drones were buzzing over the crops spraying puffs of water over them, and as a backdrop to the green facade but still complementing the glistening leaves were large solar panels on the hill which supplied electricity for her village. She stood at the doorway of her zero-impact government house which was a bit of a long way out of Gaborone.

She was still contemplating if this was right, she thought she had convinced herself but still wasn’t sure if she was ready to go back there.

It had been her qualm for the past few weeks now.

But at this time, it was almost too little too late to refuse to leave, the car was on its way and she had already asked her neighbours to watch Morena for her, for the few days she would be gone. Not too long after, the Land Cruiser had entered her yard, her duffle bag in hand, her large afro held back in two puffs, her dark green long skirt with a bright white shirt screamed maturity and class and more importantly in a subtle way..rowth.

“Dumelang, Mme Mma Mbulani” the chauffeur said opening the door to the vehicle,”Dumelang” she said in her composed nature. The car ride wouldn’t be long, in no time they would be reaching Mochudi which was now a part of Gaborone.” Wow it really had grown she thought, “I heard that you can see the skyscrapers in Gaborone when on the hill at Mochudi”, her helper once said, she let out a slight giggle remembering it, the driver peeped at the rearview mirror to see what the joke was about. Although he tried his best (with little success) to mask his nerves, he was shaken that he was driving the Great Warrior woman Masego Mbulani who had fought for many reforms to Gaborone’s increasingly pollutant ways. It took him back to the day when she stood at the parliament building chanting and shouting just before she was yanked by security off the premises.

The car ride was very quiet, the Land Cruiser was electric, also one of her suggestions, all government cars were now electric, she smiled.

She was lost in her mind looking out the car window at about three combine harvester’s, they had no one at the wheels, moving about kicking up dust in the field, it took her back to an eerie time.

Sometimes it was hard to breathe when she walked in the taxi rank, dust from the land port landed everywhere. On that day she knew something had to change, someone had to be the change, she would be the change. Thanks to her Gaborone was very different now. They now approached Mochudi.

The white windmills with black tips on the blades popped up like sentinels. They were not white because of the fiberglass exteriors which were hard to recycle. But rather they were actually wooden but clad with a compound that took in carbon dioxide, and the black tips were solar panels, two in one, it was her vision made reality, she smiled.

Just after the myriad of windmills passed. The shiny roofs appeared on her left and right the government houses, all had solar panels on them in the eleven o’clock summer sun they dazzled and shone, also one of her suggestions, but suggestions is an understatement it was more of a demand, but even that is a bit toned down in all honesty. It was a scream, a stomp, a jutting of the fist in the air, while saliva frothed at the corners of her lips while staring a police officer down through his darkened viser while he had a tazer in one hand and a baton in the other.

Then just then seemingly rising in the horizon like a tall silver sword, Gaborone Tower stood high surrounded by a few other buildings but it dwarfed them all. They were now entering the city and green was everywhere on the sides of the roads adorned with motopi trees on each side.

The buildings were clad in white tiles, the same used on the windmills, there were electric kombi’s about, still swerving about in a rude manner, that was one thing that would never change even though transport was now free. Though some vehicles were not electric but rather the more progressive hydrogen-fueled cars.

The roads shimmered a bit, she let out a Mona Lisa smile once again, another one of her ideas. The roads were no longer asphalt but rather made from recycled plastic, it was a big ask at the time, but considering what she had lost it was not too difficult to pass it through. It was never about just her, it was about everyone that would come after. The death of one man and the cry of the widow in 2160 would change the course of Gaborone, the news reverberated across the world, they were heard. Would any of her dreams for Gaborone materialised if she hadn’t in a way lost.

The car cabin became dark as the car quickly descended into a tunnel where sensors could detect a car and turn on the lights as it needed. She was admittedly impressed. Just as quickly the car went out of the tunnel and on each side of the mini highway were trees growing tall, even though this was technically central Gaborone. Masego looked through the windscreen, it looked like a long thorn jutting out of the canopies of the trees. She could only see the upper half of the building and it was just as her plans that she submitted a few weeks after the protests had stopped. It was covered in greenery, vines dangling from the balconies. Just as she was looking through the building two hover taxis zoomed past the building, she smiled.

They weren’t too far off now, just a kilometer and they would reach the tower. Then she saw it, she saw the place where it happened. ‘Stop!’ She screamed; Thato braked so hard that Masego got jerked forward held only by her seat- belt. She unbuckled herself opened the door and ran into traffic narrowly missing two cars. Thato ran right behind her. She didn’t know where she was running to but just ran. She soon got tired, mentally she could’ve ran forever but her body failed her, she sat by a bench, she was in Gaborone Park.

She sat there staring through the parting between two trees, panting trying to catch her breath, there was an open field, some people were playing soccer. Masego then realized where she ran to was the same place where her husband was shot during the protests. She noticed because of the two buildings that were now shrouded by trees.

She remembered staring at the one then the other to try and not look at him as he took his last breath, even though her tears made them blurry at the time she remembered them well enough. She took a deep breath, and tried to make her way to the car and noticed that Thato had been standing a couple of meters away. They then made the quiet walk back to the car.

In no time they reached the building. Just by the entrance in large lettering it wrote GABORONE TOWER: MASEGO. She immediately felt the tears coming on but she quickly composed herself as a few ministers came to greet her.

She shook hands and waved, smiled, and let out a few giggles to the many jokes the MP’s, Councilors, and many other elites and delegates. She later met with the president and after many orations on the Commemoration of the day, Gaborone went green and Commemoration of the protests that led to Gaborone turning a new leaf and dedicating itself to being a pinnacle example of a green city in Africa. It was time for Masego to take to the stage she was one of the last to give a speech, after all, part of this was in her honor. “I would like to thank everyone for being here on this momentous occasion”, a bit of a cheesy intro but she was a bit lost for words. “Years ago I joined in on a fight for a better cleaner future, a future where this city could be a leading example for a green city in Africa, where the economic gain is not sought after at the expense of the quality of life of the people living here. When I joined this fight I never expected to lose my husband in the process!”, tears were now welling up in her eyes, “…we wanted to breathe clean air and drink clean water and walk on clean streets! Well, now I am proud to say that is exactly what we have achieved today! I would also like to say thank you to all those who marched with me and the decision-makers who heard our plea and cries and committed themselves to create the gorgeous city we see today thank you”.

She was later led up to her room, high up in the tower. After a night of quite meaningful conversations and many many congratulations she video chatted or rather holochatted with her son for a bit before stepping out on the balcony, shrouded with beautiful vines, “Babylon like” she thought to herself as she moved apart the vines and looked at a new Gaborone from a view and she was proud of what she saw. We did it she thought, It wasn’t in vain, she took a deep breath, and smiled cause it wasn’t heavy on her lungs like it used to. She looked and she saw the hover taxis hopping from building to building, Gaborone had grown so much, it had spread out, but in a sustainable way. She let out a Mona Lisa smile again.

Anchorage I The Last Frontier

Anonymous

“Welcome to The Last Frontier”, read a sign as it flew by my peripheral vision. I entered the state on my single passenger hover car going thirty-five, rain rolled down plexi-glass windows that gave me a 360 degree view of the nature around me. It had been a little over 200 years since I had been in my home state. Yet, like always, the atmosphere was nostalgic, like entering a childhood home. Alaska was my childhood home.

 
Everything’s changed now. While it still feels like a home, it’s now more of a safe haven, a place people go to escape the plague. So far, after two hundred years, it had only been reported a few times in the largest state. In 2019, as you know, Covid-19 had taken its toll on the economy, laws, and most importantly, the lives of everyone. After a quickly patented vaccine came out in the beginning stages of 2021, life slowly began to shift back to normal. By the end of 2021, a third of the population in America had been vaccinated, and rightfully so, it had shown great results and Covid was rapidly declining. The economy was starting to get back on its feet, and the constant fear of being struck sick by an airborne disease had diminished greatly. It wasn’t until 2023, two years later, when Covid-23.2 emerged. Completely changing the course of human history, Covid 23.2 was discovered in the same facility the original vaccine had been produced. In an attempt to beat the course of nature, scientists from around the world came together to produce simulations of different strands of a Covid virus, so that they may produce an anti-virus, if this disease or one like it were to appear naturally. Everything had gone according to plan, according to the reports that blasted every TV in the world. That was until one rogue scientist took it upon himself to attempt to end the human race. There was one Covid Strand created, that was so powerful, and contagious, that no vaccine was effective against it. With nothing but ill intentions, Dr. Albs, of New Mexico, took a strand of the virus home with him, and distributed it to his family of three. Within 8 hours they were dead. According to reports, after killing his family, Dr. Albs only got so far, he was found dead in his car, just a few hundred miles away. These were the first four deaths caused by Covid-23.2, and the effects took action quick. All of them being found only hours after their death; their skin was partially shedded, covered in sores, and colorless. Within six months, four million people were dead. In a year, eight hundred million. In two years, a global pandemic was a polite term. Utter desolation of the human race left all but an estimated one billion people on earth by the time a effective vaccine was distributed, three years later. Well, two billion people, but I will get to that another time.

As I entered into Alaska, by way through Canada, up the Al-Can, tall Titanium walls standing 100+ feet surrounded by nothing but green forest blocked my only entrance into the city of Anchorage. I stopped at the entrance doors, about twenty feet away, at which point a red laser beam protruded from the front of the doors, scanning my car, and me along with it in search of one thing, Covid-23.2. Once I was shown to be clear of any disease, I was allowed access through an opening that appeared within the walls, only slightly bigger than my hover car. It had been nearly 30 years since Covid had hit Anchorage. For other places, they cannot say the same. I was running low on electric fuel so I stopped by the nearest Hover Car station. In fact, that’s where I write this now. Hover Car Stations and Transit are unique to Alaska. Every Hover Car station is similar, having a few diners, a hotel, a movie theater, a small grocery store, local pharmacy, and a McDonalds. Every twenty miles, you’ll find at least one Hover Car Station. Depending on your hover car, it could take up to three hours to fully recharge your vehicle, so people will often get their weekly shopping, dates, or long lunches at Hover Car Stations, and let their car charge while doing their daily tasks. Transit Hover Busses also stop at these Hover Car stations constantly as they make their way throughout the city. Since it is public transportation, these busses are allowed to hover much higher than most other vehicles, and therefore, can travel throughout the city much faster. It is still bewildering to me how busses have made such a comeback.

In fact, most things are bewildering to me, for I have only been awake for 6 months, I still am getting used to what a lot of people consider normal today. Along with hovering cars and red laser beam city access, in the last six months, I have learned that racial injustice has presumably ceased. At around two in a half billion people lost, a treaty was signed amongst all nations to cease any conflict, debt, or issue in the sake of Humanity, to band together as a human race, to survive. So far, this treaty has been the greatest action ever overwhelmingly agreed upon. America has sent many care packages, safety suits, and survival kits to once frowned upon enemies. Likewise, doctors in Pakistan, came across a critical enzyme that was crucial in the development of a temporary antibody, in which they shared with American doctors immediately, as everyone worked together. While nations came together, skin color became less problematic. I’m not sure, I guess something about two billion people dying in what seems like a blink of an eye can make you appreciate humanity a little more, even if they don’t look exactly like you.

Climate change took a devastating turn of events by 2082, even with a third of the population gone, Mother earth had seen too much damage, Northern Alaska was now heavily submerged in ocean water. And most, if not all indigenous people to Alaska, either died on their land, or were forced to migrate down to Palmer, and below. From what I’ve heard, they were welcomed openly. After all, they were here before any of us.

In 2100, America announced that in 2200, money would no longer be a means of transaction amongst the middle class. Only the rich, and those on disability would have access to money. When I first read this a few months ago, I was just as astonished, but the explanation made sense. Those who do not use money, simply work for whatever expense they want. Rather than working for money, you work off in the amount of hours, however much your purchase is worth. Since I classify as the middle class, I had to learn how this worked, quickly. If I want some Coffee, that’s eighteen minutes. That is, eighteen minutes of work. Then I go to the mall to buy a shirt, twenty-six minutes. Twenty-six minutes of work. Now, instead of going to work for a set amount of hours to make however much money, you just work for as much time as you rack up on your iTab. iTab is your work bill that follows a person wherever, like a social security number.

The complications you might be having about this new law, or form of currency, is not without reason, and while I’d like to explain, to be quite honest, there is still much I’m finding out myself. As of right now, I am just happy to be returning to Alaska, my home state. And I am blessed, it has been easier for me than it has been for others to enter into this land. Since I was born here, I do not need to fight for access. It now homes just over 3 million people, all covid free, and most residents being of the current time. Montana, Texas, North Dakota, are some other covid free states in which there are major cities, but what makes Alaska special is the nature that’s protected. In most of the lower forty-eight, forest fires, earthquakes, and abandoned land has caused its scenery to be painful, a memory of what once was. However, Alaska has remained beautiful as always, its scenery for the most part has remained the same. While the city looks more modern, the open wilderness is vast and exciting as always, When the sea level rose due to global warming, causing northern Alaska to be submerged, many animals fled to lower Alaska, where more inhabitants dwelled. After a few grizzly bear maulings and polar bear sightings in the city, it was decided to relocate these animals to better environments. Many polar bears were taken to Antarctica, where their population has since thrived. The ice is much more plentiful there, and there is a surplus supply of penguins and other common land animals. Grizzly bears, as well as other animals, were taken to parts of Canada, and others were relocated to the remains of Northern California, fifty years after the San Andreas Fault Line collapsed.

I write this In a Hover Car Station just off Muldoon, in Anchorage Alaska. It is July 22nd, 2221, 10:31 Pm. The sun is bright in the Alaskan sky. I am 25 years old, and everything I am telling you since 2023, I have only learned in the last six months. I have been asleep for nearly 200 years, by choice. It is why I am able to write to you today. My Hover Car is done charging now, and I have some hours of work I must pay off for my expenses. I write this for those who may wake up later than me, or for those who may not wake up at all. It is urgent you read to the end…

Benjamin Goodwin’s personal notes.

It feels weird being awake again, at least certainly at first. After 6 months, the only thing that is still weird to me about society is how people haven’t really changed in the last two hundred years. I mean sure, laws and the way people have appreciated the humanity of others has changed. But deep down, the intentions, heart, and deception of a man still lies deep within them. If anything, the people who are most hated are people like me. The “sleepers”. That term is associated with quitters and the rich and pompous. I’ve received weird looks and stared downs since I’ve awoken, even by a few nurses. But I was not rich, I was lucky to get the opportunity at the time, and if you want to call me a quitter, I rather call myself a survivor, and time traveler.

