“What do you mean?”
“Like . . . a lot of oppressed activists complain about how much space we take up congratulating ourselves for doing this work.”
Beck chimed in. “That’s tricky, right? We want to show prospective allies this important element, but we need to do so without being showy.”
We watched from afar as they experimented with the movements. Hanna finally showed them a promising gesture. She placed one hand firmly over her mouth and the other hand in the air. “No, wait. Let me try again. That seems like I’m telling them to be silent. That’s not what I’m trying to say. Wait a second.” She thought for a moment, then performed another gesture. This time she used both hands to cover her mouth, then moved her hands to her heart in humility.
Beck hopped gently in place, buoyed by his inspiration. “Yes, and then we can pass the focus. So we put our hands to our mouth, hands to heart, then we can point one hand toward the oppressed party that needs to be seen and heard.”
“I like it,” Liv said, trying the gesture a few times. “It’s performative, but only as a way to get other allies to join us in the Resistance, then it challenges us to shift focus to those who need the attention.”
Tonight, we sit around the dinner table to eat canned artichoke hearts and beef jerky. When the conversation turns to the loved ones we have left behind, I tell the group about how you had planned to find your mother, then meet me at Liv’s house.
“But now . . . after everything I have seen . . . I doubt very much we will find each other again. I doubt very much he is alive. No . . . I know he is not alive and I have accepted that.” This is the first time I admit this out loud. As soon as I say it, I feel your forgiveness wash over me.
Peter rises from the table and heads to the living room to sit in his reclining chair. The awkward silence is broken by Hanna shifting in her seat.
“Evan. Evan.” Hanna struggles with the words and we all hold our breath. Perhaps she will tell me that loving you was wrong. Perhaps she will cry and apologize until I am forced to soothe her. Perhaps she will expect me to praise her for not being like the other folks who kept you away from me. “He sounds like a beautiful man. And you sound like a beautiful couple. I am so very sorry this happened. You both did not deserve this. I will work hard and pray that things will change.” With the help of a gentle hand on my shoulder, she rises from the table quietly, tosses her beef jerky wrapper into the garbage bin, then makes her way to her bedroom.
When she closes the door, I look around in shock at Firuzeh, at Beck, at Bahadur and Liv. I silently say, “Whoa!” Firuzeh covers her mouth to stop herself from giggling. Liv exhales. Bahadur shakes their head in wonder. Beck holds his hands up in a hallelujah. Change is possible.
10
Look up,” Firuzeh says to everyone as we set up camp outside the cabin. The waxing moon hangs low enough above our heads that I’m tempted to reach up and grab it. I imagine putting it into my mouth and crunching it between my teeth like a crater-covered potato chip, along with the astronaut and the American flag. Crunch. It’s Firuzeh’s idea to sleep outside tonight. “I want to feel what it’s like to sleep with nothing but nature around me. No ceilings or walls.” We all agree. This may be the last time we will experience such things.
Beck builds a fire in the centre of our gathering. He uses bunched-up newspaper at its base, their unhappy headlines going up in flames and ascending into a smoky memory above the trees. Soon, if all goes as planned, we too will be headlines in those same papers, and maybe, just maybe, we will make history.
“Do you think it’ll matter? You know . . . us calling our names at the summit?” I say while we all unroll our sleeping bags for the night.
“If all goes as planned and if we’re able to say our names at the summit.” Bahadur looks into the centre of the flames, their faraway gaze making black marbles of their eyes.
I turn to Liv and Beck, hoping for clarity. “I mean . . . our plan is to lead a procession up Yonge Street and say our names, and we’ve all been working hard to follow instructions and strategize the best way to do this without getting killed. But sometimes I have to wonder what it’s all for. The bombing of the workhouses makes sense to me. If the Renovation sees us as nothing more than producers and products, it makes sense to resist by ending our productivity. But saying our names . . . I don’t know.” Liv and Beck nod their heads slowly, absorbing my words, one at a time.
“No. I don’t doubt the importance of this.” Firuzeh stands and says with conviction, “Do any of you remember those Palestinian children who broke the Guinness World Record by flying the most kites simultaneously? It was incredible, watching news footage of tens of thousands of kids in Gaza, flying their kites. Each kid had decorated their kite with their dream of what a life free of apartheid would look like.” She illustrates with her hands so that we can all imagine the numerous kite lines and tails soaring along the shores of the Mediterranean Sea. “One can look back at that and say, ‘So what? What did they accomplish?’ But you see, what they achieved is so much more than a metaphor. These are children who were born in war and will most likely die in war. When they flew those kites, though, they became the kites. They flew beyond borders. When they flew those kites, they knew freedom.” Firuzeh looks me in the eye. “When I say my name at the summit, I will be a kite.” She reaches out to squeeze my hand and returns to setting up her sleeping bag.
The evening wears on. We’re supposed to be resting, now that all of us are settled for the night, but we can’t stop chatting.
I can tell by Beck’s body, in its freedom of movement, that his parents are inside, keeping to themselves, not wanting to be feasted upon by the mosquitoes. Here, among us Others, he is comfortable in his gayness, his squat wide as he pokes at the embers.
“I wish we had marshmallows,” says Liv wistfully.
“Shit, I wish we had a side of beef!” Beck says while rolling his sleeves up to showcase his defined deltoids. We all eat our crackers and wince at the familiar blandness of dry goods. “If the Renovation never happened, I’d probably be out, having a burger on a patio somewhere.”
“I love that!” Liv exclaims. “Jeez. What would we be doing if the Renovation never happened?” She hums a bit and rubs her chin pensively. “Around this time, my wife, Erin, and I would probably be chasing down our son, Myles, trying to get him into the bath. What about you, Bahadur?”
Bahadur sits up and begins shyly making a pile of rocks in the triangle made by their crossed legs. “I don’t know.”
“Come on! What’s more boring than bath time?”
Bahadur exhales. “I . . . would . . . be . . . most likely . . . surfing porn.” We all burst out laughing. I am rolling on the ground unable to control myself. “I had a roommate in the shelter who had data on their phone. I traded an hour of internet every week for doing their laundry. Hey—you’d watch porn too if you spent all day sorting garbage.” We laugh even harder.
Bahadur raises an imaginary wine glass, and we join them in a toast. “To porn. God, I miss porn.” Everyone clinks imaginary glasses. Bahadur looks at Firuzeh and says, “Okay. Your turn.”