The Replicant in the Refugee Camp, Part 11
A near-future novel in which the latest reality event develops in unforeseen ways. Unfolding in 50 parts. Chapter 1: August.
🌚🌞🌝
Every day, eight of them go off into the refugee camp for operation cleanup, while two remain in the residence for household duties and promoting the Kickstarter campaign.
A few incidents do occur: one as Agnetha makes her first appearance in the camp, another as Rahman proves extremely reluctant to go to the camp.
When it’s Agnetha’s turn to join the surveyor-cum-garbage-collection group, Olga and Dewi try to talk her into changing her attire. Agnetha — the extrovert lesbian — prefers to wear a miniskirt and a short, very tight top in the blazing August heat.
“Agnetha, how do I say this,” Olga says, “but I don’t think this is the best outfit to wear in the refugee camp.”
“Why not?” Agnetha says. “It’s stupidly hot.”
“Most of these people have Muslim roots,” Dewi says, “and many are not, well, fully attuned to our western lifestyle.”
“Then they better get used to it,” Agnetha says, “as they’re requesting asylum in the EU. Adapt to the local customs.”
“That’s true,” Dewi says, “but many of them have just arrived, and don’t really know Europe — and European culture — at all, so need some time to adapt. Many are also traumatized, and the conditions in the camp didn’t exactly help with that either.”
“Apart from that,” Olga says, “there might be a few young men who are not used to such appearances and who might react poorly to it.”
“Any idiot trying to grab me will get a karate kick in the gut,” Agnetha says. “Furthermore, I’m here to help them. Are they going to turn down the toilets, showers and solar panels brought in by one of the most successful Kickstarter campaigns of all time, mostly promoted by me? I think not. So they’d better not be hypocritical and accept my help in the flesh, as well.”
“Your arguments are sound,” Olga says, “but reality is often a hard taskmaster.”
“Reason is but all too often overruled by emotions,” Dewi says, “don’t say we didn’t warn you.”
— in the camp —
As they walk through the camp, the rest of the group tries to shield Agnetha off a bit by positioning themselves around her. But it doesn’t always work, as Agnetha’s sky-blue mohawk stands out like a black swan in a sea of white geese. Refugees recognize her — many are following the show — and come up to take selfies with her. To everybody’s relief, that all goes without incident. But it doesn’t last, as the first confrontation happens when they are collecting garbage in the women and children’s section.
“Shameful,” a Muslim woman says, “you dress like a prostitute.”
“I’m not a prostitute, but a lesbian,” Agnetha says, vehemently, “and here in the EU — my home — I can dress however I like. You better get used to it.”
“This is an affront to our belief,” the Muslim woman says, “your Awrah is visible. This is haram.”
“And here I am, cleaning up your trash,” Agnetha says, “while you do nothing.”
“I have to take care of my children,” the Muslim woman says, “they’re ill.”
“Not ill enough for you to start shouting at a western woman who is trying to help you,” Agnetha says. “You’re a hypocrite.”
Dewi and Olga have heard enough, and gently take Agnetha by the hand. “Let’s clean up somewhere else,” Olga says, “you two are not going to agree.”
“Most certainly not today,” Dewi says. “You are in your right, but there are other ways to win this battle. Let’s move.”
A couple of similar exchanges occur until Agnetha learns to ignore the insults shouted at her. She keeps working, while underneath she seethes with anger. But she holds her mouth, and tries to direct her angry energy at speeding up the cleanup.
Dewi and Olga try to calm her, with various degrees of success. And while there are a few catcalls and whistles in the various male sections, the ubiquitous presence of the drones and the — intentional — nearness of Omar and Piotr are sufficient to keep any ill-intended men at bay.
— in the residence —
The next day, the dice rolls wrongly for Rahman. “It’s your turn to join the surveyor group, Rahman,” Piotr says, “come and join the fun as we gather the last rubbish.”
“I’m sorry but our administration is far from finished,” Rahman says. “Outstanding bills, unanswered emails, unfinished requests. So much to do, so little time.”
“Forget about the administration, Rahman,” Piotr says, “cleaning up the mess in the refugee camp is more important.”
“But I am not suitable to manual labor,” Rahman protests. “My talents are much better applied to maintaining our paperwork.”