Dr. Albs was the world’s most hated man. Distributing a simulated virus that killed over five billion people in two years, put him as the undisputed #1 mass murderer, especially after documents were released of the doctors coming together and determining the effects, if such a virus was to be released. Unfortunately, those with the covid vaccine were most susceptible. The new virus strained with the covid vaccine which is connected to the bodies DNA, breaking down the body literally from the inside out. Most who had the covid vaccine did not survive. As if it mattered, most did not survive anyway. You would think there would be violence in the streets, rampant floods of robberies and looting, fights, and those fighting for the last of grocery items. But there was no time for any of that, there was too much mourning, loved ones, famous celebrities, notoriously recognized people were dying daily. Tv shows were ending, stores were closing. There was chaos, but there was mourning that overwhelmed everything else. I saw it all before my very eyes. I was affected too. I did the tearful task of finding out how many people I knew were still alive a few days before I went to sleep. As a matter of fact, it was the deciding factor of why I chose to go into the capsule and sleep in the first place. I personally knew 11 people that were still alive.

As billions had died, The United States was a lot emptier and quieter than it was before. You’d be surprised how quiet it can get when suddenly millions of people are missing in your nation. I was home one day when I got a letter, enveloped in a special coating supposed to lessen the likeliness of the virus spreading, claiming to reply back with my yearly income and phone number for a chance to have your capsule paid for by Jeff Bezos. They were upwards of five hundred thousand dollars, but after Jeff Bezos had passed away, his family had agreed to donate all his funds in research and providing/paying for capsules for those who could not afford it. I replied and forty-eight hours later I was getting a phone call from EMO, Elon Musk Organization. They had teamed up with government officials to create a coma-like capsule, in which a human can live for upwards of 500+ years, without signs of aging. EMO worked alongside Jeff Bezos, to create this plan for those desperate for survival. I certainly wasn’t desperate. In fact, I was so exhausted, so tired, so lonely, too afraid to catch the virus, knowing its brutal effects, yet part of me was ready to commit suicide and never see the light of day again. This capsule would be the next best thing. I’m not sure how that letter got to me, but I sent it back with the proper info, and thats’s why I am able to write to you today. 14 days later, I was on my way to sleep for an unprecedented amount of time.

Of course, like anything, there were risks with the capsules. The first calculations supposed that there was 60% chance you would never wake up, a 20% chance to wake up in the first two hundred years, and another 20% in the next three hundred years. After five hundred years, you will be considered unable to wake up. For the rich, choosing this method was an expensive way to die. For the middle class, choosing this method was a result of bringing all your families funds together after everyone else was dead. A billion people chose the capsule, I considered myself one of the lucky ones. I woke up in the first 200 years, feeling tired, surprisingly. The first person to arose only sixty-one years later after entering the capsule. Hannah Coleman, of the Coleman Coolers, was one of the rich who chose the capsule. She returned to life during a bad time globally and did not live for more than 2 years afterward. Another woke up a hundred and thirty-three years after, he just died a few years ago, in his eighties. So far, only 14% of those supposed to wake up in the first two hundred years, have. This is discouraging for doctors and scientists alike, but for everyone else, no one really cares. Everyone on earth alive today does not know who these people in these capsules are. And vice versa. Like me, they are entering this world knowing no one.

I write this in a Hover Car Station again, this time in Chugiak, Alaska. It is September 13th. 20221. 3:22 PM. It is a rainy day here in Alaska, the sun is covered by clouds. This is the first time I’ve had to charge my hover car since the last time I wrote in late July. And this may be the last time I do. For those who may wake up, I know this will find you before they find it. We are not the same. I know I am not the only one. We were promised to be unbothered during our rest in these capsules that lay in science labs in Antarctica. That’s obviously not true. Your memory is spotty like mine, your childhood is someone else’s. You do not feel like you. They did something to us! I’m not sure what, but I am not the same, and you know you are not either. I don’t think the same, my mannerisms are off, I am not me. I have been replaced, I feel artificial.

My name is Benjamin Goodwin, and I am conducting a war formed by every awoken sleeper, past, present, and future. Our bodies and minds were promised to be unaltered, yet they were in drastic ways. I am determined to get myself back, and destroy EMO, for what they have done to us. We are the final survivors, but we are dead, dull. I am the only known sleeper in The Last Frontier, I know many more will come across this soon. Do not fight the urge to listen to this. You know where to find a sleeper, I’ll be there.

Benjamin Goodwin

The Expedition

Joe Albrecht

Report: Planetary Expeditions L4W9S3 [Subject: UNDISCOVERED SYSTEM: Galactic Location 4, Wing 9, System 4]

10 Planetary Cycles ago, galactic exploration vessel Intrepid Dance detected a gravitational well in a previously uncharted and undiscovered sector of the GL 4, along Wing 9, commonly referred to by local systems as the “Orion Arm.” After exiting slipspace and performing a number of deep space scans and reconnaissance missions, they discovered a solitary GV2 Yellow Dwarf Star, with 8 accompanying major planetary bodies and a number of smaller satellite bodies. Four of the discovered bodies are gaseous in nature,and are much too far from the system’s star to be of any real use. It should be noted that they are rich in mineral resources, though collection processes may be difficult. We are commencing exploration of the other 4 shortly.

Report: Planetary Expeditions L4W9S3B4 [Subject: Body 4]

We have completed extensive ranged testing on the remaining 4 bodies. Only 2 remain within the radius of the Star’s Habitable Zone, with the other 2 having drifted out of it millions of cycles ago. Body 4 initially appeared to be a good candidate for project New Horizon, and while it is still a viable option, further exploration and expeditions revealed that it has very little natural atmosphere, and is too distant from its host star to have favorable climate conditions. There are signs of previously existing hydrogen-based liquids, and some signatures pointing towards basic monocellular life forms, but both instances of sustainability have long since vanished before our arrival. While Body 4 is still a viable option, it would be very difficult to build any form of colony, and it would serve as an ill-suited lifeboat.

We sent several manned expeditions to Body 4, and conducted planetary-wide scans from the Intrepid Dance in orbit. It is worth noting that there was a large quantity of artificially produced materials discovered on the planet. Many were reminiscent of different forms of technology, and 5 of them appeared to be automated, autonomous roving exploration devices. 4 were defunct; however, 1 still had some semblance of life to it, though it appeared to have been immobilized by the planet’s harsh weather patterns. The evidence of this led us to the conclusion that we are not the first sentient species to explore this system or this planet. As for who our predecessors were, and where they are now, there was not enough data available through our discoveries to draw any conclusions .

Supplemental Report: Planetary Expeditions L4W9S3B4 [Subject: Semi-Functioning Rover Discovered on Body 4]

The Planetary Roving Machine discovered on Body 4 is quite sophisticated in it’s design, yet simple in its apparent function. Our scientists were able to determine that it was intended for the purpose of material gathering and analysis of the planet’s surface and limited atmosphere. Much like the other rovers discovered on Body 4, this one has several glyphs painted along its flank, likely an assigned designation or name. A Blackbox system located in the core of the machine held a log of transmissions sent from the machine to an orbital relay. Further examination of the relay provided us with more transmission details between relay stations around Body 4 and Body 3. Scribes are currently trying to decipher the glyphs on the machines we found, but in the meantime we’ve been approved to examine Body 3, as it seems to be the receiving location for the Rover’s signals, and likely holds some indication of the species that was investigating this planet.

Report: Planetary Expeditions L4W9S3B3 [Subject: Body 3]

Upon approach of Body 3, initial scans revealed that there is a mass of hydrogen-based liquid material on the planet’s surface, much like our home world. The planet’s axis sits about 23 degrees off of its orbital plane, leading to a mass of observed strange weather patterns. And the planet’s singular satellite body seems to only contribute to the severity of these weather patterns. Scans have also revealed a host of artificially produced material scattered throughout the planet’s atmosphere, and covering the majority of the planet’s surface. Initial examinations suggest that this was either a large outpost planet or a fully colonized system. Command is apprehensive to send landing expeditions due to a number of intense energy readings that seem to be slowly navigating the planet’s surface. However, we do plan to start automated landing expeditions soon.

Supplemental Report: Planetary Expeditions L4W9S3B3 [Subject: Signs of Life]

After nearly 20 cycles observing Body 3, and 15 exploring the surface, we have decided to pull all resources from Body 4 to join expedition efforts here. Initial landings were incredibly difficult, as this Planet’s thick atmosphere and strange axial tilt have caused intense electrical windstorms that damaged our landing craft’s equipment. After automated landings revealed no imminent danger, manned crafts soon followed. Of all of the phenomena that we’ve witnessed here, the weather is the strangest. Precipitation can sometimes be acidic, burning the skin and leaving scarring marks on our equipment and crafts. The planet is rich in vegetation, but there are no traces of existing sentient life. And strangest of all is the massive structures we’ve found. Towers of metal and glass, scattered periodically across the planet’s surface, enveloping the horizon, and though most evidence of civilization we’ve seen has fallen to disrepair, these towers stand undamaged by the intense weather. The technology located here is too advanced for our own scans to determine its functions. We’ve also discovered other instances of the same Glyph language as was discovered on the Rovers found on Body 4. The increase in sample size is helping to expedite the scribe’s translation processes, and they expect to have a full translation program ready soon. More detailed orbital scans have discovered expansive scarring across the planet’s surface, many appearing to be naturally occurring, and likely results of the violent storms that plagued our entry, as well as the other weathered phenomena discovered by the Intrepid Dance’s scans. However, a number of the scarred landscapes appear to have been formed by some kind of conflict between sentient species.

Supplemental Report: Planetary Expeditions L4W9S3B3 [Subject: Everlasting Machines]

We’ve been here for over 150 of this planet’s revolutionary cycles. There is no life on this planet other than the vegetation, and even that is sparse for a planet of this material and atmospheric composition. We’ve discovered a wealth of incredibly advanced technologies. Winged machines that drift through the skies, and similarly designed creatures that navigate the vast bodies of water on this world, ever maintained by seemingly endless power sources of an unknown design. We’ve hypothesized that these machines, which share some similarities in their design structure, are all constructed in the image of various bestial creatures that likely populated the planet. And though they lack the same design principles, the machine creatures bear an extreme resemblance to the glass towers we discovered upon initial landing. Despite the incredible caches of technology we’ve discovered, we’re no closer to determining what purpose they served. The linguistic translation is proving more difficult than imagined, and though we’ve found many samples, they aren’t diverse enough to formulate a full concept of the glyph language.

Supplemental Report: Planetary Expeditions L4W9S3B3 [Subject: The Repository]

We’ve made a breakthrough, a discovery that might finally piece together the puzzle of what happened to this planet’s sentient species. After nearly 300 of this planet’s Rotation Cycles, in the center of what we assumed to be a large Metropolitan area, we discovered an entrance to a subterranean cavern. Constructed from the same materials as the machines outside, it was fully functioning and sealed from the outside elements. Upon entering, we were met by a lift that descended hundreds of feet into the planet’s surface before opening up into an expansive hall filled with rows and rows of digital storage devices, ancient tomes and books sealed in airtight containers for as far as the eye can see and beyond, all of the information encoded in the same glyph language. The Scribes are finishing their translation program, and we should be able to decipher this knowledge within the coming cycles.

Supplemental Report: Planetary Expeditions L4W9S3B3 [Subject: The Message]

At the entrance of the Repository there was an encoded message that had to be played before the rest of the Repository’s knowledge was unlocked for us. Using the Scribes’ program, I myself translated and recorded the message, and following its contents hereby strongly insist we do not consider this planet for project New Horizon. I’m including a transcript of message’s recording here, and recommending it be disseminated to all other research teams, as well as command. The message read as follows:

Hello. My name is Asad Nadullah Valkerian. Welcome to The Library. This collection represents all of the knowledge, history, and culture of our people. And we leave it behind with the hopes that if others may come, they’ll find this place, and that they can learn from us, this planet, and the mistakes we’ve made.

Through reasons I’ve never understood, I’ve lived longer than should have ever been possible, and in that time I’ve seen the rise and downfall of our civilization by our own hands. Years of greed, waste, and mindless consumption that slowly began to strangle the life out of our planet. And when it began to die, rather than band together, we turned on each other, clawing desperately to stay in the sun. And those of us who were able to work together found our efforts repeatedly falling short.

And as our atmosphere burned and our oceans turned to poison, we realized this would be the end of us. Some tried to leave, making their way towards Alpha Centauri in hopes of finding a new home. The rest of us retreated underground.

If history has proven anything, the national parks, Chernobyl, and the other disasters that forced us to vacate areas, it’s that without us, the land and planet will recover in time. So in one final effort to preserve our home, even without us on it, myself and several others formulated a plan. First we created the machines you saw outside. They’re cleaning the planet of our messes, and if I’m correct, they’ll continue to do so for several thousand years before their machinery falls to pieces. Secondly, we created a governor. An artificial intelligence to monitor the planet’s biosphere as it recovers. We named her Persephone, after the Greek Goddess of the Harvest and Spring. As the planet is capable of sustaining lifeforms, she will slowly release seeds, repopulating the planet’s plant life. And thirdly, we created this library, so that our mistakes, triumphs, knowledge, and history aren’t forgotten. To you we give this freely, so that you may learn from us, and not become us.

Finally, I leave you with a request. In the back of this Library is a database. A collection of genetic material and data for all of the Fauna that used to populate this once beautiful planet, as well as the facilities needed to replicate and grow that DNA. When Persephone deems the planet ready for them, that cache and those facilities will unlock. I ask that you use it, to restore this planet to what it was before we killed it.

Now, almost 300 years after this all began in 2049, I’m tired. Whatever sustains my life is slowly waning, and I know I won’t be here much longer. But I now believe I can go with the knowledge and hope that you will come here, to our beautiful Earth, and find this facility. That there is now a chance, that though we are gone, that our home may yet live again.

Tomorrow I’m leaving the Library. My home is one of the few places where traces of what this planet once was still exist. I think I’ll climb to the top of Tallac, and see the sun set over the basin one final time.

And to you, we leave our planet, our Earth. Take care of her. She deserves so much more than what we gave her.

