The Temple (17 page)

He stood on an old wooden crate
wearing a navy blue suit and a striped red and blue tie. The
multitude of voices fell silent when he lifted his hands to speak.
He looked at the people who had come to hear him, there were clerks
and some managers in their suits, workers and students, housewives
and many other good hardworking folk who were appalled by the
things happening in their country and didn’t know where to turn for
help.

“My fellow citizens,” John Drew
said in his loud and almost stentorian voice. “I don’t want to be
standing here any more than I imagine you want to be here. I’m just
a normal guy, I’m a kindergarten teacher and I love my job. It’s
great teaching kids and helping them. I feel happy to see them
develop and get ahead in life, and that’s all I really want for
myself – to have a happy life.”

He paused briefly to a round of
applause.

“But now I find myself in a
situation where I can’t just lead my life as I would like to. I
can’t go to work, go shopping or just go into town for fun without
having to worry, to worry about being at the wrong place at the
wrong time and getting killed. How can I lead a happy life if I
don’t know that tomorrow might be the last day of my life because
some lunatic isn’t happy with his life? Or that I go to work one
day to find one of the kids I teach has been blown to pieces by a
fanatic.”

Loud cheering and shouts of
approval interrupted him.

“And what about our government?
Our guardians and protectors, the people chosen to govern the
country? What have they done? Are they protecting us from this
menace? If you have seen anything like that then let me know
because all I’ve seen is our politicians making excuses for the
terrorists…”

Loud shouts.

“…and telling us that their
religion is so peaceful and wonderful. What do they think we are, a
bunch of suckers and idiots? Read that terrible book yourselves and
you’ll find one of their laws is ‘Maim, torture, kill and slaughter
those who deny Dryvellism’ and then listen to our government saying
Dryvellism is a religion of peace and that this law is taken ‘out
of context’. What context I want to know. The context of blowing up
buses?”

More shouting. “The government
are liars!”

“And I ask you to think about
the other things those oh so peaceful Dryvellers are up to. Do you
still remember that sordid business of the Dryvellist Hospital and
how they basically murdered people to get at their money? How they
deceived and cheated people out of their money with fake miracles?
Why, they’ve even resorted to murder to silence their critics. And
what do the authorities do? Nothing. All they do is to tell us to
be quiet and shut up because Dryvellers are so wonderful and
peaceful. What peace is that, I wonder? The peace of a graveyard.
With all that peace coming from Dryvellism we’ll all be resting in
peace soon! How long will they continue to abuse our patience?
Enough is enough!”

Loud shouting erupted. He wiped
his brow.

“And then there is this so
called ‘Master Jeremiah’ though I almost choke on the word master.
Whenever someone talks about the crimes he and his brethren are
committing he starts a rant about Dryvellophobia, about hate crime
and haters. And what of it? Is it wrong to hate murder and
terrorism? Is it wrong to hate fraud, deception and cheating good
hardworking folks out of their money? I say it is not. There’s
nothing wrong with hating an evil, quite the contrary, it’s the
right thing to do.”

He paused again, not feeling
used to the exertions of making a public speech.

“So what are we going to do?”
someone shouted.

“Right, what are we going to? If
we just talk and moan about things in private, nothing’s going to
change. If anything, things are going to get worse. So we must take
action. The first thing we must do is to hold a protest march.
We’ll march through the town and end up in front of government
headquarters. When people see us marching they’ll know that they’re
not alone. More will join us and we’ll show the government how
angry we are with them. The president must be made to understand
that Dryvellers are not the only ones who can shout and kick up a
stink. We the people have a voice too. We the people have our
rights and we want our rights respected and protected. We have the
right to live in peace. We have the right to live without fear. And
we have the right to expect the government to do its duty and
protect us from evil. If they can’t do that then we don’t need them
anymore.”

“Yeah!” “That’s right!” “Let’s
show them!” were amongst the many shouts echoing through the
gym.

After agreeing to a time and
meeting place the crowd dispersed. The people, tired from a hard
day at work, went to their homes and started making protest banners
and placards for the march on the following day.

At the first light of dawn the
protesters stirred in their beds and prepared many a hearty
breakfast for they had a long day ahead. The sun had scarcely risen
above the horizon when a sizable crowd gathered in the city’s
central park holding a multitude of placards and banners denouncing
Dryvellism and the crimes committed by its followers. When John
Drew was satisfied that enough had come he held up his placard
which read:

Stop Dryvellism

He then set off at a slow pace
towards the exit and towards the main district with several hundred
demonstrators following him. As soon as they reached the first
streets they started chanting slogans such as ‘We want justice.
Stop the terror now!’ and ‘No to bombs and Murder. No to
Dryvellism!’

They attracted a lot of
attention among the people in the early morning rush hour and as
they proceeded through the streets their numbers slowly grew with
many others spontaneously joining in. By noon the crowd of a few
hundred was already several thousand strong and coverage on radio
and TV meant that most people in town were aware of what was going
on. By the time they reached the government buildings there were
over fifty thousand protesters. Taken by surprise at the
unregistered demonstration the police decided to watch and not to
intervene as there were too many people involved. They merely
walked alongside, regulated traffic and kept a close watch. One
police unit in particular was not only watching but also filming
the demonstration to gather evidence and identify the
ringleaders.

