i. Badlands

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Warm sunlight is beating down on the rugged land around the detainment quarters. In a couple of hours, the sun will be unrelenting. 

The colors of the ruling party—red and green—are painted as a stripe running along the tall gray buildings. They loom ominously over the huddle of tents like an immovable mountain range.

I am helping a group assemble a tent when I see Councilman Emir Hamdi, in the flesh for the first time.

I squeeze my hands into a fist and release them, over and over again, trying to get rid of the tension in my body. From all the news segments, articles, interviews, and even leaked casual pictures of him that I have seen over the past decade, I know that I can draw him from memory, but seeing him in person just does not feel the same.

A few volunteers stand next to him cradling cartons in their arms as they all face a photographer. Their smiles remain graceful and brilliant while the camera flashes rapidly. As he is one of the five members of the council looking after our province, Odile, a photo-op is nothing out of the ordinary.

When the cluster finally dissipates and he begins walking towards a black SUV, I know that it's now or never. Excusing myself, I walk over to him with a recorder tucked in the back pocket of my jeans.

He pulls a duffle bag out of the trunk and has hardly shut it with his unoccupied hand when I reach his side.

"Excuse me, Councilman." I approach cautiously.

"Hi." Emir turns. The corners of his mouth tug into a winsome smile. His eyes are sharp, deep brown, dappled with sunshine, and for a moment I'm starstruck. 

"Uh. Hi." I quickly extend my hand. "I'm London Capell. I'm a reporter at The Reverent."

He shakes my hand, but the welcoming expression on his face falters. With a hint of a smile still gracing his features, he says. "Glad to have you here! We have a lot of work ahead of us."

He starts to walk away in the direction of the tents, and I quickly fall into step with him.

"It's a great turn up," I say, in an effort to keep this conversation going. "I believe the donation will be a size-able one."

"It's a regular turn up." He avoids my gaze. "Nothing extraordinary."

"Right. And this is primarily as a response to the new law?"

A sharp intake of breath, but he maintains a neutral tone. "This is not a response to anything. It's just a donation. We organize several of these throughout the year."

"Of course, but you were the only member of Odile's council—never mind the only member of the upper house of our parliament—to vote against it, and you are one of the organizers."

He stops abruptly, and I halt as well. The gigantic steel gates of the detainment quarters flash as the sun reflects off of them.

"Forgive me, what was your name again?" he asks, shielding his eyes with his free hand.

"London Capell."

"Like that city?"

"Yes—it's a long—"

"—Okay. Ms. Capell, I understand what the press wants to make of this—"

"Well, you don't know me."

"I've known enough reporters like you." He stops me in a clipped tone.

It stuns me for a moment, leaving me slightly offended. I bite my tongue. Like hell you have.

I expected resistance. After his symbolic vote, he has been avoiding interviews and letting people fight each other on social media platforms. Our political expert believes that he has sent the required message to his loyal followers. Now he wants to lay under the radar until the news cycle moves on.

But while the tide is high and Ara is willing, I want an interview.

The timing does not matter, it was always going to be tough to book him. Since his early-activism-law-school days, Emir has been known to play offensive when it comes to reporters. Unfortunately for him, I never learnt when to quit. 

His heels leave small puffs of dust as he walks away, towards a shabby tent, leaving me behind. I have no other option but to follow him. I didn't drive this far to be rejected.

I duck my head into the tent. Emir's face twitches ever so slightly when I sit down in front of him, but soon he appears resigned. He doesn't want to create a scene; it's bad optics.

I ask him for instructions, and he quickly demonstrates how to arrange the cans of food which are stacked in the center of the tent. It's easy work. It would have been pleasant, if my knees didn't hurt from the thin carpet—a poor blend of canvas and polyester.

For the next few minutes, no one says a word. Not me. Not him. Not even the two volunteers working next to us. Scissors, packing tape, and small knives pass around our huddle of knees and elbows.

Say something. Say something. Say something. My own voice loops in my head.