LISBON 2200

Jessica Verheij

She woke up with the siren going off. It didn’t shock her; it had been raining non-stop for six days

now and the city service had already issued warnings about downtown flooding. Apparently the

wetlands outside the city, where surplus water is usually directed to, could no longer handle the

continuously ongoing rain. Alex, her neighbor, had told her the other day about images made

illegally by a drone of some activist movement, showing the camps of the people trying to make a

living on those wetlands. She didn’t get it: with so much land in the world, why would you choose

to live there? Also she hadn’t actually seen the images, and Alex was known for its sense of drama.

The camps were probably not as big as it had said. Anyway, no time to think about this now, time

to start moving.

————–

She rushed down the stairs and got her emergency kit from the closet. Then she froze. How could

she have been so stupid? Her outfit was downstairs, in the basement! They would not forgive her if

she would show up at the meeting point without it; not to be prepared during an emergency

evacuation could cost her a big part of her allowance. She would have to run down to the basement,

get her stuff and make sure to make it to the meeting point on time. Outside in the hall she ran into

Alex: “Alex, shit! My outfit is downstairs in the basement. Please PLEASE wait for me!”. She

noticed its immediate discomfort, but it didn’t have the means to resist her pledge – being friends

with a programmed being had its advantages. And so Alex waited in the hall while she rushed

downstairs as fast as she could. She opened the door to the basement, ran to her deposit, switched

on the light and… There was someone there. No doubt about it, she could see a foot linked to a leg

with jeans on, right behind the two boxes in the back. “Who’s there?”, her voice trembled.

The foot disappeared behind the boxes. She waited 2 seconds, but then remembered that the

clock was ticking. “Look, whoever you are and whatever you are doing there, we’ll both be in

trouble if we don’t show up at the meeting point on time. So please don’t hurt me, let me get my

emergency outfit and I’ll be out of here.” She heard some moving behind the boxes and

suddenly a face appeared: a human face, very white with brown eyes and brown hair. He

looked terrified. She immediately felt pity for him, understanding that he was not there to harm her

or to steel anything. “WHAT are you doing here? WHY are you here? Didn’t you hear the

siren?? You must be crazy. Come, we need to start moving!”. Luckily she knew exactly where her

outfit was, on the shelf in the left corner. She grabbed it and started to move away, expecting the

visitor to follow her. But he did not. He remained right there, behind the boxes, not saying a word

and still looking terrified.

————-

At exactly the same moment, Alex came down the stairs. “Lina, WHAT are you doing? We NEED

to go NOW!”. She could clearly hear the panic in its voice. “The-there… there is someone here”,

and she pointed at the boxes. Alex looked at the boxes, noticed the face and within less than 3

seconds he concluded: “he doesn’t belong here”. “What do you mean, he doesn’t belong here? Of

course he doesn’t belong here, this is my deposit, this is our basement. What do you mean!!”,

replied Lina, almost desperate. “I mean that he is not a citizen of Lisbon and he has also not been

registered as a visitor. He doesn’t belong here.” At that very moment the man made a sudden move,

the boxes fell down and he ran in their direction, trying to escape. “There is no point, you wouldn’t

be able to pass through the door without us, everything is being checked and monitored”, Alex said. The figure

stopped and turned around. Lina had never felt so much pity in her life: it was as if the man was

about to have a mental break down. “Who are you?”, Lina asked. “I… I am a… I am a

marginal”, those were his first words. At that moment Alex turned to Lina: “Remember the images

I showed you the other day?”. And finally Lina understood: this man was one of those living on the

wetlands outside of the city, and for some reason he had been hiding down here in her basement.

She had caught him.

————-

“We don’t have time!”, Alex was almost screaming. “But we can’t just leave him here! What if the

water comes? He will DIE!”, Lina replied. One of the disadvantages of being friends with

a programmed being: Alex wasn’t very good at understanding her feelings. It looked at her,

puzzled, confused and clearly frightened: “But we need to go to the meeting point. It’s not up to us.

It’s not our business. We need to go to the meeting point NOW!”

————-

Alex’s last words were interrupted by the sound of a second siren going off. The three looked at

each other: they knew what this meant, it was the end. All citizens of downtown Lisbon were

required to be present at the meeting point, fully equipped for an emergency, before the second

siren would go off, fifteen minutes after the first one. Lina didn’t exactly know what happened to

the people that did not show up at the meeting point on time – but she knew the punishment would

be hard. She looked at Alex: “What now?”. “Let’s go to your place, the three of us. Your apartment

is on the fourth floor, it is not likely that the water will reach it. We stay there, and we think of what

to do…. Of what to tell them…” Alex looked at the man: “Come with us, you’ll probably die if you

stay here”. The man still looked frightened, but he realized he did not really have a choice – he

followed them upstairs.

————-

Once inside the apartment, Alex couldn’t help it: “What on earth are you doing here? How did you

end up in this basement? Didn’t you know the water was coming?” Lina again felt pity for the man,

seeing the look on his face: “What’s your name?”, she asked him. “My… my name is Milo”, he

said. “I got stuck. I couldn’t help it. I was in the city mining the whole day, as I do almost every

day, but I made a huge miscalculation. I…” Lina interrupted him: “What do you mean, mining?”.

Alex turned to her, clearly impatient – Lina knew it had a very hard time dealing with so many

unpredicted events – “Mining, I told you the other day. Do you ever listen to me? It’s what

marginals do to make their living, they go around the underground systems of the city to collect

materials left behind by the waste collectors. Especially plastic is very valuable, and they can sell it

to people outside the cities. It’s how they make a living, basically”.

————-

Lina didn’t know what to say: two minutes ago she felt this couldn’t get any more confusing, and

now it was. She didn’t get it; had Alex told her this? Had she really not listened? Why did Alex

know all this? How? She was sure this type of information was not being distributed by the city

service. Could Alex know things that it was not supposed to know? She turned to Milo: “So that’s

what you do? You go around the city to mine trash? And then you sell it?”. “Yes, that’s basically

how I spend my days. We know the underground system better than the city service itself, and as

long as we don’t run into anyone there’s usually no problem. Except today…” “So there are more

people like you?”, Lina asked. “Oh yes, right now we are around 150 people living outside the city walls,

but there’s people coming and going all the time.”

–

Why had she never heard of this? Was this really happening? Did so many people have to collect

trash to survive? Why could they not receive an allowance like her? Suddenly she became aware of

how comfortable and secure her own life was. She had always thought this was normal, that

everyone in the world lived like this… But as it seemed, at least 150 people outside of the city

walls did not have an apartment, did not receive an allowance, and had to roam around the city

whole days and collect plastic. Maybe they hadn’t even received an education? “What about

education, did you get any?”, Lina asked. “We educate ourselves. We pass on our knowledge from

generation to generation. Around 20 years ago, the last person that had lived before the Great

Disasters of 2117 died. She had still witnessed a world where education was freely accessible,

where people could find information about almost anything. She, and others with her,

educated the new generation, and they educated us.” Lina didn’t know what to say – what kind of world was this?

“But why? Why do you choose this life? Why don’t you want to live in the city, like us? It’s…. It’s nice, it’s

comfortable.”

–

Now it was Milo’s turn to look confused. Alex intervened: “Lina, don’t be ridiculous. It’s not

their choice. They’re not allowed in. They’re not one of us.” Milo opened his mouth, as if he was

going to object Alex’s words. Then he closed it again, waited for a few seconds and said: “We are

one of you. I am exactly the same as Lina, except she is a female and I am a male. But our group is

made of both females and males. Only humans though, the programmed beings haven’t joined us.

Yet. In other places they have, I know of a group living outside of Warsaw where some

programmed beings were banished from the city. But we are the same, we are all humans. It’s just

that they don’t want us. We don’t fit. They believe we will be a threat to the city and to its

structures once they let us in. They believe we will pollute the streets, go against orders, try to

change things. They don’t want us… You don’t want us.”

————-

Suddenly Lina realized the danger she and Alex were in. This person, Milo, was standing in

her apartment, and he was clearly not supposed to be there. Soon the drones would pass by to check

for any movements inside the houses, and there was no way they could escape it. They would find

them, in the company of a marginal. Lina looked at Alex, and she realized it knew it too. Lina

started to despair – she had no idea how to turn this situation around. Once the government

would find them, they would all be banished. She was sure of that. She didn’t even know

exactly what this meant, but she knew her life would never be the same again. And regarding Milo,

she had no idea what happened to people that were in the city illegally, but she knew they wouldn’t

let him go. He would be send to one of the prisons on the Azores, in the middle of the Atlantic. She

had seldom heard of these places, but… Why did she know so little about all these things? It felt

like her whole life had been a lie. Why did no one ever informed her about this?

“I’ll tell them I broke into your apartment. That I came in to rob you, that I kept you as a hostage

and that I didn’t let you go to the meeting point.” Milo’s voice was calm now, almost determined.

“What? What do you mean? Why would you say that?” Lina looked at him amazed. “To save

us.

————-

He’s saying he will sacrifice himself once the drones find us” Alex said. It was as if Milo had read

her thoughts. He said: “If they find you here with me, it will be the end for you. Not having showed

up at the meeting point on time will be a minor problem compared to this. They will banish you.

Both of you. It will not be pretty.” “No, but what about you?? It will not be pretty for you either.

What will they do to you?” Lina said. “They will find me anyway”, Milo replied. They all were

silent for a while – again Lina did not know what to say. She felt her life was being decided,

right there and then, and at the same time she felt she still had no clue what was going on. “He’s

right” Alex said. “I have analyzed the situation based on the value of costs and benefits, and he’s

right. If we tell the true, it’s the end for all of us. We will be banished, and Milo’s punishment will

be worse than that. We will all lose our lives. If Milo sacrifices himself, only he will lose his life.

Rationally speaking, his life is worth less than ours. He doesn’t have as much to lose as we do.

Hence it only makes sense that he is the one sacrificing himself. He’ll be caught anyway, no matter

what.” Lina looked at Milo: his face seemed calm, but she could see a sense of panic in his eyes.

She was sure Alex did not have the ability to register it, it was too subtle. But she saw it. And she

understood what it meant for him. He had a life too. Different from theirs, maybe less

comfortable, but still… A life. He had people around him, maybe even family. He would never

see them again. They would never hear from him again. But she couldn’t help to think that Alex

was right. Milo will be caught, no matter what. And now there was a possibility of her life being

saved, and Alex’s. They would be able to keep on living. All this would not be more than an

unfortunate episode. They would probably forget about it, never talk about it again.

————-

That moment, they all heard the whizzing sound of a drone outside the window. They turned and

saw it holding still in the air – it was tiny, but they knew it had registered them and that the city

service was being informed instantly. Soon a group of guards would show up at the door. They

would demand an explanation.

Paris 2200

Albane Bauby

Alice goes out from her home, still half asleep, to go to the hospital. She walks along the underground streets to take the metro. In fact, Paris is a below ground city that revolves around shops, homes and a free public transit network for residents. The earth surface is mostly reserved for green spaces like parks, forest and natural reserves. People used going up during their free time to enjoy fresh air and perform outside activities. On this national day, June 15, 2200, streets are deserted. One hundred years ago, the third world war was ending. This one have lasted 50 years, dividing the world population by 3, from 9 billion to 3 billion. Since then, population growth has resumed but minds and societies have changed a lot. After fifteen minutes of metro, she takes a big elevator to regain the surface of the earth, she is now close from the hospital. It’s only 9 am but it is already over 35°C, a normal temperature for a month of June in Paris. Hospitals are among the last buildings to be on the surface of the earth. The only buildings that are commonly build on surface are named “flosbluidings”.

This type of huge ecological buildings has a flower shape and stands several hundred meters above the ground. They can be divided in three parts that are assimilated as roots, stem and petals. Roots represent an extensive pipe system, sunk into the ground, which recover waste water from the city and bring it into the stem of the edifice. In this part, the water incurs a biological treatment, using different types of plants and micro-organisms, before being redistributed to the population by the roots again. Regarding petals, this part spreads over several kilometers and is used for agricultural purposes. In fact, greenhouses, field of culture, orchards are found there and feed the city. Furthermore, these ecological buildings have been designed to shelter a maximum of vegetation in order to capture most of the carbon dioxide released by human activities. That’s why, from outside view, these buildings look like giant flowers. A dozen of these flosbuilding stand through the city because their development have revolutionized the management of Paris. Another development that has greatly improved its handling is the development of the underground city. Indeed, it allows the inhabitants to benefit from geothermal energy during winter and to protect themselves from the hot weather and dangerous rays of the sun during summer. At Alice’s time, summer is particularly harsh because temperatures are unsustainable; most people stay underground and wait until autumn to do surface activities again. The only people living on the surface are farmers, pastoralists and some artistic and political figures. Life’s rules on the surface are very strict because governments all around the world are working to preserve and protect the biodiversity left by years of war and environmental conflicts. Mistakes in environmental management of past generations have almost destroyed everything on earth and the new political priority is to create a city that works in harmony with the environment.

Alice stare at her little sister dozing on her hospital bed. She has lived there for more than one year now. Unfortunately, Emma has an extremely rare degenerative disease and needs important daily care. She has been diagnosed just after her twelfth birthday and since, her state does not stop to decrease despite several attempted treatments. Alice is well aware that Emma doesn’t have more living time left, doctors have informed her, but she is her only family and she can’t face the reality. She has done incalculable number of researches on this disease, she also has contacted many different doctors in order to find a cure. The main issue is that this disease is so rare that no treatment research have been undertaken in the world. However, this disease used to be cured very easily a hundred years before. During her researches on the subject and her various meetings with doctors, Alice has met someone who has talked to her about a yellow flower containing a molecule healing the disease. This plant used to growth in the Amazonian forest but disappeared before the third world war due to deforestation and climate change. This is not the only living creature which disappeared during this time, almost half of the biodiversity has died out. Causes were various: pollution, ocean acidification, overexploitation… Human from years 2000 have destroyed most of the ecosystems. That’s one of the main reasons that pushed the world in a war particularly violent in 2050.

Alice is completely desperate after this visit. Before falling asleep, she looks at a sketch of the little yellow flower, the only cure for her sister, this only cure that is not on earth anymore. This night, her sleep is particularly restless. Her dreams are a mix between various memories with her sister when they were children. Then, she sees herself in the Amazonian forest, looking for the flower, but whenever she find one and pick it, the flower instantly disappears in her hand.

