The Silenced
“Until they become conscious they will never rebel, and until after they have rebelled they cannot become conscious.” – Nineteen-Eighty-Four by George Orwell
The prison was a cold, musty place: that was all the prisoners knew. They didn’t know precisely where it was, how and why they were taken in, and who the other prisoners were. They were ordered to forget their identities and follow the party’s ways, but subconsciously they knew that they were once philosophers who rebelled against the government’s maxims. They had previously thought that obedience in words, thoughts and actions to the government was in direct violation of human rights. Now they could only regret their foolish, worthless actions. Every day was the same: sent off by an unfathomable, taciturn guard to an area to do tough labor in a field, then to listen to a two-hour lecture on politics and maxims – any dozing off would result in a high-voltage electric shock.
If only they had received their enlightenment a bit earlier! The only thing they could do now –it was, in fact, what they should have done- was not to step out of line, and try to lengthen their wait for the inevitable – the execution. No one mentioned a thing about it, but by the whispered rumors they had heard before they entered the prison, it could happen on any day – perhaps tomorrow, the day after next, next week, or even next year. But what could they do about it? During their incarceration, they never had the mere notion of an escape. Escape, and risk immediate execution and torture? That was a definite “no”. With the party’s power and technology, how could their escape ever be successful? Also, the things they heard were just rumors; and weren’t they asked to listen solely to the party? Luckily, the tough labor they endured blinded them momentarily from the spectre of execution.
But it would not be long before the unavoidable event occurred. One ordinary day, they were rudely shaken from their incredibly short sleep by a guard they had never seen. The guard wore a perplexing expression, something between moroseness and confidence, and gestured them to follow him. The crowd gasped in silent horror as they had figured out the truth somehow. It was no rumor, then - the inevitable had come. It was the moment of execution.
As the sentry led them to their doom, the philosophers wondered what to do next. At least the execution was a one-off stroke; it was comfortable compared with their terrible lives as indefinite prisoners. Yet, the realization that death was coming, nearer by the moment, led them to see escape in a new light. Escape, successful or not, meant a new hope that their lives could be saved. Although it truly contradicted every rule in the party’s book, it was their only hope of survival.
As the argument raged on in their minds, they found themselves in a concealed place with no source of light, dark as ever. The darkness around them was menacing and it smothered them with emptiness and dread. As they entered the room, they heard a nerve-racking scream, and a high-pitched electronic tone. The shrill tone registered in their brains: when the tone died down, they would follow.
Suddenly in the midst of total darkness, there was light. It was daylight, something that the philosophers had not seen for three years. It came from an open gate in the walls of the room beyond and it revealed a serene landscape. The guard rushed to the gate and yelled.
No one made a move.
Soon, a soldier ran down and shouted a mouthful of orders. The guard frowned, and replied in a cautious tone. After some conversation, the two parted, and eventually no one guarded the gates.
Still, no one made a move. The battle in their heads raged: Was this a trap? Was this a route to freedom?
Minutes passed, and still no one had made a move. Many of them had already decided not to go for it, but some indecisive ones were still thinking it over. Dead silence fell over the crowd.
A whirring sound began, and the gate began closing. Suddenly, a footstep was heard in the midst of silence, and everyone turned their eyes.
A philosopher began charging towards the gate. It was the end of a symphony, the whirring sound was the cymbals and the footsteps were the drums. The gap shrank. The man was practically flying by now as he sprinted swiftly towards the gates. The tempo accelerated, the drums became more strident, and the cymbals began crashing continuously…
Then there was silence.
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