“Neither were Dewi, Olga, Katja and Agnetha, and they’ve all worked their asses off,” Piotr says, becoming impatient. “No more excuses. Come and do your part of the hard work.”
“It is not safe,” Rahman says, “a riot can break out any minute, anywhere.”
“Rahman, I was there when the last riot happened,” Omar says, “and the situation has changed. Yes, there are still a number of angry young men in both the Arab and the African sections, but they’re a minority. Most people on both sides are fine. Traumatized, weary, desperate and greatly disillusioned, but still good people at heart. They’ve seen the first glimmers of hope. We can’t stop now and you’re part of the team, like it or not.”
Yet Rahman refuses to get up. If anything, he makes himself smaller in an effort to hide behind his computer, maybe even crawl under the desk, even as the rest of the group — and the world — is watching.
“Piotr and Omar are right,” Dewi says as she taps Rahman on the shoulder. Rahman scares so much he almost jumps to the ceiling. Dewi, though, keeps addressing him.
“You really must help with the cleaning up, otherwise you’re not really part of this group. On top of that — and I hate to mention it — one of the main reasons we are in this show is to interact with other people. If you keep hiding in your shell, I think we should ask the producers to remove you from the show.”
“I, I, I — ” Rahman has entered full panic mode, “can’t, cannot, will not, should not go to the camp. These people — they will hate me, they will despise me, they will look down on me. Argh!”
“What the hell, Rahman, calm down,” Omar says. “Why would these poor people hate you.”
“Because I’m not poor,” Rahman says. “I’m rich. Well, compared to them.”
“So are we,” Omar says, “and they haven’t killed us, yet. Is it because you’re Greek, and you think they loathe the locals?”
“Because, because I’m not a real Greek,” Rahman says, his tone getting ever more desperate, “but a Bangladeshi. A sneaky Bangladeshi who sneaked into the EU to get their jobs, steal their opportunities. They hate me because I succeeded where they failed.”
“Where to start,” Omar says, sighing, “for one, not all people in the European Union are white, as you can already see by looking at Dewi, Katja, Akama and me. The EU is — whether it likes it or not — a multicultural society.”
“Furthermore,” Dewi continues, “they will more likely see you as a good omen, an example to be followed. If you can succeed, so can they.”
“No, it’s much more complicated than that,” Rahman says, trying to argue his way out of this ethical cul-de-sac, “they will think that the likes of me is trying to keep them out of Greece — and the EU — because they will be competing for my job. So it’s in my own best interest to prevent more foreigners coming into Greece, in their viewpoint.”
“My god, the paranoia is strong in this one,” Esteban says. “You really need to get out. Get some fresh air, meet some interesting people. No more excuses.”
“Don’t force me,” Rahman says, his tone getting shriller by the minute. “Or I become Mister Patel.”
“Mister Patel or Rahman Oliur,” Piotr — who’s had enough — says, “you’re coming with us and do you share. No more excuses.”
“Aaaaargh,” Rahman shouts as he jumps upon the table and starts to belt out something halfway between a song and a recitation:
I am Mister Patel, Mister Patel
The hero with a rebel yell
Mister Patel, Mister Patel
A man and his heroic smell
Rahman lets out a huge fart, to the surprise of the many and the intense amusement of the few.
Mister Patel, Mister Patel
Who walks the road to Hell
Mister Patel, Mister Patel
Paved with intentions so well
Rahman takes a walk so silly it gives John Cleese a run for his money.
Mister Patel, Mister Patel
I ring the bell, I rush pell-mell
Mister Patel, Mister Patel
Out of my cell, as you can tell
The only thing missing is foam at his mouth, by now.
Mister Patel, Mister Patel
The beast has come out of its shell
Mister Patel, Mister Patel
The madness, I know it well
While some are astonished into silence, Esteban is laughing his ass off. “You’ve chosen the wrong career,” he says, “this is comedy gold.”
Piotr’s having none of it, though. “I don’t care if it’s pathetic or comedy gold,” he says, “but you will come with us, with or without Mister Patel.”
“I agree,” Omar says, “we’re in this together. I understand your fears, but we will protect you.”
“Are you forcing me?” Rahman/Patel says, meekly, after climbing down from the table.