Alice wakes up with a start, completely disoriented. Her head is spinning and her heart is beating really hard. She attempts to take a breath but her dream is still impregnated in her head and she doesn’t realized that she is not in her home anymore. She is in a bed, wrapped in white sheets, all the walls around her are white. Gradually, she understands that she is in hospital, but this one looks very archaic according to her. Devices next to her bed seem to come from another time; she has never seen such weird apparatus. Suddenly, a nurse appears and comes in the room, her nurse’s coat is extremely dated and she says to Alice:

– You are finally awake! How do you feel?
– What am I doing here?
– Don’t you remember anything? This is not surprising, you must suffer from a slight amnesia but the memory should return little by little. Do you remember who you are?
–  Yes I remember very well, I just do not understand what I’m doing here.
– A man found you on the ground in a street two days ago, he first thought that you had been assaulted and then, when he wanted to help you, he realized that you were delirious and that you were burning with fever. That’s why he contacted the emergency. We were forced to administer you powerful tranquilizers to calm you down.
– I am sorry but I’ll have to leave, I have to go to work, I have to go see my sister …
– No, I’m sorry but you cannot leave for now, I am waiting the results of your last exams, you could call your sister later in the day if you want.
– No, I feel good, I don’t understand, I fell asleep at home and I woke up here, all of this have no sense. Can I know in which hospital are we?
– You are at Saint Antoine Hospital in Paris. Don’t worry, as I told you, you must have a little amnesia.
Alice has never heard of this hospital before while she knows all hospitals in the city. Then she starts to understand that something crazy has happened. While the nurse was leaving the room, Alice asked her:


– Excuse me madam, what day is it?
– We are 18 June.
– Which year?
The nurse looked at her with a strange look and finally answer: 2020.

…

While she is leaving the hospital, Alice is completely disoriented and lost, she doesn’t recognize Paris at all. She walks along a street, her eyes wide opened, marveling. She still doesn’t realize what is going on under her sight. An open pit city with various kinds of buildings appears in front of her. Everything is gray and tarred. There are many people outside, hurrying and speaking loudly, so many back and forth in all directions. Cars circulate on roads and honk. She has never seen a running car before this day. As a matter of fact, in her world, cars have been banned in downtown since a long time ago and, gradually, their use has declined until completely disappear. People no longer see the value of them with a very developed and free transport network at their disposal. Moreover, in her time, no one have to move to go shopping or work. Most people work from home and go to their workplace through holograms.

Progressively she began to feel eyes on her. Indeed, people were turning around on her path and staring at her. She started to understand that her look were arousing curiosity. She wears a close-fitting black suit, made from recycled fabric, protecting from the sun’s rays. If at her time this outfit is the most innocuous, it’s obvious that in 2020 people have never seen such getup.

Then, she noticed that Paris’s streets are particularly dirty, but people around her do not seem to pay attention. The Parisians of 2200 don’t have the same behavior as those of 2020. In fact, where she comes from, people are very respectful of nature and the environment. From an early age, children are sensitized by the preservation of the city which had to be completely rebuilt at the end of the war. ed by the war. Moreover, she ise delivered by drone but ed  heart because she knows that in a few years this city is going to bEveryone recycle their waste and the vast majority of them are biodegradables. In addition, every citizen is involved in the management of the city because everyone must give some of their free time to take care of parks, forests, vegetable gardens and clean the underground streets. This law has made possible, for every individual, to feel worry and find a place in this urban metabolism.

Suddenly, Alice came to her senses and realized that the odds are in her favor. In fact, her travel through the time is a chance to save her sister because in 2020 the Amazonian forest and the healing flower are still on earth. That’s why, she starts to have hope again but she knows that she had no time to loose. She has to get the plant and, then, find a way to return at her time.

…

Almost two months have passed since Alice have fallen through time, but, the day for her journey for the Amazonian forest has finally arrived. She handled to gather enough money to take a plane for Brazil and she is looking forward to find the healing flower very soon. It was hard for her to find a place to sleep without money and with her unusual outfit, but finally she has managed to adapt herself to this new world and has found a job. Indeed, a rich old lady, who could no longer take care of her house and was seeking a little company, has crossed Alice’s pathway and has decided to hire her as a housekeeper in exchange for a roof and a small salary. She wasn’t used to pay for food because in her city basic food such as vegetables, fruits, cereals and especially water, are considered as common goods that belong to all the residents of the city and so they are free. The redistribution is managed by local administration, and the amount given is calculated specifically for each family. Obviously if people want more or various type of aliments they can buy it on internet and be delivered by drone but no one is starving. However, Alice knows that her world isn’t perfect. The worst things are the environmental laws which are extremely strict. The surface of the earth, sheltering green spaces, is constantly monitored by guards and drones and those who break the established rules take a big risk. Degrade the environment is considered as a worse act than murder. In fact, anyone who is caught breaking a law is directly imprisoned and judged. Minors get years of imprisonment and hard labor, but adults are stripped of their citizenship and banished from the city. This is what have happened to her parents, and since, Alice lives alone with her sister. She has no idea what they may have become, but she assumes they are dead. That’s what everyone say, because surviving outside the city is impossible. The truth is that no one but the government knows what is beyond the borders. In fact, nobody has the right to cross them. It’s said that behind borders there is nothing, the nuclear weapons of past wars having devastated three quarters of the planet, no more vegetation can grow. Only about twenty cities across the world, like Paris, have managed to recreate a livable and peaceful environment.

When the plane takes off, Alice admires the view of the old Paris with a twinge in the heart because she knows that in a few years this city is going to be completely destroyed by the war. Moreover, she still doesn’t know how to come back to her time and she is worried about her sister. She has no idea if her condition has become worse and feels extremely bad that she couldn’t have a chance to warn her about her travel through time. But now, her only goal, is to save Emma’s life, and for that she’ll do anything.

Reflexive part

First of all, the main difference between both city is the presence of nature. In 2200, Paris is a green city, nature is present everywhere on the earth surface. The main point it’s what I have called « flosbuilding » because it’s a human built, providing water and food for the inhabitant, but nevertheless, it’s completely covered with vegetation and has crops fields installed on the roofs. That’s why this building makes intermesh between the human and non human world and thats reminds with the transcoporality concept which supports the idea that the substance of the human is ultimately inseparable from the non-human environment. This building serves habitants needs, through food production and the cleaning of water, and it hosts abundant vegetation. There is no division between nature and society. In addition, this vegetation allows people to have a better quality of air and to absorb some of the carbon dioxide produced by human activities.

Secondly, there are parks, forest, natural reserves scattered everywhere on the city’s surface, and people, who live underground, just have to take lifts and get on to benefit from these natural spaces. They can easily switch as much as they want between city and nature because both are linked. All these natural spaces are controlled and monitored by the government which want everything in a particular way and both nature and human must comply with established laws. Human are implicated in the creation of many ecosystem and that it’s part of the conservation and control thesis. Indeed, the new Paris has a « hegemonic governmentality » which means that the control of resources and landscapes not belong to producers group but to the centralized power of the government in order to preserve sustainability. The government wants to create « wilderness » spaces with faunal diversity and control access. That’s why the  whole city is monitored sidesole city trol everyting with guard and drone lift and le from the environementby guards and drones to keep everything in order. Besides, a wide range of laws have been established and everyone has to follow them, otherwise, they take the risk to be banished.

Otherwise, there are strict boundaries in the city. Paris stops at a specific moment and there is a net delimitation between the city and the rest of the world. More than that, there is an important contrast between the luxuriant vegetation of the rebuilt city and the rest of the world where nothing can growth. This fact remind with the concept of « territorialization » of conservation space.  In the course we have seen that bounded spaces poorly match with the ecosystem functions and flows of diverse natural element, but, in this city, the government use it to scare people and remind them what can happen if they degrade  the environment. In this sense, government force people to stay into the city and to obey rules.

Then, the heart of the city is underground for energetic and health reasons. Because of global warming, temperature during summer can easily reach 50°C and it has been no longer possible to live under sun’s rays. That’s why the main of the city has been rebuilt underground. This allows people to be protect from heat. Furthermore, this city implanted in the ground allows to have access to geothermic energy which is a way to get a warm city during winter. This underground city hosts all of the houses, shops, corporate headquarters, streets and a public transport. The last one is very well developed and allows everyone to move from a city’s side to another easily and for free. This is why this city has no longer cars.

Another point is that people’s behavior have completely changed in 200 years. People are educated in a environmental preservation spirit and everyone has to give some of their free time to take care of the city. For example, take care of common vegetable garden or park. Thus, the city and the nature become values in there own right for citizens and that’s why they start to protect them. This way of thinking is named Environmentality, which corresponds to a decentralization of authority with the promulgation of local responsibilities, leading to a system of self-governance.

Citizens become « environmental subjects », that means that there is a transformation of people’s attitudes about the city and themselves. This allows the government to make people think and act like they want about the environment.

Finally, raw food and water are free because they are consider as common properties. This theory rests on the understanding that resources, like water and food, are traditionally managed as collective supplies. Food is produced inside buildings thank to robots who work in fields and these non transform aliments are then distribute to all families, according to their needs, in order to avoid starvation. This distribution is handle by the centralized power of the government which provide rules of use to maintain subsistence and renewal.

To sum up, the city of Paris working in 2200 is link to various concept and thesis belonging to Political Ecology courses. Firstly, there is the concept of transcoporality, with the idea that human and non-human are intermeshed. Secondly, the creation of a wilderness world inside the city by the government remind to the conservation and control thesis.  Then, the strict boundaries of the city are connected to the concept of « territorialization » and space conservation. Another concept is « environmentality » and the creation of environmental subjects with the education of the citizens to take care of the environment. Finally, the last one is the common properties with the free distribution of water and food to the citizens because they are consider as collective resources.

Lyon

Isabelle Martinier

————-

Chapter 1 – The city of Workers

In the sewers of the city of Lyon in ruins, Tallulah is waking up as her stomach reminds her she has

not eaten since two days. Despite the shrill whistle of the siren, Tallulah did not wake up on time

this morning and she will be late at the farm. Her boss is going to take a pay-day off her wage,

which is already scanty. As Tallulah is less than 15 years old, she is still assigned to a “child labor”:

eight hours a day, she deals with animals breeding and plantations maintenance. The majority of the

farm products goes directly to the City of Lights, as the government is paying the Workers a misery,

who are too poor to buy what they produce.

————-

In three years, she will be considered as an adult and her boss – according to his degree of

appreciation – will give her a job as a worker in the recycling of waste, agriculture, slaughter or power

plants. Given the relationship with the boss, she may end up in recycling or in one of the power

plants, where the life expectancy does not exceed thirty years due to all the toxic products they are

forced to use and the high radioactivity.

————-

Her watch indicates that she is already an hour late. Tallulah grabs her shoulder bag, cram the few

stuffs that belongs to her inside, and rushes out of the sewers. The bright light dazzles her, despite

the dust and clouds from the air pollution. However she does not let her eyes get used to it and goes

to the farm. Far away, she can see the high scintillating wall that separates her from the City of Lights.

The farm is near the wall, and every morning she walks past it, under the harsh look of the militia

guarding it. Miradors, guards, electric field, barbed wire, and of course Rhone and Saone rivers,

everything was set up to make the City of Lights impenetrable. Only a few exceptions can move

between the two areas, but the process is so complex that no one has yet managed to enter by

cheating.

————-

The City of Lights. How much has she dreamed of getting in there? Her mother had been there a few

times before she was finally taken, and she had described a world very different from the one she is

used to. Everything was beautiful, clean, like those real estate advertisements you can sometimes

found in old newspapers. The Lighters themselves seemed more beautiful, despite their almost

identical clothes and their imperturbable faces. She had even seen a tree there. In the City of

Workers it does not existed anymore since the disaster of 2147, and the only plants they can

see are the vegetables and fruits in the farm. The natural land does not let anything grow

because of its high toxicity. So for the plantations, special clay and seeds are given by the

government, to allow them to grow plants.

————-

If her mother had to go to the City of Lights, it was because she was able to procreate. It was by

bringing Tallulah into the world that it was revealed. She had tried to hide her daughter for a long

time, living in the most remote places of the city and forbidding her daughter to move when she was

working in the fields. But the authorities finally discovered her, and when Tallulah was six years old,

her mother was arrested. After some verification tests, she had been definitely enlisted, and never

returned. Few women are able to give birth, so as soon as authorities realize that a woman is

able to do it, she becomes a Procreator. Their duty is to give their ova to the community, or even be

surrogate mother for the Lighters, until their reproductive system is off. There are so few Procreators

that their task is even harder, and they generally end up dying of exhaustion. When her mother was

taken away, one of her friends had supported Tallulah, but when she started working at the age of

seven she stole the little wage she earned. So Tallulah left.

————-

In her group of Workers, Tallulah is one of the only natural children. The majority of the others were

laid down by the authorities to the wall some morning, and then adopted by Workers’ couples. Nobody

knows how babies are chosen to go to the City of the Workers or to the City of the Lighters, but in

order to continue to have an equilibrium (and especially a labor force), the government is giving babies

to both sides.

————-

Tallulah arrives at the farm, which is guarded, like all the production units in the city. Her boss does

not even bother to call her to order, and scratches her day off the board while looking at her with a

smirk. Another pay day that will end in his pocket to fatten him a little more. She no longer has a penny

to buy food at the only food store of the city, which is run by the government. So to eat tonight, Tallulah

will have to go search for an old can in the rubble area. Fortunately, she knows it well because when

her mother was still alive, that is where they were hiding most of the time. But the “Canuts” are also

living there now, and she would better not meet these rebels. The Canuts are Workers who have

refused the separate system, and have abandoned their jobs. To survive, they plunder the plantations,

farms, stores, and sometimes attack the Workers to get their pay or their ration of water. Since most

of them have pulled their chip off their wrist, they can no longer obtain the daily water ration

distributed near the wall, but it allows them to no longer be identifiable and localizable by the

government, and therefore to launch offensives against the wall. So far, none has been successful.

At the end of her work, Tallulah goes to the wall to get her ration of water which she drinks in a tread

(to be sure no one would stole it from her) and goes towards the rubbles. She has to cross the whole

city to reach it, and it was already getting darker as the night falls. All the better, she will be less likely

to be spotted this way, and she still has battery on her solar energy lamp. It was a find of her mother,

which she keeps preciously because it is very expensive in the black market.

