The Replicant, the Mole & the Impostor, Part 26
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 8: April.
IX: April
“The worst of our faults is our interest in other people’s faults.”
—Ali Ibn Abi Talib (RA);
—At the Residence—
Two more months and then what? Esteban is not exactly somebody who carefully plans for the future. He’d rather let things come and go and see how he handles them when they happen, which is rather how he ‘planned’ to get through this reality TV show. Until Katja happened.
It was only supposed to be a fling, a short affair to help pass the time. But it’s gradually becoming much more than that. Initially it was great fun, as they figured out ways—often very creative ones—to keep their little fling hidden from the ubiquitous drones. Kristel and Akama—their respective roommates—already knew, of course, yet were very discreet about it.
Inevitably, they were found out, and once that cat was out of the bag, Esteban was truly surprised at the amount of attention it garnered on the internet, especially on social media. VanderPol Excel helped them set up several linked VIP accounts on social media, such as Facebook, as their original ones quickly reached their limits. And the amount of followers and engagement they have on Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok is truly staggering.
Not just the—sometimes overenthusiastic—congratulations, but the stalking comments of fanboys and fangirls who feel wronged, the online bets on how long it will last, and last but not least the lurid speculations about their sex life. Do people truly have nothing better to do? He thinks while he sips his early morning coffee.
So, out of necessity, Esteban uses social media just like his fellow candidates: he just posts and doesn’t bother checking replies. That way madness lies, and they’ve all learned to set up a Snapchat, WhatsApp or TikTok group with strictly limited access for their true friends and family. Now I understand how a celebrity can develop a mild case of split personality, Esteban thinks, not something I was particularly keen to find out.
Overall, though, these are just minor irritants in the larger scale of things. He’ll be the first to admit that he was quite cynical when Katja whipped them—and subsequently a wave of refugees—into action. Yes, he underestimated that people overwhelmingly do want to do the right thing. On top of that, Agnetha’s crowdfunding proposal was brilliant and even in his wildest dreams did he not dare imagine the amount of money it’s gathered. That probably pushed their momentum from great to unstoppable.
Or maybe it was the introduction of all that free AR-gear that delivered the final thrust, as from there the refugees started to take their fate into their own hands. Especially since the camp was cleaned up. In the end, it makes sense, like when you rent an apartment—knowing you’re not going to live their forever—you still want to keep it clean, want it to be as nice as possible.
The problems for the refugees—amongst many other ones—was that many suffered trauma, PTSD, and other stress-related disorders, plus they had no income that could help improve their lives. Hell, initially they were barely fed.
But then it happened. After the food was properly distributed, after the camp was cleaned up and clean showers and toilets were installed and clean water was provided, the refugees become more proactive. They helped massively when setting up their new infrastructure, using their newfound AR skills to set up treatments, safety apps, and then moodscapes.
And while life got gradually better in the camp, Esteban found love. He didn’t admit it to himself at first, of course. It was just a fling, a short thrill in the face of the watching world, a little act of rebellion. But it stuck, as Katja’s innate virtue slowly wore away his inherent cynicism. And while she was quite naïve at first, Katja has learned a lot from both Esteban’s snarky distrust of the world and Olga’s journalistic world-weariness.
However, Katja has become quite irritable of late. Esteban suspects something’s bothering her, but she won’t tell him what. Just as he was slowly daring to imagine a future with her, things have slowly deteriorated. Oh well, he’s probably not worthy, anyway. But boy does it gnaw at him.
And since the mosque is now finished, there is no construction work inside the camp anymore. He doesn’t tell Piotr—who would only be too derisive about it—but Esteban likes to lose himself in work, as it gives him temporary reprieve of his worries and fears. So maybe he can volunteer for the renovation project in Chorió? He’d better be quick because Jean-Pierre and his troop may finish that before he gets there, as they increasingly learn how to use the latest technology and knowledge to produce the maximum amount of result with the minimum amount of labor.
Maybe he should set up something they haven’t thought of, like a microbrewery, as there’s way too little decent beer in Greece as it is. Katja shouldn’t mind, as one of the—very few—things she misses from home is beer brewed according to the Reinheitsgebot. He’ll comply with that, and make the beer organic, biodynamic and the brewery self-sustainable.
But who is he kidding? Two months—one month if they unmask the replicant this month—is not enough, he should’ve started sooner. Yet if he’d proposed it at the very beginning, or even a couple of months ago, everybody would have looked at him askew, telling him he’s got his priorities wrong.
But it’s a nice dream to have. Then his train of thought is broken as Agnetha comes back from her early morning run. “A quick coffee?” he asks while already pouring a cup. Agnetha nods, then takes the brew with her into the shower. Esteban really likes her, wild spirit and all.
Deep inside, Esteban is also a very sociable creature and is always happy to start the morning conversations as Olga, Akama, and Omar start entering the breakfast chamber, one by one. Another day in paradise? Well, let’s just say Esteban’s mainly complaining for the heck of it.
—In the Camp—
Normally, Katja is in an effervescent mood when she and Olga make their round through the Women & Children section of the camp. Checking how their dear friends are doing—mostly increasingly well, thank dog, and offering to help when they’re down. But one of Katja’s anchoring bosom buddies is not there.
“I haven’t seen Riham Saad in days,” Katja says. “I’m worried.”
“She should be fine,” Olga says. “She’s probably already on her way to Germany.”
“But then why didn’t she tell me so?” Katja says. “She doesn’t answer any of my Snaps.”
“It’s probably something mundane,” Olga says, “like she’s in an area where her smartphone provider doesn’t have coverage. Once she’s got a local SIM card, you’ll hear from her.”
“I hope you’re right,” Katja says, “because I’m worrying myself half silly.”