“I agree with Omar and Piotr,” Dewi says. “We can’t make an exception. We’re in this together. All of us except you have been in the camp and survived. So now it is your turn.”
— in the camp —
In the end, arguments and sheer group pressure overcome Rahman’s refusal to go to the camp and he joins the surveyor group, now consisting of Agnetha, Akama, Dewi, Kristel, Piotr, Olga, an extremely reluctant Rahman, and Omar — who would have hated to drag Rahman along, physically, but most probably would have done that, until Rahman came to his senses.
To give Rahman the opportunity to get used to the reality of the refugee camp step by step, they decide to go to the women and children section first. When a few children join him in clearing the trash, Rahman doesn’t know whether to cringe or to be flattered.
“Are you Rahman Oliur?” one boy asks, clearly following the show. “You’re the only one we haven’t seen here, yet.”
“What if I say I am?” Rahman says, still afraid to commit.
“That’s great,” one girl says, “you’re the only one not in our selfies.” She hands her smartphone to the boy, steps next to Rahman, smiles the cutest of smiles and says, “Please?”
If Rahman had refused, his odds at the betting websites of being the replicant would have jumped to above 9 in 10. However, he consents, and even as his smile is about as awkward as his behavior, the girl gets her selfie and so does the boy right after her.
“We’re so happy to finally see you,” the girl says, “we thought you’d sit behind your computer forever.”
“Isn’t it good to be here? The weather is nice and it’s almpst clean,” the boy says.
Indeed, today the summer heat has relented to almost bearable temperatures. Rahman visibly relaxes, clears up with the kids, and has some tea with them. Now the group has to drag him away from the kids as they move to the next section of the camp.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” Omar says, “and the people are happy to see you.”
“But these are just kids,” Rahman says, “The adults — especially the males — will be different.”
Yet the people in the African section of the camp accept Rahman’s help without complaint. Some — like the kids — even socialize with him. A few selfies, some innocent chit-chat mixed with a few semi-serious questions.
“Nice to see you, man,” one of the African refugees says, “nice to see you are real.”
“Real?” Rahman says, failing to see the connection. “Of course I’m real.”
“You just stayed there in your residence,” another African refugee says, “while the rest came here every day, working. So strange.”
“Yeah, at first we thought you were the replicant,” the first one says, “but that would be too obvious.”
“So now we figure you’re the distraction,” the second one says, “while the real replicant hides in plain sight.”
“Or you’re such an obvious distraction that you’re a double distraction,” the first one says, “so still the replicant.”
“But I am not the replicant,” Rahman says, visibly aghast.
“That’s what you all say,” the first one says, laughing.
“But one of you must be lying,” the second one says, then joins the laughter.
“Don’t worry,” the first one says, “we don’t hate the replicant, whoever it is.”
“Because it does try to help us,” the second one says, “which is much more than we can say of many people before you.”
In the Middle Eastern section, though, things go considerably less smooth. As Rahman strays a little bit from the group in his efforts to gather the last bits of trash, a young refugee approaches him. “The Cow-Kisser finally arrived, I see,” the young refugee says, “back home you were only good for indentured servitude.”
“I’m not an Indian,” Rahman feebly protests. “I’m originally from Bangladesh.”
“Same difference,” the young refugee says, “but good to see you’re cleaning up our mess, again. As you should.”
“Fuck off, Seneth,” Esteban — who came running to the scene as soon as he recognized the young refugee — says. “If things were so great at home, why did you leave? Also, FYI, slavery is illegal in Europe.”
“Not for long,” Seneth retorts. “Until we instigate Sharia Law on you sinners.”
“That’ll be a cold day in Hell,” Piotr says, “now begone.”
Seneth walks off, still cursing in Arabic. The exchange has left Rahman considerably shaken. His fellow participants quickly come to reassure him, though.
“Ignore him,” Esteban says, “he’s one of the troublemakers. Most people here are fine.”
“Yeah,” Akama says, “don’t let a bad apple screw it up for the rest, who are basically good.”
Author’s note: all the above pictures are stock photos that are meant to illustrate the narrative, but are not meant as exact depictions of the characters involved. For that, I hope your imagination suffices…;-)