————-

It is already 11:30 pm when she arrives in the rubble area. It is dark night, and that sharpens her sense

of hearing. She is about to enter one of the old buildings, when she hears a noise behind her in the

waste collecting area.

————-

Chapter 2 – The city of Lights

The lights gradually turn on in the room, indicating to Louis that in an hour his History of Earth’s lesson

begins. He puts his forefinger on his Analyzer, which detects him a slight magnesium deficiency, and

five minutes later his breakfast was served with a blue little pill. While he is having it, his daily program

is projected: classes from 8 am to 12 am, an hour lunch break, and then back-to-school with the weekly

survival training until 6 pm.

————-

Louis lives on the side of the City of Lights because his parents have passed the tests to enter the area.

They are now working for the government of Lyon, in the voice surveillance department. Every day,

they evaluate the sayings of each Lighters to establish profiling files. Here all movements, words, and

even medical data are recorded permanently. A misstep and the government calls you to order. If too

many missteps are reported, the government assigns you the role of “Cleaner”, that is to say to the

maintenance of the city. They are the only Lighters dedicated to a Workers type of jobs in the City of

Lights, and their residential building is under heavy surveillance.

————-

The seventeen-year-old young man leaves the family apartment and walks to the institute. The first

thing he sees is the imposing wall, which separates the small peninsula of Lyon from the rest of the

city. Only the elites live here, those who has passed the test, now enjoying their life and lacking

nothing, while controlling the city, its resources and people. Nobody knows the exact selection process

of this test, except of course the secret dedicated department. Every year, some of the best workers

are admitted to the test, which analyzes their physical and mental abilities, and establishes the

psychological profile of the candidates. At the end, the Lighters are recruiting only those with the best

profile and who will be the more useful to society. This totally biased system was established in 2155,

during the reconstruction of Lyon a few years after the disaster. Louis was lucky enough to be born on

the good side of this system, as his parents wanted to have a baby.

————-

Louis finally joins his class of a dozen young people, and sits next to his friend Peter. Tonight after the

survival training, they will try again to find an opening to pass on the side of the Workers. For 7 years

now they dream of leaving the city, experiencing what the real freedom is, struggling for survival, and

mostly getting rid of this dreary and barren life. They only have a few months left to pass their final

exam, which will determine where they will work, so they are in a hurry. Given his current results, Louis

could easily join the government, live in the best area of the city, rub shoulders with the greatest, and

be at the origin of political decisions concerning the city… But that does not interest him. This system

does not suit him, and his goal is to get in touch with the Canuts to create a real rebellion and change

the system for a fairer one. The only way is to go to the other side. So at 10pm tonight, Louis and Peter

will meet near the quarters where the Great Politicians live. This is the area where the wall is the less

guarded, as people are not expecting rebellion from Politicians. The two teenagers will have taken care

to demagnetize their chip by a ploy found two years ago. Thus, they will no longer be localizable. Three

days ago, they found a potential passage in the wall, by passing through the waste disposal area. The

escapade is risky, as they need to find a way to block the different automatic rakes and grinding

systems, but they will try to block it with metal bars.

————-

It is 9:50 pm, Louis puts on his technical equipment and his survival bag, disappears discreetly from

the apartment, and ran off in the night directly to the evacuation waste tunnel.

Mysuru | FIRST DIARY ENTRY OF MY LIFE

Jayanth Venkatachala

30th October 2200

Well, this is my first ever diary entry of my life. I’ve lived for 205 years now, although the last 105 years have been in silica form. They installed me into a new robot, sophisticated like a human. I am still getting used to it. For some reason I finally decided to do this and in the old-fashioned way of typing on a laptop. I don’t think these people even know what a laptop is. I it found yesterday in the carton with all my other human memories. It feels weird to feel like a human again after being in a mechanical robot for over a century. It still amazes me that I’m alive, thanks to science. I had lost my complete touch with typing, but the software allowed me to improve my proficiency. It feels like cheating, but hell, works for me. I feel lucky and grateful to be one the few who still gets to live this way. I didn’t buy this, they put me in it as an honour for the work I did for the environment. I can’t thank them enough. I’d like to start by writing about these past years as a summary in a few pages. This doesn’t do it justice, but this the first entry, so I’ll keep the details to another day. Let me today talk about this amazing town, Mysore. This is where I grew up as a kid and did most of my work. They like me here I think, and I owe everything to this city.

The city of Mysore, also now famously known as the “model city” wasn’t the same about 200 years ago in 2018. We didn’t have these transportation pods, hyperloops and trees everywhere. It was simple, people now won’t even be able imagine what it even looked like. We had tar roads, petrol and diesel cars, two wheeled bikes, trains that ran on diesel that took days to go to the capital, there was air and water pollution, there was traffic jams and people died in vehicular accidents, and that was normal. Life moved at a much faster pace. Adults were busy with their jobs. Students had home works (yeah, they had to study at home too). Kids from this age, must hold candles to those kids from the past. We had cash for money which we used to keep in wallets and purses. Each country had its own currency. The world and the city have changed significantly now. To appreciate the current state of this city, I must explain how the city looked way back then. I’ll talk about what my role was in changing the city to as it is now, in this entry.

Mysore, was exactly where it is now, well the tectonic plates don’t move that fast. The weather was relatively good compared to other cities, considering that global warming had started to show its effects. It was one of the cleanest cities in India. It was known for the Royal palace that has now survived the time. It stands out now more than ever compared to these modern buildings with glass windows with solar panels. The Chamundi hill had a temple on top, which thousands of people visited every day. Hardly anybody goes there, now that religion has lost its prominence to science, ever since the multiverse theory was proven. The hill was losing its flora and fauna to deforestation. The forest ecology was under threat. There even used to be forest fires on the slopes. The two lakes, Kukkarahalli lake and Karangi lake were the home for migratory birds every year. But their numbers were declining every year. People also used to jog along the perimeter of these lakes. There were environmental activism going on around these two issues for decades, but nothing was done about it.

The city was well planned for that day and age. The economic hub was in the centre with the academic areas, residential areas and finally the outskirts surrounded it in that order. The city

had much less people as it did not have as many industries, like in Banglore which was then then the Economic centre of the state. But now we are it. Ever since we starter cleaning up our act in Mysore with regards to sustainability, it attracted the attention of the multi- national companies to shift their country head- quarters to here. Banglore became too crowded and polluted. Locals even migrated to Mysore, bringing their knowledge and expertise. I saw both positives and negatives in this shift in the early years. The city was bound for a rapid “environmental” change. With us not being able to meet the 1.5 degree celsius mark, thanks to all the sceptics and so called “leaders” who did not understand how science worked, the problem of coping with the changes in Mysore compounded. There was chaos in the beginning. People needed direction and guidance to move forward. This is when I came back to Mysore, quitting a well- paying job in Sweden, which was all peaceful and living life at its own pace.

I was a product designer back then, who had immense interest in the impact of climate change in the future. Most of the work I did, was to design products to attain sustainable development. People knew me for that in Mysore and respected me as their local hero, even though I wasn’t even there. As I kept a close eye on the situation back home, I decided that the city needed me more than I need that job I had, so I decided to come back home. It looked, bad. The city was not the same anymore. The kind and peaceful citizens of the city were agitated due to all the changes happening around them all of a sudden. One can understand that. This is when I saw the need for guidance to the people of Mysore, and to most major cities undergoing the same situation. I started a podcast in English, which now most people understood in India, talking to experts from around the world almost every day about the possible solutions. By now, the academics had projected what would come ahead of us and how to resolve the situation. My aim was to disseminate the information objectively to the masses. The major news channels in India were busy covering the petty antics of politics in India and they didn’t do a good job with that either. Number of podcast listeners grew rapidly, and by the end of few months at least one person from every family listened to it.

The first thing I made sure with the podcast was that I pressed the need for cooperation among people of all kinds of background and differences. This was the toughest job as the previous governments had made sure to play identity politics, creating a wide gap and hatred among various sects of people. I stressed every day on the need for cooperation and that it was the only way going forward to live peacefully. It took time, but people realised it. The random floods, and landslides as a result, in the neighbouring districts in the Western Ghats took its toll killing thousands of people over years, but this brought people together. People shared their resources with the affected, knowing someday there will be others who would have their backs. Also, the long-lasting, inter- state conflict over the outlet of river Cauvery into Tamil Nadu was resolved due to heavy rains. Now Karnataka had excess to even store it in dams. So, those two goods came out directly from this grave situation. I brought in experts, activists, environmentalists, geographers and scientists from India and abroad, who had predicted these flooding decades ago. They systematically laid down the story of how corruption and political agendas supressed the necessary actions to prevent the future catastrophe. People realised their lives were disregarded by the system and their elected representatives. They had lost hope in their leadership. What could one expect from the uneducated leaders who each had folders full of criminal records. It was all money and fame they wanted. Now more than ever, the facts hit people hard and they took the ownership of the mistake of electing them. Afterall India was and is still a democratic nation.

This is when the great “Party of the Future” then, now known as “People’s Party” was assembled in the state of Karnataka. I was invited to join the party. I had my reservations in the beginning but having seen that it was comprised of just experts and highly knowledgeable people who knew what they were doing in their field, I decided to join it. We first laid out an objective system of self- regulation within the party to keep in check the personal goals of its members. Everybody in the party was motivated to do the right thing collectively no matter what, for the first time in the history of the world. Our main aim was to create a sustainable future in every which way. We didn’t play identity politics but rather stressed on the action plan on how we would solve the current distress. People finally had hope. In the elections we cleanly swept all the other old parties winning by 98% majority. That was some election. It showed people cared about their future and were ready to do whatever it took to fix the current problems. I was made the minister of the Environmental Protection and I was honoured and was ready to take authority over the situation.

The first thing I did, was assembled a board of members which included senior environmentalists, activists, academics, graduate and post graduate students from various engineering fields, scientists, people’s representatives, state environmental historians and political ecologists to discuss and take decisions collectively based on science and objective data. I hired an objective mass media house who shared our principles to cover each decision and meeting we had about the environmental issues so that public was up- to- date with what was going on. We maintained transparency with the public as they had trusted their future in our hands. Two cities in particular had most of our attention. Banglore and Mysore as they were changing rapidly. Like I mentioned earlier Banglore was losing its charm and Mysore was gaining all of it. Both had their environmental issues and I’ll talk about Banglore another time, but for now I’ll stick with Mysore. I laid down the two major environmental issues with the city earlier.

I deployed local students and academics, committed to our cause to study each issue in depth. They conducted deep studies about the issues by studying historical records, talking to people around the hills and people who exercised and lived near the lake who had observed the changes in the lake’s ecosystem. The activists readily jumped in to help with the information they knew. The problem turned out to be a corrupt system which was lethargic to take actions. In case of the hill, the older parties took bribes to ignore the encroachment of the hill slopes by local timber companies. The forest fires were not due to natural causes, but due to uncontrolled burning of the left-over trunks by them to create easy paths to encroach more forest. The lakes saw the decline in migratory birds due to eutrophication of the lakes. The sewage water from nearby localities were disposed into the lakes. The lack of food for these birds made them to go elsewhere. The lakes also did not have constant inlet of fresh water.

These issues were easy to solve with our committed and aspiring youth, who were the majority of the population then, whose human resource was wasted due to high rates of unemployment. They got a job now, so we took care of that aspect of sustainability. We banned the timber companies near the hills, as a matter of fact, we banned illegal deforestation for good. Locals who observed illegal activities readily informed us pro bono, about those nefarious activities out of their new-found respect for their environment. Some even tried to catch loggers and sometimes successfully did, before our team even showed up, putting themselves at risk. We reforested large areas of the hill, the city and the Western Ghats with the help of locals and school students. The Western Ghats (not part of the city) recovered over time and floods were

mitigated. For the kids it was a game to see who planted more trees. For the future of Mysore and the state of Karnataka, it was new hopes. I tired to involve locals in every possible step for it was a matter of their own future.

The lakes were cleaned over a couple of years. The sewage water was re- routed to the new sewage treatment plants around the city. We used the then available technology to produce biogas from the sewage and biodegradable wastes to be used for cooking and powering vehicles. We planned a network of underground canals to collect and feed rainwater from around the city to the lakes to replenish it with fresh water. The excess water from the lake was sent to the nearest agricultural areas around the city. Thus, a constant flow of fresh water was maintained. The migratory birds slowly started reappearing. Waste treatment plants were setup outside the city to recycle the non- biodegradable wastes. We already had good waste collection system, hence was named among the cleanest cities back then, but the treatment plants needed attention and improvement, which we did. People helped the cause by doing their basic duty of separating thrash and using recycled products and avoiding food wastes in many ways, enthusiastically.

Our party grew in the national level rapidly. The system worked very well, and we were elected into power in the centre. They recognised my achievements in resolving environmental issues in the city of Mysore and in the state and appointed me as the Central Minister of Environmental Protection. I gladly accepted the new challenge and did my best. You can see the results of that now I guess. That story is for another day. Mysore drew attention from all around the world. The people’s enthusiasm and dedication to take care of their local environment inspired people around the world. The environmentalism and the new cosmopolitanism instilled in the people of the city through mainly the two issues above, sustained, resulting in the shift of the centre of economics to Mysore from Banglore in just two decades. People felt rewarded for their good deeds. The growth felt natural and people adjusted to it smoothly now that they knew how to. The new migrants adopted our way of living and everybody lived happily here. The city still is growing, and I am happy that I played a small part in this process, after all it was the will and action of the people that was paramount in this development.

I’ll end it here for today, it’s almost time for the cricket world cup finals between India and Pakistan. Somethings never get old, like me since I was installed in this robot. Haha! Anyway, I’m glad our countries resolved our personal relationships. I liked typing out this diary, no wonder why people did this. I’ll be doing this more, but see you for now.

Jayanth

Photo by Akshat Vats on Unsplash

Onangholo I Etango

Bruno Venditto

It was the dawn of a new day, etango rose slowly from behind the mahangu field. The sun was particularly rosy, as if his high frequency waves had to travel an even longer distance. It has been like that since the member countries of the Reformed United Nations (RUN) signed the Global Pact on climate change.

Meme Hope had just woken up and was ready to go weeding the field. It seemed that life was going on as nothing had changed in Onangholo. Gestures that were handed down from generation to generation were repeated tiredly. She had learned how to look after the mahangu field from her mother, who had passed down the family knowledge to her. But now there was no reason to hand over this skill to the family’s youths; from tomorrow Onangholo would be part of the Great Outapi Dome 2121, (GOD) and life would not be the same. Besides, she did not have children of her own, and her only grandchild, Ndakalako, soon will go to varsity in Chile.

