Tuesday, 18 July 2017

From The Two Thousand Nights And The Two Nights (Nights 1036-1043)

This is, without a doubt, the most complex story I have ever written, and the longest (barring my novels). Also, because of its length, I have to post it as a downloadable PDF file, which you can see by clicking

As for the length? Almost 28000 words. You have been warned.

Wednesday, 12 July 2017


Here the rocks sweat blood and fire.
The sky
Burnt with the ashes of a million lives
A million loves
Has forgotten how to grieve.
Here lovers walked not long ago
Now their bones lie shattered
Mixed in the shattered ground.
In the ruins of broken statues
In the ruins of broken homes
The smell of death in the air
You measure time -
The slow death of a city -
From the moment that the first bomb fell
In the name of shock and awe.
The man who dropped them is now a hero
To those who cursed his name then.
The city is now dead at last
A broken corpse under the starving sky.
Look. Here, under the tumbled ruin of this wall
Half-covered in the tattered flag of black
Lies the boy,
In his sand yellow uniform
Clutching still
The gun too big for his little hands.
Left to kill and to die.
Somewhere not far away
His victim, father, brother, husband, son
Or his killer. It hardly matters, when the world
Lies frozen around the obtuse flash
Of a busting bomb.
Even the stones are burnt.
They will not be unburnt

© B Purkayastha 2017

Friday, 7 July 2017

The Great Big ISIS Movie Extravaganza Part XXXIV

Copyright B Purkayastha 2017

Death In The Desert

There is the sky.

The sky is of polished brass, the sun a blinding glare eating the vault of the sky.

There is the quarry, and the desert.

From the lip of the quarry, the desert is a flat sheet of pale eroded rock and sand that stretches until it merges into the hazy sky.

There is the heat.

The heat beats down like a hammer on an anvil; heat so intense that the air seems on fire, heat that is reflected from the rock and up again. The heat is a furnace. It will burn the world to a cinder.

There is colour.

The colours are yellow and blue and burnished steel.

The stone of the quarry is yellow, as yellow as the desert sand, as yellow as the uniforms of the men around me, as yellow as the uniform which weighs me down. The sky is a blue so faded it is almost white. And the steel is the barrel of the sniper rifle, on the tripod before me.

There is the taste and the smell.

The taste of dust in my mouth, salted with my sweat. The smell of gun oil, hot and angry. There will be another taste, by and by, and another smell.

There is the pain.

The pain throbs in my head, from eyes to nape, as though a vice is pressing on it. The pain is so great that it is like a cage between me and the world. I cannot tame this pain. I cannot even admit it, because it is of no importance, even compared to my own insignificant part in the scheme of things.

There is the war.

This is the war that will come out of the desert, out of the haze that hangs on the horizon. I am waiting for the war to come to me, and I will then fight it.

I do not want to fight this war. I do not know who I am fighting, or for whom I am fighting. I just know that I am very small, and the war and the world are very big, and that the sniper rifle is very long.

My hands on the barrel of the rifle, the metal burning hot in the sun. My hands, tiny, surely too tiny to work the bolt, to pull the trigger, to stuff the next long brass bullet into the breech, try not to flinch away from the metal. Someone is standing behind me, peering over my shoulder, his shadow pooled on the rock next to me. If I move my eyes enough I can see his sand-coloured desert boots.

My hands are too small, too weak. This is not a problem. They are changing the bolt, the trigger assembly, for smaller, weaker hands, hands like mine.

Soon, everyone will be gone but me. I will be lying on the rock, here, on the lip of the quarry, the long rifle pointing out over the desert, waiting for the war to come. And then I will kill until I die.

It will not be a significant death. My life is not a significant life. I am as important as the bullets I fire, a weapon as they are weapons. That is all I am, and I know it.

And then there will be the taste and smell of blood in my mouth, and perhaps the heat and pain will fade along with the light of the pitiless sun.

I am aware of all this, as I am aware of the fever wracking my body, the blanket pulled over me. I am awake and not awake. I am dreaming and not dreaming. This is real, this has happened to someone. This is perhaps happening to someone right now.

In the end I wake up.

