The fence of pretense

Aligned even if dark. (© image)

If it had been LA or San Francisco, we’d all been lurching into the street to get away from tall buildings.

The rumbling got louder as thundering vibration rattled the knees.

Everyone was gazing down at the sidewalk about three feet in front of them – all walking and pretending everything was OK.

“Don’t turn your head, ” my friend ordered. Don’t make eye contact.”

The tanks – topped by military soldiers – commanded the street and went on.

A silent collective sigh from those on the sidewalk lined by shops. Shoulders relaxed as feet moved on.

Daily life in Franco’s Madrid took a little bit getting used to.

Heavily armed Guardia Civil in black military uniforms who stood on so many corners weren’t like the Buckingham Palace guards tourists pose with to take pictures.

These locked eyes on everyone. Evaluating. Judging.

They had the right to kill anyone any time with no questions asked. And they did.

Barbed wire spiraled around University.

You had to be careful which groups you were seen with.

You had to watch what you said and even more guarded about what you thought.

Call it a hands-on political science lesson: “Those that have the guns make the rules.”

Venezuelans are dealing with that. Backed by Cuban trained paramilitary and Russian paid security contractors/mercenaries, the military is wavering.

Others have, too – like China (Social Credit program), Cuba, Morocco (life style and partner choices), Russia, Mexican Drug Cartels (guns waved at drivers as 35 bodies dumped on major road)…

You have to hand it to parallels.(© image)

I ran into a Russian immigrant friend recently. She relayed a fellow countryman, a good veterinarian, had relocated near us. Everyone is always looking for a good vet. We ended up talking a bit.

“When I was little girl, ” she said in that throaty Russian accent, “one day I come home in school uniform. My mother looks at me and says ‘I will get you free. No one will tell you what to wear. No one will tell you what to think.’ “

She continued passionately, “We ran. It was brutal – very hard for a long time. We were refugees in camp.” A shiver stops her at this point – even after years – her eyes focused somewhere else for minute before she brushed memories aside.

“When we finally set foot on American soil, my mother she turns to me and says, ‘ I promised. I give you gift of freedom. No one can tell you what to say. What to think. Now we go and make life for ourselves.”

She’s plenty blunt about a lot of things. Feels she has earned the right and has perspective.

“I have coworker who complains about everything. All fault of other people.” Scorn is obvious in her voice. “I call her foolish child. I was born under Communism. I know. Here, nobody tells you where you live or you must do this job we decided. No one tells you what to wear, what you can say,  or what you must think.”

Or it was that way in the past: right to speak, right to believe, right of free association – and, other than kid’s school dress codes, freedom to follow fashion or not.

But rumblings aren’t isolated on computers anymore.

Call it a hands-on political science lesson.

Phil, the Philosopher Mouse of the Hedge

Difficult to grasp shadowy overreaching (© image)

 

 

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