Meekulu’s mother, Kashibimbwa, and grandmother Ndinelao? were part of the Y generation and Meekulu remembered when she explained to grandmother MeeKulu Ndinelao how climate change would have, in the end, transformed Onangholo, as it had already started to impact small islands in the Pacific Ocean. Those big words, however, were alien to her mother’s mother, grand Ma had seldom left the homestead and the mahangu field; but she was wise and did acknowledge that raining season was not the same anymore, and droughts were longer and frequent than before.

Then in the year 2002 Onangholo was not even a proper village. Yes, electricity had just arrived, there was a combined school, few shebeens selling basic foods and drinks, and a church, but for all the rest one had to go to town, which was still at least an one-hour journey away, although it was only 15 km away. Meme Hope of course, had never seen all that. She was born in the year 2032, when Onangholo was a posh suburb of the regional capital Outapi, 5 minutes away from the car-airport. Her mother Meme Kashibimbwa was a social media addict and a journalist. She had terabytes of data, plenty of pictures that were passed from mother to daughter as a treasury to maintain. Meme Hope had downloaded all the relevant data on a microchip which could be slot in the wrist media-port and by a blink of the eye could be scrolled. It was like going back to a fantasy world, where cows and oikonbo were freely grazing in the now dry and disappeared oshana.

Today was an important day for Ndakalako as well, she was turning 17, the 5th generation of the Oryx clan. Having completed the second level of technological education, she was supposed to spend 3 weeks in what remained of the Etosha conservancy wild area, because of the Olufuku, the rite of passage for the youths. The ancestral purposes of Olufuko, as girls’ initiation to womanhood, had long been lost and transformed to an adulthood’s test for boys and girls. Three weeks in the veld without the assistance of any Artificial Intelligence (AI), to experience animals augmented virtual reality and help the Rob-Range to trace and track the few wild creatures that remained in the conservancy. That is why she had to go and see Meekulu Hope. Grand Ma was a scientist, a renowned professor, she had taught in many Universities around the world, but was one of the few remaining in the Land of the Brave, who remembered how to do things in the old way. She was not against AI, and in fact she did use CP Robots to help her cataloguing, but as a field historian she believed that no AI could ever substitute the human brain.

“Apo Meekulu” Ndakalako greeted her using the now disused Oshimbaanhu greeting. She knew Meekulu loved to hear the ancestors’ words, as so few nowadays used them, “How is the mahangu growing?”. “Apo ngheaange” answered Meekulu smiling, “Eewa, mahangu do not look promising this year, it is like in the old, old time, when the elders were looking at the sky to understand if the rain would have been enough to understand if they had been blessed or had to go begging for government handout. Water quotas have been further reduced, so I only planted a few lines, and the governor has declared open farming in our zone as recreational activity, so it is now impossible to cultivate crops. Besides, from tomorrow Onangholo will be fully included into the Great Outapi Dome 2121, so nothing will be the same”.

Dome 2121 was the latest apparatus developed to protect humans from land aridification which materialized in full force by the end of 20th century. It began slowly, in the late 1990s when the days with temperature above 50 degrees had increased from a few weeks in the year, to more than thirty days alone in 2021. Since then, the number of extremely hot days had increased exponentially. Globally days above 50 degrees now averaged to 130 per year, but in many Southern African countries their number had reached even 200 in a year. Here the Kalahari and the Namib had merged in what the geographers renamed the KalaNam, virtually creating a huge desert that divided the North from the South of the country.

The Domes 2100 were introduced just before Meme Hope was born. They were the latest evolution of the first domes conceived in the year 2030 to protect people working mostly in the Central Business Districts  (CBDs) and those living in the elite residential areas, from extreme heat stress and for this reason strongly opposed by the World Climate Action Now, (WCAN) of which Meme Hope mother, Meme Kashibibwa was an activist. The idea was simple in principle, to create in the countries mostly affected by extreme heat stress, a network of self-sufficient artificial bubbles, the domes, empowered with stellarator fusion energy performer, to harness solar power without any nuclear waste. Connection between the different domes was made possible thank to the car-fly transport system, which had virtually reduced distance of 100s of miles just to a few minutes’ drive. However, the domes created an exclusive protection system mostly for the elites; access to them was policed and only allowed for working reasons. For that reasons WCAN fought against the bubbles and their global popular mobilisation led to the transformation of the UN into the RUN and ultimately to the new dome 2100.

“Tomorrow I am going to travel to Etosha” said Ndakalako, holding grandma Hope’s hand tightly, “I am scared”. “Why ngheeange?” answered Meekulu, softly patting her back. “I have never seen a live wild elephant” she said “But thinking of it, I have never seen a live chicken as well” and both laughed to that last observation.

“There is nothing to be scared of, dear, and do not forget, … your great, great grandfathers were hunters”. She led Ndakalako in the library-cum studio; Ndakalako knew that now she would have an adult, woman to woman conversation with grandma Hope. The studio was where all family vital issues were discussed.

“Do you remember what our family totem is?”. “It is the Oryx”, retorted Ndakalako, she had been told that so many times, but she failed to figured out what that could have to do with her going in the wild tomorrow. “There were plenty still, before the last heatwave, now only few remain in the wild, and that is because they could live easily even in the desert scorching heat… this if …water was available. The Oryx symbolizes our nature, the capacity of facing even the most difficult challenges, beside you will have loads of water at the camp. You can even get a full bath twice a week. That is one of the advantages of turning 17 and going to the Olufuku”. Ndakalako smiled, she did not remember when was the last time she bathed in water. That was an extravagance only few could indulge, and often a treat child got at their birthday. 

Meekulu asked CPR1 to fetch Volume 1 of the Etosha collection edited by van Zely. It was a very rare copy, the first combining text reading with tact-sensorial experience. Of each animal the reader could touch the body and smell the scent, as if it was there in front of the person. Meekulu indicated the animals she would have found in Etosha and those who were now extinct, explaining how to recognize the different spoors. It was a mesmerizing experience, the right induction for what Ndakalako was going to experience tomorrow.

“Grandma, what will happen tomorrow to Onangholo?” enquired abruptly Ndakalako. It was long since she wanted to ask, but she had always been hesitant knowing that it was a very sensitive argument. It was because of the dome that Grandma had stopped speaking with her mother, great grandmother Kashibibwa, who she accused to have been a sell-out. She could, however, not forgive herself of failing to reconcile before her mother passed away.

“Tomorrow Onangholo will be connected to the 2100 domes’ system and be part of the Great Outapi Dome 2121. I do not know if your great-grandmother Kashibibwa would have been happy or depressed” replied Meekulu. “As you know, being part of GOD 2121 means that we will spend even less time in the open sky” Meekulu, started explaining. “People will also be less free to move since entry controls will reach level 8 but yes, now even the little villages have been included and will be protected from both extreme heat and excess radiation, but is this really what my mother had campaigned for?”.

When the domes were introduced, Kashibibwa was 28, one of the founders of WCAN Namibia; she had always been an environmentalist. Just when completing her MA in investigative journalism, she was busy probing the rational of the domes’ idea. What puzzled her was that the oil giant corporations were both the initiators and the implementers of the domes. She was disturbed by the fact the domes were ultimately thought to maintain the system of production’s status quo. A modern revisitation of Tomasi di Lampedusa’s quote, “everything has to change if we want things to stay as they are”. But ultimately it was the proposed introduction of the Entry Pass (EP) which she fought the most for. The domes were leaving out more than 80 % of the population, those in the rural areas and in urban suburbia, practically protecting, and basically isolating, the rich from the other citizens. A reintroduction, only 40 years after independence, of an apartheid system based on wealth and not directly on race. But why a government who had fought for the country’s freedom, had agreed to such a scheme, was what she was investigating.

“Grandma, why did you clash with Meekulu Kashibibwa?” asked Ndakalako out of the blue. “My mother was very stubborn, me as well. Neither her nor I wanted to admit that we were both wrong”.  

After the approval of the domes’ programme by the regional authority, WCAN mobilized the youth, who represented the majority of the country’s population, against it. The battle lasted two years, the police made a large use of the newly introduced RobCops and often the demonstrations led to violent clashes. Kashibibwa, as many other leaders of the movement, was often arrested. Just before giving birth to Meekulu, Kashibibwa’s opposition campaign against the domes almost stopped. Few WCAN requests were accepted,  mainly on the right of free movements in and out of the domes, and the abolition of the EP. Oddly Kashibibwa also agreed not to publish the investigative report on the link between the government and the corporation behind the dome project, and, more relevant for the prosecution of the battle, she resigned as WCAN Executive officer. It was a shock, a blow for the movement. Few days after the birth of her daughter, named Hope, on the 6 of August 2032, Kashibibwa left the country, leaving Hope, Ndakalako grandmother, to the in-laws. WCAN ceased its activities.

“Grandma Hope, why did great-grandma leave you?” enquired Ndakalako? “She said   it was for my own sake. She returned in the country when I was almost your age. Even if in that period we did communicate a bit, she never revealed where she was, and we never spoke of the domes. When I saw her for the first time, I was happy and distressed at the same time, she was a stranger to me”.

By 2032 the construction of the domes had started, aiming to cover the commercial and residential parts of the main regional capital cities. Movement passes were scrapped for accessing the CBDs but were maintained to access the residential areas. The reason was simple: the size of the dome, in order to ensure internal stability, had to be proportional to the number of people living under it. More people meant bigger size and hence higher costs. WCAN’s principles of equality was forgotten. Alongside introducing the domes, following the global trend in innovative food production, the government had launched the Food Thermo-stabilised (FooT) programme, spearheaded by one of the major producers of genetically modified seeds (GMS). The idea was to artificially produce nutriments for human consumption, reducing to the bare minimum use of water, which by 2030 had officially declared an extremwly scarce resource. Agriculture production had drastically changed, and the impact on rural areas such as Onangholo was devastating. Subsistence agriculture almost disappeared and influx of people to the urban areas skyrocketed. The movement was, however instrumental to the construction of the domes and their maintenance which was a very labor-intensive activity.

Volume 1 of the sense-reading Etosha collection was published in 2032, the same year Meekulu was born. Her mother bought the book and kept it with her until Meekulu turned 17, when she sent it to her with a note: “In this book you will find all your answers”. Meekulu never had the chance to ask her mother the meaning of the note, she died in a strange car accident a few months after her birthday. The book was one of the few things left to her by her mother and was very precious.

“Can you sense the smoothness of hippo skin? It is funny how the hippo was always underrated in terms of danger, maybe the sleepy face” said Meekulu, “They were even more deadly to human than the crocs. Now both are only visible in the few protected areas, I am sure you will be able to have a glimpse to them tomorrow”. After completing her Olufuko, Ndakalako was taking six months leap as a RUN volunteer at the Preventing Artic Meltdown project, to then enroll at the Ice Regeneration Institute in Santiago, so she didn’t know when she would have seen Meekulu after today, and she wanted to take advantage of this opportunity to get to know as much as possible of her great grandmother.

All of sudden Meekulu’s wrist chip started flashing, she had completely forgotten that the city governor had invited her for dinner to discuss tomorrow’s Dome 2121 inaugural ceremony. Meekulu was asked to give the introductory speech. “Oh dam!, I am supposed to have dinner with the Honorable governor Tate Levi, he asked me to give an historical presentation on the domes” Meekulu said apologetically, “In reality what he really wants from me, is to give a eulogy of the programme and what we have achieved as human race. I do not think he would be happy to listen to what I have to say”,they both laughed, “It will be a surprise, I am not a sell-out like my mother…You can take the book with you, consider it as my birthday present, we can continue our conversation after Olufuku” concluded the overthinking Meekulu, while kissing Ndakalako on the cheek and leaving the studio.

Ndakalako was left alone, she would have loved to continue speaking with grandma Hope, she felt that this time she was going to open up about great grandma Kashibibwa, but no… this would have to wait to the next time they meet again. With the book tight in her hands she asked CPR1 to call a taxi for her. “It will not take me much to pack up for tomorrow, if I hurry up, I can arrive to Etosha Park before dinner is served”, thought Ndakalako while waiting for the taxi.

“But your mother agreed with the government’s idea about the domes” Tate Levi was saying nervously, “Actually I do not know what made my mother change position on the domes, but… Tate… I am not my mother. You cannot ask me to say something in which I do not believe and against the way history went. Do not worry, my speech will only put in the right perspective what we have done to make earth a hostile environment for the future generations” restated with a sarcastic smile Meme Hope. “And now, if you excuse me it is time for me to leave, I want to be fresh for tomorrow’s show”.

The moment she received the invitation for the inaugural speech from the office of the Governor, Meme Hope knew what she would have said. That was in her eyes the opportunity to rehabilitate her mother work to the world. Great Outapi, had been chosen among the 10,000,000 cities in the world which would have been connected to the dome 2121 system. She was one of the few African female experts on the history of climate change, so even if her views were very unorthodoxy they had to invite her. That were Professor Hope Endada’s last thoughts before falling asleep. 

The beeping on the under skin wristwatch was getting louder, Meme Hope did not want to get up yet, but she had to prepare for the ceremony. She got a special permission on water usage to bathe even if she had already used her monthly quota that could not be missed. She felt bad having ended sharply the conversation with her niece, but on the other hand, she was asking too many questions. She was not yet ready to open the wounds of her past. Time to get ready and most of all to enjoy a bath in warm water.

Ndakalako was woken up of birds’ chirping, it was a recorded sound but the setting made it as if it was real. Virtual reality at Etosha camp was one of the most advanced in the world, those few who had experienced the real natural setting, argued that it was even more real than the real McCoy.

She had driven straight home after last night’s meeting with grandma. She was a bit disappointed, since she had longed to know something more about great grandmother, and she was sure that if they had kept talking, grandma Hope would have opened up, but it least she had the book.

Grandma was right, it was a precious and valuable book, even more since it belonged to great-grandma Kashibibwa. She was her role model, Ndankalako had gone through all the available archives to find information on her life. She could not understand how, after all she had done and all the fights to change the dome programme, on the last mile she had capitulated, and disappeared for so many years. That was not the great-grandmother she had learned to know from the records.