I really don’t know what I went through in that half hour hanging between wakefulness and sleep; it felt as though I was bridging lives. This wasn’t the first time I have had this kind of thing happen, either; on the previous occasion, I wrote a story about it.

It was as though someone had stepped into my head and was telling me his story; someone desperate to tell me what he couldn’t tell anyone else when he was alive.

No, this was not just an extremely vivid dream. For one thing, I was not fully asleep. I was aware that I was in bed at the same time as I was in a desert quarry being left as a rearguard to fight and kill until I died.

Also, I know dreams. I have trained myself to remember dreams. This was not a dream. And though I had very high fever, I was as far from delirious as it was possible to get.

What do I think it was? I can speculate. But speculation is useless and if it is wrong, then it would be wronging the person who was shouting his last moments into my head. Whoever it is was very small and very young. And very, very afraid.

If I was actually living someone else’s life, I hope he, or possibly she, survived.

But, somehow, I don’t think so.


Friday, 30 June 2017

P and A: a cautionary tale

Let me tell you a story.

Our hero is a certain man, we'll call him Mr P, who lives in a large house with a front garden and a gate. Some way down the lane there lives a Mr A, who is a known Mafia criminal with a history of violent crime. Mr A has paid off the police chief, so there is no point complaining to the law about Mr A's crimes. He owns the law.

Now, Mr A covets Mr P's nice house and garden. He doesn't need either, but he covets them. Also, the fact that Mr P doesn't obey his every whim, like everyone else on the street, rankles with Mr A. And Mr P is not unaware of any of this.

One of the reasons that Mr A can get away with his crimes is that he has a gun. It is a big gun, a machine gun of 14.7mm calibre, and just about everyone else on the street is either unarmed or has only muzzle loaders. The only exception is Mr P, who happens to own a machine gun himself. Not as big as that owned by Mr A, 12.7mm rather than 14.7, but not far behind.

Now one day Mr A comes out of his house carrying his machine gun, comes up the lane, and uses it to shoot the lock off Mr P's gate. Mr P, watching from his window, does nothing. Mr A, seeing that his actions have brought no punishment, walks into the garden, trampling over Mr P's flower beds, and shoots Mr P's pet rabbits. Mr P still watches, doing nothing.

Then Mr A begins hammering on Mr P's front door, to which Mr P's response is to....pull down the shutters on his windows and shout that Mr A's activities are unacceptable and an affront to society.

What would you think of Mr P, here? Would you commend his restraint in not starting a gunfight that would shoot up the street? When Mr A breaks into his living room, isn't Mr P going to have to start that gunfight if he isn't to be robbed of hearth and home?

And what if, as soon as Mr A had emerged on to the lane, Mr P had come out of his house with his machine gun, leaned casually on his gate, and pointed the gun in A's general direction? Would or would not have A got the message?



 Obviously, Mr P is Vladimir Putin, and Mr A is...you know who.

The biggest problem with Putin in foreign policy is that he's reactive, not proactive. He gets the blame anyway and the sanctions, so it's become self defeating to let the west make the first move and then do damage control. But he still does that, six years after Libya, nine years after Georgia.

Look at Libya. In 2011 Russia could have legitimately come to the aid of Gaddafi, and easily defeated the NATO-sponsored terrorists. It would have achieved these things:

1. Put the US on notice that creative interpretations of UNSC resolutions for illegal regime change wars is unacceptable.

2. Cut off the flow of weapons via Clinton's rat line to jihadis in Syria, which in turn would have dramatically shortened the war there and also put America on notice that intervention there would not be tolerated.

3. Also laid down an unspoken but real red line over further meddling in Russia's allied countries, like Ukraine, and then any attempt by Nuland's Nazis to carry out the Maidan coup would have been far more circumspect.

Even supposing Putin let that chance slip for some unknown compulsion, he had a second chance in Kiev.

In 2014 Russia could have taken over Ukraine, rescued the country from Nazis, and would only have at most got the same sanctions as now. Instead Poroshenko has American troops training his Nazis, is planning an invasion of the Donbass, and there is far more chance of a major war now than if Russia had sent in troops to restore Yanukovych. After all Yanukovych never resigned and America is backing the Saudi Barbarian invasion of Yemen to restore Hadi, who most certainly did resign. And Russia is fighting a war in Syria that is far more complex and fraught with danger than the one in Libya, and this war need never have been fought.