"I had emailed you about an interview," I finally blurt out.

The volunteers cast a glance in my direction. A certain brand of amusement lighting their eyes. 

"Right. An interview." Emir pauses for a moment as if he is trying to recall the details. "Sorry, I won't be able to help you with that."

"Councilman. Hear me out." I say, firmly. He stops and looks at me while trying to maintain a pleasant expression. "I want to help you. The Reverent is the second-most popular news source across all media. Your words could reach those who haven't been able to understand your perspective yet. My executive producer would consider herself privileged to be the one to cover ONA's story."

"Is this about a promotion for you?"

"What? No!" My voice rises in pitch. Would that be so bad?

"I think it's fairly convenient that someone who I've never seen before at any of the hearings or the petition writing forums, suddenly really cares about these issues."

"Well, I can't justify that, but I trust that you would respect our difference in opinions. I think petitions are... ineffective," I reply, mentally wincing as those words leave my mouth. Self-consciously, I begin to elaborate. "People can die of thirst. Children can be denied hospital care. You can get a million signatures, and yet, nothing comes of it. It's disillusioning."

"Then why write about it?" he asks rhetorically. "Do you think people in power will read your articles and be blessed with empathy? Would you call your work effective?"

My confident and stoic expression wavers. "Well, it's not for them." I say, with a slight shake of my head. "Journalism is for the people. So that they stay informed and understand what it's like for others from different walks of life. Then, they can vote in line with their principles for the greater good."

Emir looks at me, like for the first time. Placing the scissors in his hand, down on the carpet, he says with an edge to his tone. "So, petitions are pointless because they are flawed...and what? Voting is flawless?" 

"In a way." I tip my chin up, faking my confidence. Emir Hamdi is staring right at me. The plastic in my hand crumples as I tear open the covering of a bottle and begin to wrap it. "Perhaps not flawless, but voting has direct administrative effects." 

"Perhaps?" The edge in his tone persists. His eyes are alight with a certain bloodthirstiness that I've caught in old interviews. My body feels hot-and-cold, being in the line of fire. No longer behind a screen, watching him sink his teeth into someone else. He grabs the bottles that I've prepared and lays them down into a box. 

"Yeah. I mean, despite one or two scandals, it's still the surest tool of progress." 

"Ms. Capell. It is a fact that voting is a flawed process in our nation." He leans forward. "Calling it a 'tool for progress' is remarkably generous, given that it has not been used sincerely in decades. Aside from the invisible barriers to forming a legitimate party, there are dozens of old reports about vote buying through food aids and intimidation. All of which explains why the AFD has not lost in forever. I just assumed, as a reporter, you would know better."

I pinch my lips in frustration. "I understand that, Councilman, but parties have still differed on a local level. In fact, just in the last election, they lost to you. I truly believe that ONA has something important to offer—"

"Yes, we do. We show up to hearings, back petitions, canvas, organize donations." He gestures vaguely to the tent we are sitting in. "And we don't treat this like it's a part-time project."

I inhale sharply. My head feels like a tea kettle, whistling loudly, and skittering about due to the pressure. I have fought and clawed my way through to be able to help people. We are the same. How do I convince him of that?

I cast a glance towards the other two volunteers, who quickly avert their eyes and appear to be at work.

Before I can find the words to defend myself, an organizer runs up to our tent. In a breathy rushed tone, he informs Emir that the guards were treating the four hours sanctioned by the court as an exact length of time.

He then runs straight to another organizer. They were easy to spot with their bright neon badges.

"I need you to finish this." Emir rises, pulling out a white sheet of paper with a neatly printed table from his pocket. He hands it over to me with a sense of urgency, and does not seem to care about my shocked expression. "Finish packing, and then make your way to each tent to confirm the number of cans present. Formula or milk or anything," He says in one breath, and I nod dutifully.                                            

Three unarmored men are standing in front of the gates, in their sepia uniforms with their high-caliber Colts slung on their shoulders. For so long, they had been preoccupied with banter. Now, they seem alert, carefully watching the scene before them.