The first friend they visit is Hind with her son Kassim. Kassim seems a bit nervous when Katja and Olga approach, which is strange, as the autistic child was—so far—quite used to their visits. But Katja and Olga needn’t have worried, as they hear Kassim say, “Mum, can I take a selfie with Katja and Olga?”
Hind eyes Katja and Olga, who both nod emphatically.
“Yes, you can,” Hind says, “and don’t forget to smile.”
Kassim moves between Katja and Olga and faces his mother’s smartphone, smiling.
“Smiiiile,” Hind says and the three of them do so—normally, Katja and Olga do this on autopilot, but for Kassim and Hind, they give their best. Hind takes the selfie.
“My phone, too, Mum,” Kassim says. The process is repeated as the next selfie is shot on Kassim’s smartphone.
“Thank you,” Kassim says as he sprints to his mother to take his smartphone. “Oh cool,” he says as he looks at the picture, then immediately shares it.
“He’s never asked that before,” Olga wonders. “Why now?”
“His regular visits to the AR autism treatment app are doing wonders,” Hind says. “Not in the least because he’s now in contact—online only, unfortunately—with other autistic children. He’s slowly opening up.” A small tear leaks from her left eye as she holds her son, hugging him. Kassim doesn’t resist and even hugs back a bit.
“So happy to hear—and see—that,” Katja, who thrives on other people’s happiness, says.
“If this is true and word goes around—” Olga says, pointing at the two drones floating above them, “then there will be a huge demand for the app. Since you helped develop it, are you going to charge for it?”
“I don’t,” Hind says. “Can we discuss this over tea? Quickly, while we still can?”
“You mean you’re leaving, as well?” Katja says. “Has your asylum request been approved?”
“No, I wish that were true,” Hind says. “I mean Ramadan is almost upon us, and then I can’t offer you tea by daylight. Please come in, I just made some.”
“That’ll be great,” Katja says. “You make the best. Where do you get it?”
“I add my own hand-picked herbs,” Hind says, “which gives it a local flavor. Let’s go in.”
Inside, Kassim prepares to retreat to his room. “The Navatar is coming in five minutes, Mum,” he says. “Can I go to my room and prepare?”
“Please do, darling,” Hind says, “and if you have trouble, just call me.”
“No way,” Kassim says. “I can take care of myself.”
“Is that some pride developing?” Olga says. “He’s really improving.”
“Yes,” Hind says as she pours the tea, “and this makes me so happy that I would feel guilty if I charged other parents for this.”
“Understandable,” Olga says, “but you and your fellow developers spend a lot of time and resources producing this app, and I suspect you want to keep it updated, or make better versions as well. That should be rewarded.”
“Improving the lives of autistic children and their parents is a reward in itself,” Hind says, “and we did consider it. So we did something else, instead.”
“You shouldn’t feel too guilty about charging something,” Katja says. “Many parents can easily afford it.”
“Maybe in the EU,” Hind says, “but not everywhere. So we’ve decided to put up a donation button with an explanation that if you cannot afford to donate, that is fine, as helping your children is our biggest reward. We ask those parents who can, to donate to help finance and improve the app.”
“So do you get any donations?” Olga, the journalist, has to know.
“In the beginning, very few,” Hind says. “Probably because AR-space was still relatively small. But more and more have been coming in of late—some with profuse thanks—and we broke even two weeks ago, and are now making a small profit.”
“Good on you,” Katja says, “and if the app really works, you should consider having it tested by healthcare authorities in the EU (and possibly beyond), such as Germany’s BMG and BfArM. If they approve it, it could be proscribed by qualified doctors and its cost—for the users—would be paid for by our healthcare system. You would get a fixed sum for every time it was used.”
“Won’t that take a long time?” Hind says.
“The wheels of bureaucracy do grind slowly,” Katja acknowledges, “but once you get one approval, other ones may follow much quicker.”
“You can still offer your app for free, as well,” Olga says. “As long as you don’t market it as a treatment. You’re under the radar, right now, but I suspect this will be only temporary as your app—together with AR-space—becomes more popular. If you call it something like ‘self-help for autism spectrum sufferers’ then you should be alright.”
“A good point,” Hind says, “as we haven’t considered the legal aspects of our app at all. We’re just happy to help people.”
“Idealistic motives will only be attenuating circumstances in court.” Olga’s years of journalistic experience are coming in very handy right now. “Make sure not to get into trouble in the first place. So don’t call it a treatment, don’t even hint at it. Maybe just call it ‘RPG for very, very shy children,’ or suchlike.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Hind says. “We’ll certainly discuss it in our next meeting.”
“That’s great,” Katja says as she finishes her tea. “One personal question before we go.”
“Go ahead,” Hind says.
“Have you seen Riham Saad of late?” Katja asks.
“No, not really,” Hind says. “But wasn’t her asylum request approved? Then she’ll be gone by now.”
“I know,” Katja says. “I brought her the news. But she never said goodbye.”
“Kids, nowadays,” Hind says, shaking her head. “What can I say? Probably she had to hurry once they got to send her off. Or maybe she’s been so busy that she forgot.”
“But she didn’t even send me a message,” Katja says. “She’s a Snapchat friend.”
“Her provider probably doesn’t have coverage in her new country,” Hind says. “I hope she’ll get in touch once she’s got a local provider.”
“That’s what Olga said,” Katja says. “I’m still worried.”
“You’ve been so good to us, Katja,” Hind says as she moves forward to hug Katja. “We can never thank you enough. But people have learned to stand on their own feet, so maybe you should let go.”
“Alright,” Katja says, “but still a small goodbye would have been nice.”
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Author’s note: interesting developments ongoing. I’ll reveal more once the dust is settled, but so far the prospects look good. Welcome to the new subscribers and many thanks for reading!