Ndakalako was sensorially going through the book’s pages once again. Suddenly she stopped at the Oryx, the family clan. On the skin there was an odd little bulge which seemed out of place, interrupting the smoothness of the touch, she scratched it and there it was, … a little microchip.

How could grandma not have noticed. Ndakalako slots the chip into her internal wristwatch and there she was… great-grandma Kashibibua. She was lying in a hospital bed, she had just given birth because grandma Hope was at her breast. “My dear daughter, if you are looking at this clip, it is because I am no more and for one reason or another, we did not have the chance to express our feelings. I could not explain to you what really happened and why I had to quit WCAN. It is not as it may appear, or how they may have told you in my absence. I am going to name you Hope, because I am sure you will see the truth and will continue my fight.

I was forced to choose: either continue to struggle for a sustainable planet or not to give birth to you. They knew I would have chosen you”.

She is not a sell-out, she is not a sell-out shouted Ndakalako.

“It is with great pleasure I am calling Prof. Hope Endada, to give her remarks on this particular occasion, the inauguration of Dome 2121, another testimony of the genius of mankind capability to overcome in this past 2100 years all difficulties nature has set in front of us”, silence felt in the auditorium. Grandma’s wrist phone vibrated, she looked at it and could see Ndakalako’s face, automatically she activated the hear-phone and she heard a loud shout “Grandma, I know the truth Kashibibwa was not a sell-out, she did it to keep you alive”.

With tears descending from her face grandma Hope started her speech: “Contrary to what Mr. President has just said, Dome 2121 is not a testimony of mankind genius, rather the proof of our stupidity…..”

——-

——-

Glossary of Oshiwambo names

Etango= Sun

Mahangu = Millet

Shebeen = Liquor shop

Oikombo = Goat

Oshana = Flooded field

Olufuku = Rite of passage to womanhood

Neheaange = Last born

Eewa = Yes

Apo Meekulu = Greeting for elderly women

Tate = Suffix used to indicate an adult man followed by his first name

Meme = Suffix used to indicate an adult woman followed by her name

Etosha = Namibian Wildlife Natural Reserve

——-

Family Tree

NameFamily linkCharacter NameBorn in
Ndinelao  Ndakalako great great grand motherNdinelao  1978  In 2002 gives birth to Kashibibwa
Kashibibiwa      Ndakalako great grand mother      Meekulu Kashibibiwa/ (Hope/Meekul’s mother)2002      In 2032 gives birth to Hope    
Hope/Meekulu    Ndakalako grand mother    Hope/Meekulu, Endada’s mother, main character 22032    In 2032 gives birth to Endada  
Endada  Ndakalako mother  Endada  2066    In 2066 gives birth to Ndakalako
Ndakalakomain character 12104  In 2121 she is 17
Kolkata I Journaling through Calcutta- Silence and Shahid

Taha Mama

“The Green (CCU-2200)” by Taha Mama

Start with Silence.

The phrase bounced around Shahid’s head. He had contemplated maintaining a journal for over a year now. Shahid kept finding reasons to push the initiation. A month later – he’d tell himself – after he’s thoroughly honed his handwriting skills. Just a few days later: after he finishes the last chapter of the critically acclaimed novel around the Covid’19 pandemic. (A seminal text really, if one wants to seriously take up journaling) A week into working on his typing speed. Or after he gets his hands on the latest typing tech. Little did he know, his great-great grandfather in the summer of 2021 was faced with a similar journaling debacle.

Panic, Panic, Hope!

He’d fixed upon his ‘writing mantra,’ going back and forth between stages of panic without making the leap of fate into realm of Hope. Writer’s Hope. He flirted with fragmented ideas but saw no ink flowing on his screen. A cursor kept blinking at him from the first page of his blank book. Why should one journal? Cash? He’d turned twenty at his parent’s house a week ago. It seemed only yesterday when could he stop worrying about math homework and finishing the greens on his plate. It was too soon to be worrying about green numbers. Craft? He was told by teachers he had a distinct style of writing, “Write more!” said some “Write every day!” said the others. But he’d said enough, Silence was his spectacle now. Career? The world where he finds himself has moved beyond (or back to) the need for creating careers out of their lives, living was enough. The prestigious Calcutta Colleges had hung their English hats, dawned during the British Raj. Calcutta then was a bustling capital city where social customs were challenged to allow fresh ideas to flow. Now, one followed the path their parents had set out on or they would be left behind. Forward meant following. Choice became the unspoken C-word of the times. Coffee? Coffee!

Caffeine, Kaf · feen?Ka· faa · een?

Shahid struggled. Coffee could momentarily lift his spirits, till this C-word somehow got the better of him. Once again, on a gloomy Sunday morning his duel ended with defeat. Humbled, he waddled up to the Machine with three blinking lights. Red meant it Lives. Green said it was ready to Give. The third light, he was not quite sure. In fact, this was the first time he had even noticed it. Blue-black, blue-black, blue-black, it flickered. Red stayed stable; Green caved in as he pressed the button that spawns the warm beverage he craves. He pays the Machine a closer look. Its pockets were filled with coffee beans, it was adequately fed with milk. It seems like the poor old Machine had a classic case of being ‘simply thirsty.’ Shahid had nothing to offer, the Taps stayed stiff as the Machine mourned. He looks out of the window, in search of Life, that would sympathise, in search of Red. A decaying Green blinks back at him.  He sees no humans, just malfunctioning Machines. It was 2200, and his kind had run out of water.

There was a War of sorts. A Water War. There were no guns or bullets, or sturdy looking tanks involved. A few men in suits called each other unpleasant names in a fancy room and suddenly all the pipes went dry. All that was now spoken about was: how to turn Sea water into Fresh water. To Shahid it seemed like a Salt crisis but his nephew on the other side of the world was taught Water Crisis instead. He did not protest, he remained silent.

Violence is a culture found in playgrounds,

Cities fall to let their children breathe

The lines ringed in his head when the Lake (Calcutta had many lakes, but only one Lake), after being saturated with that same Green for days caught fire on a Tuesday afternoon. It echoed in his sleep for weeks after he witnessed a building (not Building) ignite in flames without provocation. A group of people blamed another group of people, while some suspected the Green was the culprit. And the same lines filled his ears today. But no matter. For the Fire Crisis was over. The lines were now useless to him. He’d picked it out from a Collection of Poems along with other little bits and pieces he’d found from his Great Great Grandfather’s box.

The Box!

He summons the ladder and makes his way up the bathroom door to the attic. To where the Box sits. He empties it out, sprawling the same items again hoping one would pique his interest today a little more than the others. He picks out a Portable Air Quality monitor first. It didn’t really work, but its scale was visible. It assigned a word each for a range of values. It started with ‘Good’ and went till ‘Severe.’ Green to Red. He knew very little about Air Quality or Good and Bad, but he had spent many an evening with his math homework. He knew a set of numbers when he saw them. He was certain the Monitors today started where this one ended.

Shahid finds a couple of old photographs too. There wasn’t much to talk about them. Photography was a summer fad for the old man. He recognised some of the places. Only the chai shops with colourful tarpaulin roofs were replaced by Buildings. Yellow Hindustan Motor’s Ambassadors which operated as taxi’s were replaced by grey Council Cars. And you don’t see cycles, birds, dogs or any people on the street anymore. Surely Green cannot be behind this, perhaps the Salt has made its way to the air too, seeping into Water, making all Monitors flicker in Red.

Shahid then got his hands on a book, was it a journal? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t speak; the pencil marks have faded. Could he make it his journal? It already started with Silence. But the pages were on the brink of turning to powder. The photograph’s plight was similar. Is this how pages die or had the Box been unkind?

He was terribly partial to handmade paper.

Was all that was spoken about his Great Great Grandfather to Shahid. As he packed up the box it occurred to him: He was terribly partial to paper too!

Shops

Now, luxury items such as notepads and pens and protractors are only issued by the Calcutta Council, available only at Calcutta Council authorised stores, run by Calcutta Council employees. But you can also get them at Stationary Shops. There aren’t very many of them these days. Fortunately, Shahid’s house is directly across one. They had somehow unlocked the secrets of time travel years ago, for they were always outdated. Before the Council’s Takeover, before the Crisis, when everyone around them used calculators and Computer-generated receipts, they stuck to a pen and a notepad. Slowly writing the price of each item in a column. Before adding a neat plus sign beside at. A line struck below it would signify the Addition would now begin. Only a shaky hand of the aged shopkeeper could handle the phenomenon. Young blood would be overwhelmed by the pace of this craft. This was the game of the old folk. Even the Council couldn’t faze them, and it had some seriously old folks. The Shops stuck to their ways  

Silent Streets

Shahid stepped out on the Street to see everyone around him with (along with half a dozen masks) a device. A Noiseless Mic. It looked like a lapel and cancelled out all the surrounding sound for the wearer. It could catch the softest of whispers, you’d just about had to think out loud and it would pick it up. The messages were transmitted to a fellow Noiseless Mic flaunter with the actual sound being lost. The receiver would hear a monotonous hum as the messages. One could obviously select from a wide array of emotions to flavour to your messages. Let alone noise, the Demonic Device had cancelled out all sounds. Everything but Silence. But Shahid’s Silence was different.

Father’s Son

He noticed he was being watched. Watched as his ‘Father’s son.’ It was his Mother’s colleague, across the street. He’d seen that scowl before. They must have picked it up from his Mother, who reserved it for the times she spoke of her Father. So, this Father of his, somehow makes tonnes of Money by selling Salt. He owns big Machines that do all the work for him. Sea Water becomes Fresh Water, leaving Salt and Money. To his Father this was Service, to his Mother it was Inhuman in times of a Crisis. To Shahid this was Routine. As a child his Father, would hold him down to unleash the Tickle Monster, only to let go if he admitted he was his Father’s son. An innocent activity?

Mother’s Son

He left their gaze only to run into a suited man at the Shop. He could smell the smirk on them through the layers of masks. A smirk he’d seen slapped on his Father’s face while his Mother would spend her days speaking at length about Ecology to whoever gave her a hear. All his Father would say, whenever he stopped smirking that was, “We live in a Silent World.”

My Silence

But Shahid believes his Silence is different. He just couldn’t quite point out what exactly was so novel about it. He buys a book. He buys a Pen. The shopkeeper begins the Addition. On his way out he is stopped, not by silence, but by sound.

“My name is Zariya and yours?” The raspy, sing-song speech, Human speech, is a carnival to his ears.

“Sh, Shahid” he squeaks. His throat numb, his mouth dry.

“Why were you named Shahid?” speech flows easily through little Zariya. Just as easy as the little fountain of hair gushing above her head, clipped in place by a deep Blue scrunchy.

He dusts off his vocal cords, the clouds around his conscious part. He feels lighter. His eyes are fixed on that Blue, glistening under the lonely bulb of the Shop. He is reminded he was named after his Great Great Grandfather.

“Listen,” his voice lingers, filling up the room. It catches the shopkeeper’s attention. Little Zariya’s mother lifts her eyes from a vintage book to that vintage young man, “It means beloved in Persian, Witness in Arabic”

Shahid rushes back to his room, the Machine still blinking. Shahid’s new book isn’t blank anymore.

Tu Zariya, hoon main Zariya,

Aur uski Kripa, Dariya Dariya.

(You are the medium, I am the medium

And their blessings are like the Sea, like the Sea)

__

References

[Text]

The first few pages of A Language Than Older than words Derrick Jensen.ISBN:9780285636248

The introduction of The Last Jet Engine Laugh by Ruchir Joshi. ISBN: 9780002570893

Agha Shahid Ali’s Call Me Ishamael Tonight. ISBN: 9780393051957

A bit of the style and humour from Andre Sean Greer’s Less. ISBN: 9780316316125

Adil Jussawala’s Land’s End. ISBN: 9788192923062

[Picture]

Cover Image by Taha Mama

[Video]

A Phoebe Waller Bridge Interview for the Writing Mantra (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D3mmqLVi_QQ&t=423s&ab_channel=Vogue)

Zariya by Coke Studio and AR Rahman

(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wlaZSx6tqRo&ab_channel=CokeStudioIndia)

[Other]

Shahid’s Great Great Grandfather’s box, all of it.

Bengaluru I BLR – 2200

Maazen Ahmed ( author & illustrator)

I – PLACE     /pleɪs/

wʌn      I believe an island is what it was called back then.

tuː         Yeah, a land mass completely surrounded by water – but smaller than a continent. And ˈeɪʒə-saʊθ would _______classify as artificial. Man-made. It was made to be a perfect circle.

θriː       I see. A circle was probably to cut costs, no?

tuː         Right. Isolating the entire coast would have been much more expensive.

θriː       Good move. There would be too much empty space if we had done that.

tuː         Well maybe now it would be. But our population doesn’t fluctuate like it did before the 22nd century. I’d _______skimmed through some records in the Archiving Department the other day. Back then there was so little _______space, they’d start building vertically. Towers they were called. And sky…scrapers? Yeah, sky-scrapers.

θriː       Like… to scrape skies?

tuː         Who knows.

wʌn      They didn’t have enclosures back then. I’m sure buildings could be as tall as they wanted them to be.

θriː       Right, right. Everything was open. I’m pretty sure people used to travel on air to get everywhere because _______of that. The museum had an “aeronautics” exhibit last week. They seemed really dangerous to me. Hard _______to believe hundreds of people would be in them at once.

wʌn      No, no, they didn’t always use planes. That was for when they had to transport large groups of people ______from one sector to another. Like ˈeɪʒə-saʊθ to əˈmɛrɪkə-nɔːθ. Or whatever they used to call those places ______back then.

θriː       Transport… people? To different sectors? For what?

wʌn      Ask the expert.

tuː         The old sectors – ‘countries’ they were called – used to be very different from each other. And there _______were a lot more of them. We have 15 sectors now, but there were hundreds of countries. They all had _______different leaders, different languages, different currencies, different climates, everything. Some were _______probably better off than others, so people would tend to move around. Planes were just the quickest _______way for them to do so.

wʌn      Guess they hadn’t come up with their ocean-lines yet. Or would they travel above water?

tuː         They’d use the ocean for transport sometimes. On things called “ships”. But yeah, normally above the _______surface, not underwater for the most part. Mostly for moving goods – cargo – from one place to another.

wʌn      Well then, at least that’s the same.

tuː         Eh, people would travel on ships too sometimes.

wʌn      What, why?

tuː          Before the 20th century, that was the only way to get people across the ocean. After the 20th century…_______they traveled on them for leisure, I guess. Neither ships or planes were a clean way to get around _______though.

wʌn      Hah. And people still wonder why we’re in these little bubbles of ours.