I start making my way from tent to tent to account for the cans. Diverse groups of people can be found under each of them. With helpful and sunny attitudes, they help me gather the necessary details.

I notice a couple of news vans stationed in odd locations. The reporters are nowhere to be seen. Probably dozing off inside.

I squint to read their logos, but the air is dusty and the sun is slowly rising to mid-day, making everything harder.

"Are you here for the medicines?" A light raspy voice calls from behind. I turn to meet a young freckled woman with striking blue hair. She has a neon badge pinned to her collar. An organizer.

"You should try standing under the shade." She smiles earnestly. "You'll give yourself a heat stroke, otherwise."

I thank her as I agree and step under the shade of the tent. She guides me towards her packed bags, zipping them open with a force that sends a small cloud of dust into the air.

I notice the boxes of pills and syrups towards the bottom and immediately ask, "Aren't these supposed to be formula?"

"No, that's tent numbers one through six. I'm only in charge of the over-the-counter medicinal stuff." Her smile is a little lopsided. Blinking, I take a second to process this information.

"This isn't legal, is it?" I don't scruple to ask. "No one is allowed to pass drugs into a government institution without permission."

"Well, they don't have any and getting permission is a nightmare. They flatly refuse." She says, in a low voice. "Don't raise any alarms now, I'm sure you understand."

I crouch down to read the labels on the bottles. My forehead creases with confusion. "What? They don't have simple things like cold medicine?" 

She looks taken aback for a second, and I realize how naïve I sound. I immediately begin to withdraw my reaction and apologize when she stops me.

"No. Not enough to go around, and they don't want to admit it." She sighs. My heart sinks. I nod silently.

She studies my uncomfortable face in the brief silence that follows, and I try to mask my emotions with a sympathetic smile. Its difficult knowing that a few colleagues of mine in this position would have pressed a little further. It is a 'good' story for a mainstream network. The right measure of terrible to capture attention, and the right amount of distance from the lives of regular people so that it never incites anger that sticks.

I do believe that I know better. Writing about something like this even in the hopes of exposing the problems in the quarters will only endanger the work and lives of these volunteers. 

Before I get a chance to offer her a fair warning about unsuspecting journalists like myself, a low rumble sounds throughout the region. Both our eyes widen with alarm.

Turning our heads towards the source, we see three heavy-duty SUVs pull up nearby, followed by a couple of trucks. These are just the first to arrive. Within another thirty minutes, there is a crowd of similar proportions, collecting adjacent to us.

Clouds of dust and haze rise and settle. The blurry figures are boisterous and scary. 

They come with posters and loudspeakers and hologram keys. The place is gradually transforming into a protest. The crowd, although well-within their rights to be present, is slowly closing in.

They surround us on most sides, and they're unforgiving.

Their faces are red with anger. They spit slogans, awakening the reporters who rush to roll their cameras.

You can feel the panic begin to rise among us. The younger volunteers draw backwards, trying to avoid any confrontation, failing to pretend that they couldn't hear their hateful words.

Once I am finished counting, I shoulder my way through the crowd to find Emir. He is standing close to the guards, seemingly in an argument with them. When I reach him, he grabs the paper from my hand and asks me pointedly, "Good?"

"Yes, six hundred and fifty."

He only frowns in response and turns towards the guards again. I stay there as well.

"With all due respect, Councilman, that's too much. We were not authorized to let you supply them with a year's ration. Take some back with you to people who really deserve it."

A frown naturally takes over my features as well. Is the guard angry that we have more to donate than expected?

"The court verdict did not put a limit on any of its conditions." Emir replies. "You still have the power to vet and clear it, if you deem it necessary. Half of these are rejected products from corps. There are no legal grounds to stop us from donating all of it."