Now what happens when (more when than if) the Ukranazi coup regime invades Donbass in force? Russia has been repeatedly blamed for "invasions" of Ukraine that never happened, so what does it do if the coup regime, with its American trainers and "advisors", threatens to roll over Novorossiya? Will Putin sit idle and let the Ukranazi junta win? If he does, he'll be signing his own political death warrant, not to speak of the literal death warrant of the people of the Lugansk and Donetsk People's Republics. So he will have to intervene, again being forced into a war that need never have happened if he had taken more limited action earlier.

Contrast Xi Jinping. China is following an aggressively proactive policy of trade deals, forging close relationships with every country possible, and at the same time is bolstering its military to the extent that it is immune from military aggression (no matter what Trump might pretend). If America wants to take on China it will be on ground of China's choosing. That's the exact opposite of Russia.

And that is why Putin needs to stop accommodating his "Western partners" and safeguard Russia's well being. Because whatever he's doing now isn't working.

Mr P may be waiting for Mr A to drop dead of a heart attack, but it'll probably be too long a wait.

Tuesday, 27 June 2017

One Day At The Village Well

Arifa saw the cow as she was coming round the corner of Rahman Chacha’s shop. It was a large black cow, with short thick horns and an udder that dangled almost to the ground. It was rooting in the garbage pile that lay opposite the vegetable market, turning over polythene packets and broken wicker baskets with its snout.

Arifa was on the way to the well on the far side of the village. There was a tubewell near her house, but it had finally run dry yesterday.  Though Arifa had cranked the handle for almost half an hour this morning, she’d got no more than half a mug of water, and that had been brown with dissolved mud.

This was not a surprise, because there had been no rain in months and the tubewell had been yielding less and less water, but even yesterday she’d been able to coax enough out of it to manage. Not that it had made a difference to her mother.

“Go and get water,” Arifa’s mother had ordered. “Come back quickly, so I can cook breakfast.”

“I don’t want to go to the well,” Arifa had said mutinously. “Why can’t Ahmed go for once?”

“Your brother has to offer namaz and go to work,” her had mother replied sharply. “Stop wasting my time and get the water now.”

So Arifa had taken the two large plastic buckets, put on her sandals, and set off towards the well. It was still fairly early in the morning, and still fairly cool. Besides, the village hadn’t properly woken up yet, so she could look around and enjoy the fresh air. But of course she couldn’t say that to her mum. Her mum didn’t believe in allowing her to enjoy herself.

The cow paused in its rooting, looking up at Arifa. Though it was a very large cow, it was very thin, its black skin stretched tight over ribs like barrel staves. Its eyes glistening like black stones, it raised its snout and bellowed plaintively.

“Hungry, are you?” Arifa asked. She looked around. Opposite to Rahman Chacha’s shop there was a stone wall, with vines of some kind growing over it. She pulled off as much as she could, put it into the buckets, and walked towards the cow. “Here, eat this.”

The cow looked at her warily, and at the buckets. It seemed suspicious, and its short thick horns looked sharp, so Arifa emptied the buckets by the roadside and stepped back. “Eat,” she said to the cow. “Go ahead.”

“You,” someone shouted. “What are you doing?”

Arifa turned quickly. A fat man in a sleeveless vest and pyjama bottoms was pointing at her. “What are you doing to that cow?”

“Doing to the cow?” Arifa repeated, astonished. “Nothing. I was just feeding her.”

“Feeding her?” The answer seemed to enrage the fat man even further. “Why are you feeding the cow? When did you people ever feed cows?”

Other people came out of the houses all around. “What’s going on?”

“She says she’s feeding the cow!” the fat man said. His face had turned red. “Have you ever heard of a Muslim feeding a cow?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Arifa protested.

“Feeding? Poisoning the cow, more likely.” The people jostled closer to Arifa, making a wall of faces. Their voices rose to form another wall, of sound. She could only make a phrase out, here and there. “Maybe she means to fatten the cow up so she can eat it afterwards...” “...they hate cows because we Hindus take cows as our mother.” “Let’s teach her a lesson.” And, inevitably, “...Pakistani!”