II – LIVING      /ˈlɪvɪŋ/

“And now, on to the weather! We’ve been seeing quite the downpour for the past few days from six fifteen p.m. to nine forty-five p.m. – as per the Ministry of Agriculture’s schedule. But good news is, tomorrow’s marks the last evening of rainfall for the year! Starting Monday, these quiet greys are going to be turning a clear blu-

…

“It seems we have breaking news. There has been a minor road accident on H-14, leading to significant traffic pileup till the H-23 intersection. We have ˈoʊməɹ at the scene to provide a detailed description of the incident. Over to you ˈoʊməɹ.

Thanks ʤuːn. For those of you just joining in, I’m here at H-14 where there seems to have been a single-vehicle collision on the road. The officers inspecting the incident are reporting that the driver of said vehicle has no visible injuries. It seems the driver had lost control of his car and had crashed into the guard rail on the left side of the road. We will be able to provide more details on the victim shortly.

Furthermore, this accident has created a significant traffic jam all the way until H-23. Since this route is exclusively used by employees from the Ministry of Health, individuals that were scheduled to leave their homes at any time past 8:36 a.m. will be caught in this congestion, and will be facing delays in their reporting time at the Ministry.

We have just received notice that the Ministry of Health has carried out the relevant calculations, and are providing nine minutes of relaxation for each employee’s reporting time. This is to accommodate the necessary adjustments to each vehicles speed, and potential rubbernecking. Any delays beyond that will be added on to the end of the concerned employees shift.

And… we have just received an update on the victim of the car crash. It seems that the police are facing delays in identifying the driver. This has led authorities to assume that this individual has refrained from consuming his daily supplements as per the Ministry of Health’s instructions, and is therefore not visible on today’s census records. This is further demonstrated by the driver’s ‘sickly appearance’ – to quote the police report – and a lack of attention on the road. The number of days that the victim has avoided his supplements is also unclear, but considering the driver’s condition, authorities claim that it has likely been weeks. The police are now investigating the reason as to why the victim avoided his daily supplements.

And that brings us to the end of our report. We will now return to our regularly scheduled news. Back to you ʤuːn!

III – CONDUCT           /ˈkɒndʌkt/

Identification Code: AS – 072 378

Welcome to your Annual Abidance & Regularity Examination. During the A.R.E we will be documenting your pulse and respiration rate for each of your responses. The testing will end if there are noticeable oddities in your vitals.

As directed by the Ministry of Health and Welfare, we will begin the testing by reviewing your consumption of the supplements provided to you by the Ministry. Please respond to each of these prompts in as succinct a manner as possible.

-click-

Have you been receiving your daily supplements at 7:04 AM each morning?

Yes.    

And have you been consuming said supplements as per direction from the Ministry of Health and Welfare?

Yes.

Have you experienced any negative reactions to the supplements provided, that may have led to failure or inhibition in consuming said supplements?

No.

Are you aware of any individuals within your household, neighbourhood or workplace that have failed to regularly consume the supplements provided to them?

No.

-click-

Thank you. We will now move on to occupation-centric questions. The testing will end if you fail to answer any questions in regards and in relation to your position. Please state your place of work.

Ministry of Health. Department of Biotechnology, Pharmaceutical Division.

-click-

Thank you. It seems that your respective Board have had some concerns in regards to a group of employees within your department. Your responses for this portion of the examination will be recorded and forwarded to the relevant authorities. Once again, the testing will end if there are noticeable oddities in your vitals.

Please provide a brief report of your divisions progress over the last quarter.

“Um… we had received records of people in ˈjʊərəp-wɛst and ˈjʊərəp-nɔːθ having a sort of allergic reaction to the supplements we’ve developed. We’ve made the necessary modifications, so it shouldn’t be an issue anymore.

Oh we’ve also worked with the Ministry of Housing and Home Affairs in əˈmɛrɪkə-saʊθ to rework the Population Control Scheme for each sector. Our sector is now going to have four natal dates instead of three from now on. They’ve now been set on the fifteenth of January, April, July and October. We’ve adjusted the supplements accordingly. We will see effects by the October period.

 There was also discussion on whether or not people reaching the age of seventy should…pass away on the same days – as in the fifteenth of those same four months. The initial plan was to carry out the passing and the necessary procedures at the end of those same months. But in the end, they – we, decided that there’s no need to set aside a different day for those that are passing away.

This way we won’t have to worry about the effects of a population spike for those fifteen to sixteen days.”

Have you completed your report? The Board of Directors also mentioned completion on the ‘Five-Stages’ project. Please continue your report.

“Oh…yes. The five stages have been decided. We’re still yet to modify the supplements further. But it is almost complete. The body should adhere to the appropriate stages, as long as one takes the supplements as directed. These changes will also likely come about by the October period.”

A notable number of employees within the Department of Biotechnology have failed to recall each of the five stages and the corresponding ages correctly. Please dictate the five stages. The testing will end if you provide an incorrect response.

“Right… the stages are: birth to five for ‘preliminary development’; five to twenty for ‘education’; twenty to fifty- five for ‘employment’; Fifty-five to sixty-five, education – or ‘mentorship’ rather; and sixty-five to seventy for ‘retirement’.”

.

.

.

-click-

Thank you. The relevant authorities are satisfied with your responses. We will now move on to a series of question regarding your ‘home-life’. Once again, the testing will end if there are noticeable oddities in your vitals.

-click

Stockholm in the year of 2200

– A visioning of a sustainable and preferable future

Hanna Eriksson

The year is 2200 in Stockholm. The city has become a megacity with 10 million inhabitants. When looking back 80 years in time you can see that the city has gone through a major transformation in terms of policy-making, the matter-energy flow of the city, the infrastructure and the view and practices between human and “more-than-human” objects. In the year 2200, the city of Stockholm bears the stamp of sustainability, inclusion, justice, diversity, novel complementary policy-making, interconnection between human and none-human and frugality with natural materials.

Diversity and equality

The spatial structure of Stockholm has transformed over a long period of time. The previous issue the city had with providing affordable housing is long gone. The term homeless is seen as something alien and every human have the right to a roof over their head. The urban centre and the suburban areas are interlinked. The centre of Stockholm consists of skyscraper while the suburbs is mixed with high apartment buildings and detached houses, but beside this the areas are fairly similar. People who want a calmer area to live in have search themselves to areas further from the city while people who want to feel the city pulse live more central. The socioeconomic factor does not determine the spatial life of people. The urban city is a mix of different kind of owning – both rented apartments and private housings. The suburb as well, with the opportunity to rent detached housing also. People with different socioeconomic background have the same opportunities to live in the urban centre and the suburbs. This changing has resolved in a more divers city and the previous segregation with division of areas of urban poor and rich have diminished. The housing market in Stockholm is built upon the public good and is decoupled from the market of neoclassical economic. The government in Sweden invest a lot of subventions to make this possible.

The structure of the city has subsequently resulted in decreasing division between different areas in Stockholm. The city is more integrated, and the type of services provided, the infrastructure and activities of both small and bigger scales are mixed and not specific to one type of area. These urban mixes let people from different background meet, communicate and live together. A vibrant community and a diverse opportunity for different uses and activities define all places in Stockholm.

Infrastructure and urban planning

The design and decision-making processes of planning in Stockholm have a core in involving the local people and integrating the social and ecological aspects in the planning process. Moreover, the spatial allocation of public resources is done after the premises of equality and justice. The spatial distribution of resources is decoupled from wealth and every citizen has the same accessibility to public space and services. Stockholm has a wide spread of urban forests and green areas that people can use in all areas around and within the city. Furthermore, the planning is made so that people feel inclusive and can put their own character in the public space. In Stockholm, there are “free squares” where people have the right to do this and express themselves.

The urban planning and policy-making process of Stockholm has transformed and adapted to climate change and the subsequently cosmopolitical actions. The city has built a framework that connects the complex system that intertwines the different knowledge, values and practices of the urban life connected to climate change and sustainability. Moreover, it uses a bottom-up perspective to reach out to different voices and understandings. Among other things, this is done with an app where different people and groups can share their values and experiences concerning the human and none-human knowledge and practices. These stories are then connected in a wide network to be used in the policy-making of Stockholm. The policy makers emphasize on the practices and developments that are aiming for the greater good and sees the “more-than-human” perspectives. Moreover, they see that the transformation of the urban space not only lies in the understanding and development of the economic and technology but also the socio-political aspect.

Moreover, the city of Stockholm has incorporated the post-normal science approach when dealing with issues related to complex systems of nature when the stakes are high and there are existing system uncertainties. In practical sense, this means that when there are lack of certain facts and knowledge the environmental policy aims at including and focusing on human values and the quality of the urban space. Different fields of actors have mutual contact, present their inputs and an agreement is done after premises of the locals’ values concerning the issue.

Furthermore, Stockholm has a wide range of common pool resources in the year 2200.  There are urban forests and farming around the city and lakes where people can fish. These properties are managed as collective or common property by the locals constructed in different types of local managements.

The metabolism of the city

The city of Stockholm is seen as a system that includes an awareness of the inputs and outputs of the system. Furthermore, Stockholm has an environmental policy to decrease the flow in the system (the use of matter-energy) and also to phase out the output of the system. This policy has helped the city to turn the linear flow of matter-energy into a more circular and careful use of resources. The waste of the city is reused in different ways. Among other things, waste from water plants is used to fertilize the urban and rural agriculture areas within and around Stockholm and all organic waste is used to obtain biogas to provide the city with energy. Besides the aspect of circular flow, there are more of local activities and production within the system of the city. The local market is flourishing and the matter-energy from outside of Stockholm, and especially outside of Sweden has diminished. This was a consequence after the market value of goods and services started to include the externalities, which raises the prices and more local production was thought as a better option. Furthermore, this has resulted in decreased degradation in the countries where Sweden, and Stockholm, previously has imported goods and services.

To obtain a circular flow of metabolism the government of Stockholm has implemented urban mining in the city. The city has taken initiatives, for example by collect electronics and the metal-storage that exist in the city and reuse or recycling these. The urban waste is contextualised, and the old cables and pipes are reused.

The nature and the city are interlinked. The natural processes and natural material are a part of the city structure. Many houses are made of tree-material and have green roofs for example. In this sense, the planning of the city uses the “goods” from the nature to obtain a sustainable city where people want to live in. The “goods” and the “bads” are distributed equity among the citizens and the spatial places of Stockholm. This means that environmental “bads”, such as waste and pollution, is not centred on a specific area. This resolves in that people have the same opportunities to access environmental “goods” and no group of people are more exposes to environmental “bads” than other. 

—————————

Reflection

The visioning is made from a utopian and sustainable viewpoint of Stockholm in 2200 since this seems to be lacking today. Many stories concerning the future is generally rather dismal and visioning a preferable future could help to obtain prosperity and strength to make a different. So, the visioning is not based on a realistic standpoint for the future. The theoretical part of the visioning is obtained from several theories and concepts within the field of political ecology and the selection is made after those who seemed relevant and supporting in the transition to a sustainable urban environment in Stockholm.

The subject of diversity and equality is derived from the concept of environmental justice (Robbins 2012, p.74). Diversity and equality are a fundamental part of a sustainable city and need to be taking into consideration. Moreover, I think this is especially relevant for Stockholm where the segregation in terms of an economic and ethnical aspect is evident. The field of environmental justice contribute with the aspect of distribution of environmental “goods” and “bads” in the city and underpin a spatial urban environment where there is no difference between areas in this sense. The housing policies in Stockholm are a base to counteract the segregation and homogenised form of different zones in the urban space. By focusing on the “common good” instead of handling the housing situation as a part of the capitalistic market, changes can be made. The mixer of different owning types resolves in possibilities for everyone to find their suitable housing without being considerable limited by your socioeconomic situation. This topic also links to the concept of urban environmental justice and the distribution of “goods” and “bads” (Robbins 2012, p.74).

The infrastructure and urban planning section is based and inspired by the concepts of urban imaginary (Dikeç & Swyngedouw 2017), cosmopolitics (Houston et al. 2016) and post-normal science (mentioned in a seminar). The vision in this part is built upon inclusion of perspectives outside the established institutions and policy processes. The concept of urban imaginary brings with it an aspect of focusing on how citizens see the urban space and re-thinking what the urban reality is. By creating “free squares” around Stockholm its gives opportunities for people to do this. Furthermore, the insights from cosmopolitics were the base for the idea of mapping different values, knowledge, and practices around Stockholm. It is important to include these ideas to see how people think and act concerning the climate change and the sustainable transformation of the city. Stockholm can better adapt to people’s behaviours with this information. Lastly, the concept of post-normal science was applied to the policies surrounding decision-making in Stockholm. I think this concept is relevant when it comes to environmental policies, where the decisions often include uncertainties and high risks, and you need to take in other perspectives and information. This is also a way to include values and beliefs of the urban citizens who are going to be affected by the result of the decision.

The last part of the visioning is focused on the flow of matter-energy and a transformed view of the human-nature relationship. This view does not separate the human space with the nature, it interlinks them and people have an overall understanding of that the urban space is interconnected with the nature. The circular flow is a way to counteract the overexploitation of natural material and to sustain a society less focused on consumption. The concept of urban metabolism (Robbins 2012, p.73) was the fundament of these ideas. This concept inspired me to see the urban environment as a creation of natural material that is processed and transformed to build the city. The material is used in different ways and the use in this visioning was aimed at acknowledging this and connect this material to the urban planning in a sustainable way. For a sustainable transformation of Stockholm, I think it is important to have the kind of mind-set of urban metabolism – to see the flow of natural material in an urban system and understand that the urban space is depended on natural materials and processes. Moreover, urban mining felt like a contributing tool in this transformation to a circular flow.

References

Dikeç, M. & Swyngedouw, E. (2017). Theorizing the Politicizing City. International Journal of Urban and Regional Research, 41(1), pp.1-18.

Houston, D., et al. (2016). Climate Cosmopolitics and the Possibilities for Urban Planning. Nature and Culture, 11(3), pp.259-277.

Robbins, P. (2012). Political Ecology: a Critical Introduction. 2nd ed. s.l.: John Wiley & Sons Ltd.