The guard huffs, unconvinced. While they argue, I listen so closely, I barely pay attention to their exchange. With the clangorous crowd in the background and precious food on the line, I can process only one thing: that Emir omits any tough legalese from his arguments. If he sounds smart, he is no longer 'one of the people,' and if he sounds too dull, then he is just another Everton man—'unfit for government.'

Once they are given the go-ahead, and Emir softly curses with joy, I am grounded back into the moment. His eyes quickly sweep over a couple of volunteers and an organizer before landing on me.

Grabbing my shoulder with his hand and leaning close so that the guards can not hear, he says, "Keep them engaged. Make sure they don't ask the volunteers any personal questions."

Along with the other organizer, he begins to call out to the volunteers to bring the cartons up to the gate. While a few of them are still cross-checking their lists, most of them start to move ahead with the supplies.

A few photographers come closer in a vain attempt to snap a few pictures of Emir in action. Ignoring the commotion, he calls out again urging everyone to move faster. He's louder this time, and it changes everything.

A middle-aged man stands up on the hood of one of the cars. With a loudspeaker pressed to his mouth, he bellows, "Stop the flood! Stop the flood!"

Another person starts to chant with him, hoisting a poster up that reads: "should they eat or should we?"

The crowd swells with accompanying shouts of passion. The screaming and honking rise to a deafening roar. I can feel my heartbeat quicken. I can taste dust. It feels like hell has broken loose. The volunteers begin to pack away the poles and tarpaulins that are of no more use.

Beside me, the guards begin to get anxious. Keeping the protesters in my peripheral vision, I put on a sickly-sweet voice and try to praise the guards for their hard work; standing under the sun and watching over our borders.

They seem to feel at ease soon enough and start making conversation. Since personal questions don't endanger me, I entertain them.

"Ah. A journalist! We thought you were with them."

"From Northside? We should have guessed—you're very polished. So, what do your parents do?"

This is why Emir asked me to stay, didn't he?

Normally, I would be a little more self-conscious. What about me says 'old-money?' Is it my accent? My clothes? But now, all my efforts are focused on ignoring their obvious bias and the crowd. My voice is almost quivering.

I can sense the world around me grow smaller. I cast a glance heavenward, only to be met with the sight of an indestructible wall with small grilled windows lining each floor; most of them shut.

With the volunteers still rushing to finish, the crowd begins to chant, all together. "Fuck refugees! Fuck refugees!"

My body visibly shudders at the outburst, and the guards have had enough now.

The protesters inch closer, flowing in through each crack in the crowd, clogging the area around the gate. I can't look anywhere without meeting someone's rage-filled eyes.

Someone tears their banner in half, crushes it into a ball in their palm and tosses it at me. I stumble backwards as my gut twists in fear.

One of the guards commands the organizers to stop and to return before things worsen. Noticing that the supplies have thinned out, I try explaining that we are almost done. Soon, Emir resurfaces along with the others, including the blue-haired woman from the medical tent.

He begins to thank the guards in a show of forced civility. I am not paying attention. My brain is over-charged and desperate. I've seen this unfold, multiple times, on a screen. It does not end well.

I frantically look around on my tip toes for an opening in the crowd, hoping to leave. 

Before I can register my next move, the woman from the medical tent clutches my hand in hers.

"Come with me. It'll be safer to walk to our cars together," She shouts, stressing each word. I quickly nod in agreement.

We start to move when she remembers her bright badge and attempts to rip it off. The unruly crowd shifts, and someone stumbles onto her. Our hands are forced apart as she's pushed backwards. I immediately reach out to help, but she balances herself.

Distracted by this, I do not notice the crowd part slightly. Neither does she.

A man brandishing a pistol in both his palms pushes ahead. When I do realize what it is, the glint of sunlight on the barrel of the gun is blinding.

It's pointing at me.

No, it isn't.

"Stop!" Someone screams over the clamor as I run forward.

Suddenly, everything is white-hot. I feel like I've taken a sunbeam to my chest. There is a rush of blood in my ears and my heart is so loud. I count three beats before the darkness drowns all my senses.


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