The Replicant, the Mole & the Impostor, Part 12
Part 2—the conclusion—of a duology where a reality event held in a refugee camp on a Greek island unfolds in an utterly unexpected manner. There will be 50 parts. Chapter 7: February.
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Esteban walks up to Seneth’s group. Seneth eyes him with a mix of expectance and anxiety as his friends studiously try to ignore Esteban’s existence.
“Good to see you, Seneth,” Esteban says. “Will you come join us?”
“I can’t,” Seneth says, even as his face exudes sorrow. “I’ve promised to help with another project.”
“That’s too bad,” Esteban says, “but please keep in mind that you’re always welcome. And your friends, too.”
Seneth remains quiet and Esteban takes the lack of sneers as a good sign, even against Seneth’s friends’ averse behavior. One at a time, Esteban thinks as he waves Seneth goodbye and walks back to the mosque construction site.
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“Well, that was over quick,” Piotr says. “Was he back to his obstinate self?”
“Not at all,” Esteban says. “I sense that he wants to join us, but that something is holding him back.”
“Like how much he used to hate you,” Piotr says. “I still don’t believe that’s gone.”
“Hate is stupid, and something you can grow out of,” Esteban says, “and we should encourage that. He’s doubting, I can see that quite clearly. Give it time.”
“I hope you’re right,” Akama says, “and while I agree that people can change their deep beliefs, in my experience they need quite some time for that. I’m not sure a few months is enough.”
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At their usual meeting spot just outside the playground, the Arab man tries not to lose his cool as his young acolyte speaks his mind.
“I don’t understand it anymore, sir,” the young Muslim says. “One of the biggest sinners, a man that used to be full of hate and sarcasm, is now asking if I can join the group to build a mosque.”
“He’s just pretending,” the Arab man says. “Remember the Serpent? He also pretended to be good. It’s a test. Ignore him.”
“But I would like nothing more than to build the mosque, to be a part of that,” the young Muslim says. “Isn’t that what we all want?”
“I understand, young warrior,” the Arab man says. “Your intentions are pure. But in the end, it’s not important who built the mosque but who faithfully attends it, every Friday. Just keep assisting in the other building efforts.”
“What I also don’t understand is why they allow such a blasphemous woman to play an important part in building our mosque,” the young Muslim says.
“As you’ve probably already noticed, not all of your fellow Muslim refugees are pure,” the Arab man says. “They have already been seduced by the snakes in the camp. On top of that, I strongly suspect that many of them want to have the mosque finished before Ramadan, which is almost upon us in a couple of weeks. Again, the construction of the mosque is not as important as its attendance.”
“Fine, sir, I will refrain, as I’ve been doing for several months,” the young Muslim says, “but when will I finally see some action?”
“Soon, young warrior, sooner than you think,” the Arab man says, “but you have to show you’re worthy. So keep your head down so that we lull the enemy into a false sense of security. Have faith.”
“Always, sir,” the young Muslim says, suddenly with fervor.
“Good,” the Arab man says. “Dismissed.”
—In the Village—
Somewhere near the edge of Chorió, in a shady place in the woods at the bottom of a hill, three people have gathered. Nyandeng and Idrissa are already there, and now Kristel is joining them.
It’s almost like a séance, Kristel thinks, and is sorely tempted to say ‘so we three meet again,’ but refrains, as she’s not sure if her friends would get the reference and because it also hits dangerously close to home. So she just says, “Hi, how are you?”
“Fine,” Nyandeng says. “Good to see you. I’ve brought Idrissa, as well.”
“I see,” Kristel says, “and I’ve noticed that you two—how do I say this—seem to spend quite some time together. And where are Magdi and Nzinga?”
“Yannick and Amavaraka are taking care of Magdi,” Idrissa says. “Magdi loves Yannick’s dog, Amavaraka. And Amavaraka loves Magdi’s cat Nzinga, even if Nzinga remains somewhat aloof.”
“You could consider us partners,” Idrissa says, “but not of the cis-type. I am undergoing estrogen therapy as part of my journey to become a neuter.”
“And I’m taking steps in the same direction,” Nyandeng says. “After all the times I’ve been raped I’ve lost any joy in sex whatsoever. I don’t miss it. I don’t need it.”
“I fully support her in this,” Idrissa says, “even if I do it from a more intellectual angle, as I don’t want to be distracted by sexual desires or politics. And our love is pure and platonic, it doesn’t need the sexual part.”
“You’re both becoming asexual[A1] [1]?” Kristel says. “I certainly hope not because of, well, some traumatic experience.”
“In my case, yes,” Nyandeng says, “it certainly sped things along. And it’s why we’re here.”
“Sorry to state the obvious,” Kristel says, “but my drone is transmitting all of this live.”
“Well at least it’s not a police drone,” Idrissa says.
“It’s fine,” Nyandeng says. “Idrissa and I have talked this through. We think it’s important that the world sees this, even as it makes me nervous. Quite nervous.”
“Whatever it is,” Kristel says, “you don’t have to do this.”
“Actually, I do,” Nyandeng says. “Some things can only be cleaned in the full light of day, so to speak.” Her right hand makes a circular gesture indicating the shades they’re under. “So let’s get to it.”
“To what?” Kristel wonders.
“You know that I’ve been developing apps to keep women safe from sexual harassment and rapists,” Nyandeng says, “and apps that aim to educate potential harassers and abusers and their like. My next app—the one we’re going to see now—is meant to help the victims.”