The gates to the government
compound remained closed and there was no sign that the president,
or anyone else for that matter had taken any notice of the noisy
crowd. Feeling frustrated and angry at being ignored John Drew
decided to hand the petition they had written to one of the police
officers on duty at the gates. The demonstration lingered on for
another hour or so but by then it was the late afternoon and after
being on their feet for much of the day the protesters decided that
rumbling bellies and aching feet meant they should call it a day.
By nightfall the city was quiet again but the protest march had
thrown not only news reporting in turmoil, it had also caused a
serious headache for the powers that be. As for Master Jeremiah, he
stayed ensconced in his plush armchair surrounded by the luxuries
of his opulent home and watched every news report he could find. A
protest march on such a scale directed against both Dryvellism and
himself was not something he had expected. And so he sat and
watched and worried, trying to think of a way how to turn the
situation to his advantage.

He needn’t have bothered.

The protest march had left the
president and his cabinet feeling threatened. How far would it go?
Would it be a danger to their power? Might lawmakers feel pressured
to hold a vote of no confidence? Or could protests even spread to
other parts of the country and even turn violent?

After a panicky cabinet meeting
that only ended after midnight the decision to crack down was
unanimous. The chief of police was consulted who confirmed that the
leaders of the demonstration had been identified. The police were
then given the go ahead to protect national security. Tactical
police units converged on the homes of John Drew and several others
in the early hours of the morning. Battering rams smashed open
doors and the inhabitants were surprised in their beds where they
were handcuffed and dragged out of their homes like dangerous
terrorists. They were charged with holding an unauthorized
demonstration, incitement and endangering national security.

The news stunned the nation the
next morning. Many people strongly sympathized with the protestors
and that the government had decided to act so harshly against
peaceful demonstrators while leaving, what many considered to be a
criminal religious group, unmolested, alienated many citizens.

The state prosecutor urged the
court to handle the case quickly and so the accused found
themselves in court just a few days after the protest march.

On the day of the trial John
Drew was brought into the court room in handcuffs. He was wearing
the orange jumpsuit that condemned criminals had to wear in prison
and he was flanked by a policeman on either side. Neither the press
nor the public were permitted in the secret trial.

“John Drew,” the state
prosecutor said. “You are accused of organizing and holding an
unauthorized demonstration, of inciting the public to hatred
against a religious group and of endangering national security by
publicly calling for the overthrow of the lawful government. How do
you plead?”

“Not guilty.”

“Your Honour,” the prosecutor
said. “By refusing to admit his guilt the accused has demonstrated
a callous disregard for the laws of the land and he has amply
proved that he is a continuing danger to society. I urge the
maximum sentence.”

The judge looked severely at
John Drew. “Has the accused got anything to say in his
defence?”

“Your Honour, I did not incite
against anyone. I protested against crimes committed by Dryvellers.
I have the freedom of speech to do so…”

“Mister Drew,” the judge said
slowly. “Incitement is not freedom of speech. It is hate speech. As
to crimes committed by Dryvellers I must remind you that crimes are
a matter for the courts to decide. Until found guilty they are
presumed innocent and any accusations against them are a form of
hate speech.”

“Then what is freedom of speech?
If I can only say what doesn’t bother anyone and what the
government allows me to say I could just as well be in Soviet
Russia or Nazi Germany. They had the same kind of freedom of
speech.” He glared at the judge angrily.

“I find you in contempt of
court, Mr. Drew.” He took a wooden gavel and banged the table
thrice. “The accused is found guilty on all three charges and
sentenced to seven years in a maximum security prison.”

“But there hasn’t been a trial!”
John Drew shouted desperately. “I want a lawyer and I…”

“The court is concluded. You had
your say, Mr. Drew and if you say any more you will be held in
contempt of court again. I must remind you that it is in the power
of this court to extend your sentence should it be deemed
necessary.”

He banged the table with the
wooden gavel again and everyone rose to their feet. The judge left
the court room and the hapless John Drew was escorted out and taken
to the maximum security prison that would be his home for the
coming seven years. He spent 23 hours a day in a room just long
enough for a thin mattress on a concrete bed, with a small basin in
one corner and a metal bucket in the other that functioned as a
toilet. The bucket was emptied once a day when Prisoner Drew was
shackled and taken to a yard for an hour’s walk. He was not allowed
to talk to other prisoners during the walk or at any other time. At
the end of the walk guards took him back to his cell where he spent
the next 23 hours staring at the dirty grey concrete wall, waiting
for life to pass him by.

Vengeance

All of man’s affairs become
diseased

when he wishes to cure evils by
evils.

Sophocles

A few days after the bomb attack
on the bus, a small group of people gathered in a church for a
funeral, a double funeral. John Lessing was the father of the
little boy decapitated during the blast and grieving husband to a
murdered wife. When he had learnt that not only politicians but
even a representative of the Dryvellist Temple would be present at
the victims’ funeral, he had refused to let his wife and son to say
their farewells to a beautiful and cruel world the little lad had
only known for ten months, in their presence. “It’s adding insult
to injury!” he said and arranged for his wife and son to have a
private funeral in private dignity and not as a public relations
spectacle. The sad wailing sound of Mozart’s Lacrimosa echoed
through the old church. His mother-in-law sobbed and the priest
spoke what words of solace he could. A little later stout shoulders
lifted a long coffin and a little coffin and slowly walked out of
church. Chopin’s funeral march accompanied them on their last
journey. When John Lessing looked down at his wife’s coffin and
then the one containing his little bundle of joy, a pain and anger
welled up deep inside of him that was beyond words. He clenched his
fists and when he heard someone mumble “They’ve gone to a better
place” his mind told him “They’ haven’t gone anywhere. They’re just
fucking dead”. As he cast a handful of earth on each coffin there
was a strong feeling growing in his heart. He couldn’t describe it
or understand it yet, but it slowly ate away at his heart and took
over his thinking. After the funeral there was the traditional meal
and then the emptiness of his home, a wardrobe filled with his
wife’s clothes still imbued with her scent, a little empty cot, and
then the great nothingness.