Peace

WHEN THE SUN set, Bronte rang the cow's bell. Maryam dropped the spade. It clattered on the floor, among the thousand other tools. Clusters of people drifted away from the fields. Maryam felt an urge to pray, to give thanks to someone, though she hadn't touched religion in months. Years, even.

The land, of criminalisation, of discrimination, of environmental destruction, is being rebuilt after the war. A war Maryam was on the front lines of. Once, as a child, as she tried to catch her parents attention, she had been forced to listen to a grown up conversation. The imam and four other parents were talking. One of the men was saying:

"Mark my words. Mankind does not stop. I do not believe that any leader will save the environment. At the moment, that still means forsaking the economy. Without jobs, there will be riots, there will be chaos. So Mankind will eat until there is nothing left on the table. We will get to the end of this, and only then will people be ready to change."

He had been right. And Maryam had been young enough to witness the end. Submitted to worldwide tyrannies, people had been forced out of their homes by the floods, had died of hunger all over the world, and still, the heads of corporative operations had continued to eat off the same table. They began plans to save themselves while the rest of the world would fall into an endless sleep.

Maryam knew there could be no peace in such a world. She joined the rebellion, had blown up a factory or two. Ultimately, the rebels had joined forces from all over the country. They had dismantled the dictatorship's plans, had taken back the Earth.

Now, it had to be rebuilt. Many people still thought of her as the leader of that war. Some people had talked of erecting a statue of her, to mark history with. She had said: let us rebuild the world first. A Greek saying stated all politics followed a pattern. Democracy is followed by chaos, which is followed by tyranny, followed by Democracy. She would enjoy democracy while it lasted.