As the Ashes Fall
No one ever thought this could happen. Zarah looked around at the aftermath of the latest riot. The dark street was finally quiet, like the life had been squeezed out of it after the frenzy of bodies and shouts of the citizens, at the height of their anger with nowhere to go and an utter inability to do anything else, crashed through the street seeking only destruction. Riots were happening all over the country. They were happening all over the world. The country was on fire. It was burning, and there was nothing that could stop the momentum now. The people were in complete revolt, and had been pushed so hard by the leaders, who were blinded and out of touch with their people, that it seemed the only recourse was violent revolt. In a few short years, most of the world had stood by and watched her country fall into civil war, under the leadership of a tyrant who was elected in a fair, democratic election. Needless to say, that democracy had crumbled. Bribery and intimidation had become overt and commonplace. Walls had been built. Alliances had been formed. In the face of it all, anarchy reigned.
History can teach us, or it can repeat itself. It is merciless and doesn’t care who it hurts. As Zarah looked around from her front step, she saw what was once a quiet residential street turned into the rubble of a war zone. She had hid in the basement when the shouts and rumble of feet began hours earlier. She had blacked out her windows in hopes her home would be undisturbed. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet as she descended her stairs into the street. The glass, she noticed, came from her front window. With the stores closed and workers marching in defiance, there was little chance she could get it fixed. History hadn’t taught us a thing, she thought mournfully. Violence had begotten violence, and Zarah sincerely saw no immediate end to it. The world was burning.
Maybe the fire would cleanse the world and allow it to be reborn from its ashes. But birth is never a pleasant or easy process, and she could see that they were in the thick of it. She walked tentatively down her front walk into the street beyond. The only sound was the crackling of fire, and the occasional crash of something falling to the cement as it burned. The fires were small now. A car, completely gutted, stood stark against the trampled green grass across the street from her small bungalow. Zarah hoped the world was giving birth to a new era of peace and rationality. But, nothing was certain.
This country had once been a beacon for the poor, the weak, the hungry. It had served as a refuge for those fleeing tyranny and war. It had been a shining opportunity in the midst of turmoil, oppression and despair. Now, it was a symbol for everything it had once fought against. Tyranny knew no bounds in this new era. How quickly the law could crumble under fascism. How quickly society could erode when being fed upon hate and intolerance. Zarah wasn’t sure if the marchers and rioters that had laid waste to her neighbourhood were allies or enemies. Their actions were often the same. In the name of tyranny or freedom, they destroyed their own country. The fight had become so impassioned that neither side could distinguish its actions from the other. They were an exact mirror, but no one was willing to see it.
Zarah walked, pushing down fear with each step she took. She knew there was a chance she could run into a lingering rioter, yet she felt it necessary to examine the damage. This small, simple action of being present in the aftermath was her way of taking it back, her way of trying to begin the healing process. She knew the time was long past that the peacemakers of the world had to stand up and do something. In the face of this bitter war of ideologies, the rational, the loving, the kind, the believers in humanity had to stand up and now fight too. But that fight had to be different.
Zarah felt her phone buzz in her pocket and she quickly scanned the empty street before she looked at her message. It was a text from an anonymous number, that simply gave an address. The number was never the same, but it was always an address. This was the place for the underground meeting. No one ever gave their real name, but they all had the same goal. Rise up against the tyranny and violence, organize the people who wanted their world to stop burning, and plan their quiet revival of freedom. Zarah knew that once the text was received people would begin traveling to the address immediately and the meeting would begin within the hour. She carefully plotted her course. She would travel on foot, keep to the shadows and carefully take her route. The address was for a church that was in the neighbourhood down the hill, closest to the fortified walls of city hall. It was a dangerous place to be, especially as a woman, especially as an immigrant. But, it was worth the risk. New information was undoubtedly coming, and maybe meeting right under the noses of government officials would be the best place to go unnoticed.
Zarah pulled her hood over her head and zipped her jacket up all the way to hide her face as much as possible. She hadn’t worn her hijab in a year for fear of the repercussions. There was less possibility of being noticed, but it wasn’t the only thing. She hid her face because she knew her dark eyes didn’t resemble those of the accepted majority, and her dark hair didn’t fit in with them either. If she ran into the wrong people, she would be stopped and interrogated. Especially since she was out alone in the middle of the night. She kept close to the sides of buildings and paused whenever she had to cross an alley or a street. The night was quiet, and the quiet was deceiving. She knew there could be eyes anywhere.
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