The Rebellion Era

Chapter Seven.

Author's note: That's Kayote Square in the photo, with the tents in the midst surround by thousands of protestors.
***
I paid the driver with the two Zidores I have stolen from our savings' drawer. Another two sins I should redeem for. I descend down the bus, carried by the momentum as Zidanians gush down the narrow door. Some of the passengers stumble and fall over the steps. An old woman tries to descend, when a sordid woman yanks her inside and descends in her stead. I push through the momentum, grab the old lady's hand and help her down. "She is an old woman! Show some respect!" I shout.

The woman shoves her hand at me. "Why do you even care?!"

The irksome question poised by her fills me with unprecedented anger. Maybe the fault is not in the system, but with us; with the people. Perhaps we should commence the change within ourselves first, prior to displacing blame on others. We ought to fish for a sardine, then go for a whale.

I don't reply, and leave after guiding the old lady to the pavement.

I ask for directions to Kayote Square. Some skitter away immediately. Some squint at me like a maniac with two horns, and advice me not to approach the Square. Until someone took pity on me and described the way, although with unbidden warnings about how important it is to stay away from protests regardless your political position.

I round corners and take turns till I find myself in a quiet side-road. It is abandoned except for few cars parked at the curb nearby. The cars are stormed with dust even. I pull my coat closer and square my arms against my chest. Relax, Fatimah, relax. I have never been out of the Gardens. Never been in an empty side-alley where my screams would never be heard no matter how loud. Perhaps, I should return before it's too late. But no, no I can't. The decision is made, so the decision is what to occur.

But what if this is a bad idea? What if some things are truly better unknown?

But if this is not my exit, then what is?

I have never belonged in the lane. Everyone knows that. I never met the demands of an eighteen years old in the Gardens. Girls of similar age act as real men to their homes, keeping it steady instead of crumbling down. And what have I done? I left the day after my father died.

No, I escaped.

A can rolls in the dark. I flip around anxiously. A golden cat stands by a car tire hisses at me. I breathe.

It is just a cat. Just a cat.

This is my fate, I know. To see the surreal, invisible force connecting Zidanians together, unfettered by the natural dividing factions; Muslims or Christian, man or woman. They will appear to me as aliens practicing unearthly rituals in our midst, and it will be my part to be fascinated by a whole new race. A race I will join to wipe robots from existence, to bring forth justice.

A race I will join to free my home.

I walk two miles before I see it. I hear the protestors chanting. Riot control and police cars, with enormous figures, blockade the Square from all sides. Riot control police in full body protection gear, surrounding the confines of the Square with truncheons in one hand and translucent shields with big, white letters spelling "POLICE" in the other.

They are countless in number. Terror accompanies me as I weave my way next to few soldiers engaged in a serious conversation. The thought of them seizing me, rises bile up my throat. I hope I would go unnoticed. I thank god, for the first time, for gifting me with a scrawny body.

"Deploy units within the Square! The situation must be stabilized!" One of them shouts at his hand-held radio. I don't wait for the response and sprint towards the Square, before they evacuate the protest. I slink my way across them, and run to the protestors like a lost child who has found her home, like a dreamer that discovered a rainbow with unicorns. Like a strayed girl, who has eventually found her true path.