“A therapy app?” Kristel says.
“In AR,” Nyandeng says. “So I’m asking you to put your AR-glasses on.”
Nyandeng and Idrissa are already wearing theirs. Kristel puts hers on, and receives a link from Idrissa, with a request to share it with her drone, so that her audience can see it as well. She follows it and the world around her changes.
They’re in a war zone. Bombed buildings, debris and ruins all around them. It could be Syria, it could be Yemen, it could be South Sudan, or any other place where violence and war have reared their ugly heads. Idrissa and Kristel are merely watching as Nyandeng is living it.
She has to get out, but as she makes her way through streets rife with rubble, collapsed walls making most alleys well-nigh impassable, she also has to watch out for people. Not the inhabitants of this violence-torn town, who either have fled or are in deep hiding, but for the fighters and lone wolves. Both government and foreign troops, and rebels-annex-freedom fighters may shoot her—by accident or by intent. This, however, might be merciful in comparison with what certain types of lone wolf or opportunistic warlords might do.
Adrenaline surging, she seems to be making good headway, until danger appears in a human form: A lone man, wielding a machete. She tries to hide in a nearby lane, but it’s too late—he’s spotted her. Now her hiding place becomes her trap as he blocks the exit and closes in on her. His intentions are but all too clear as he grabs her and throws her to the floor.
He drops his pants, revealing his erect member. The machete in his right hand threatens her as his left hand tries to pull down her pantaloons. He prepares to force himself upon her as Nyandeng—in pure desperation—seizes a nearby brick and slams it, with all her force, into his forehead.
This temporarily stuns her would-be rapist. He doesn’t strike back and Nyandeng hits him again. And again. And again, until he drops his machete and claps his forehead, which is now bleeding profusely. Nyandeng uses his disorientation to roll out from under him, pull up her pantaloons, and run.
She runs for her life, panting heavily. She runs until she sees a safe room, clearly marked by its green aura. She knocks at its closed door and is immediately let in. The door closes behind her as she collapses in safety.
Idrissa and Kristel have looked on in horror, explicitly told not to intervene. Idrissa kneels down and holds Nyandeng as Kristel can barely believe what she’s seen. Kristel holds her peace while Nyandeng cries her heart out, comforted by Idrissa as she slowly recovers her senses.
“Well, Kristel,” Nyandeng finally says, “how did you like my therapy session?”
“That’s crazy,” Kristel says. “Why put yourself through that again?”
“I need this confrontation,” Nyandeng says, “to help put this behind me. It’s not for everybody, I realize, but surely you know that women are strong? That we can face—and survive—immense horrors?”
“I don’t know,” Kristel says, “because I’ve never been raped. I’m lucky enough to lack your experience, so I haven’t got a clue as to what would work for me. Yet it feels like shock therapy at its worst. It must surely hurt.”
“It hurts like hell,” Nyandeng says, “but it also heals. This time, I haven’t been raped. This time, I’ve fought the bastard off. It gives me the mental strength to slowly, finally leave this behind me. It’ll never go away, but I want to reduce it to a painful memory rather than a constantly recurring nightmare.”
“But it’s horrible,” Kristel says, her face bleak and her eyes red, “more horrible than I could imagine.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Nyandeng says. “In reality, I was also carrying Magdi.”
“I’m sure you appreciate she didn’t want him to be part of this, well, therapeutic simulation,” Idrissa says.
“I’m so sorry,” Kristel says. “I don’t know what to say.”
“It’s alright,” Nyandeng says. “My anger wasn’t aimed at you, but at the world at large. You are good.”
“Also, keep in mind that the majority of PTSD sufferers are women,” Idrissa says, “contrary to the popular belief that they’re mostly male soldiers.”
“And now we’ve shown it to the world,” Nyandeng says. “I know this story has been told before in newspapers, in pictures, in novels, and in movies. Yet we need to tell it again, in a more intimate way, hoping that finally the message sticks.”
“And we also realize that the message has stuck with many people,” Idrissa says, “but we can’t stop until everybody—every last soul—gets it.”
“I understand,” Kristel says, “and I’m overwhelmed. I need to take a walk and let it all sink in, if that’s alright with you?”
“No problem,” Nyandeng says. “Idrissa and I can use some time alone, as well.”
“Thanks for coming,” Idrissa says, “we really appreciate it, and everything you’ve done. See you later.”
“Later,” Kristel says as she walks off. They’re on the outskirts of Chorió, which is new to Kristel, so she’s trying to remember where exactly she came from, and she’s too stubborn and proud to check her smartphone. She walks in what she hopes is the right direction—slightly uphill—until she meets an unexpected friend.
“Omar,” she says, happily surprised. “You’re also here?”
“Well, my African friends are here,” Omar says, pointing his thumb in the direction behind his shoulder. “And you?”
“I saw some friends, too,” Kristel says, embracing him in a way that can only be described as very romantic. “How about we spend some quality time together, you and I?”
Omar is more than willing, but points at their drones, hovering overhead. “We have witnesses.”
“We can deal with them,” Kristel says. “I noticed a small grotto on my way up. Let’s go.”
“It’s small, indeed,” Omar says as they arrive at the cave, “and dark.”
“And very cozy,” Kristel says, as she crawls in.
“If not, we’ll make it so,” Omar says as he crawls in behind her.
Author’s note: working 7 days a week here in Nova Scotia, so not so much time to post updates. But here’s one, and after next week the pace should pick up. Many thanks for reading and stay tuned!