The first hand had just reached out to snatch at Arifa’s dupatta when another voice came from the back of the crowd. “What’s going on here?”

The crowd parted. It was the old temple priest, Pandit Shivram. He looked at Arifa and round at the people. “What are you doing to this girl?”

“She’s poisoning the cow, Panditji,” a few voices said. “No,” others contradicted, “she’s fattening it up to eat.” “No,” a third set said, “she’s trying to lure it away for the butchers and cattle smugglers.”

Pandit Shivram frowned terribly. “She’s just a girl,” he said. “You all ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Besides, I know her family. They’re harmless.”

“I saw her feeding the cow, Panditji,” the first fat man said weakly.

“And? Would you have said something if it was a Hindu girl feeding it? And don’t you have better things to do anyway?”

Slowly, reluctantly, the crowd dispersed. The priest turned to Arifa, who was shaking.

“Are you all right, beti?” he asked.

“Yes, Panditji.” Arifa felt the tears start trickling from her eyes and wiped hard at them with her dupatta. “I was just feeding the cow.”

“Yes, I know.” Pandit Shivram turned. “Where is this cow?”

Frightened by the crowd and noise, the animal had disappeared. There was only the small pile of vines by the side of the street.


The well was very old, much older than the village. It was made of brick and stone, with steps cut round and round the inside, just broad enough for one person. The drought had affected it, too; the water had shrunk to a tiny circle at the bottom.

There was a small crowd of women at the top of the well, waiting for their turn. A couple of them were talking at the top of their voices. Arifa recognised them; the tailor’s wife, Shabnam Chachi, and Sheetal Mausi, the jeweller’s wife. They saw her and grinned.

“Arifa beti,” Sheetal Mausi said, “how nice to see you here. We don’t see you mixing with us common people much, do we?”

“Her family is so clean,” Shabnam Chachi said, her obese face framed by the black dusty hood of her burqa. “They wash everything five times over. Their tubewell doesn’t have enough water to suit them.”

Arifa looked down at the ground at her feet. She’d be damned if she’d grow up to be like that, fat and loud and dressed in a burqa. She just hoped she’d be able to get home before the incident with the cow became public knowledge. If either of these women got to know, she’d never hear the end of it.

Fortunately, they seemed to have got bored with her and went back to their discussion. “And I said to my man,” Sheetal Mausi bellowed, “that if you can’t even satisfy me in bed, what do you do with it? Or are you not a man at all?”

Shabnam Chachi tsk-tsked in mock sympathy. “I can’t imagine why he can’t, with a lovely woman like you. Maybe he has someone on the side?”

Arifa wished she could disappear. Fortunately, one by one the women went down the well and dispersed. At last it was her turn.

When she climbed back up the steps with the heavy buckets, her arms were aching. She paused a moment to catch her breath, and was at once jostled by another girl.

“Get out of the way,” the girl said. Arifa recalled her vaguely, Zeenat or something. She was tall and thin, her brown burqa like a sack draped over her limbs. She glared at Arifa. “Some of us have things to do even if you don’t.”

“I’m not in your way,” Arifa said. “You can just take one step to the side and get by me.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Zeenat, or whatever her name was, snapped. “Just because you think you’re better than everyone else, you think you can order us around.”

“When did I say I’m better than anyone else?” Arifa said. “I’m just taking a breath after pulling these buckets up all this way. Everyone does it.”

“You don't have to say it.” Zeenat bared her teeth like a vicious dog. “Look at you, dressed in a salwar and dupatta, not a burqa like a decent Muslim girl. Are you trying to be a Hindu or something? I’ll bet you hang around with Hindu boys as well.”

Arifa stared at her. “Are you totally insane?”

“Are you calling me mad?” the tall girl yelled. Arifa tensed, expecting Zeenat to slap her, but there were other women, shouting at them to get out of the way, everyone was waiting for water.

“I’ll see you later,” Zeenat said, and spat in one of Arifa’s water buckets. “Don’t think you’ll get away with this,” she shouted as she pushed past and started down the steps.

Arifa looked at the glob of saliva floating in the water. Then she carefully tilted the bucket just enough for it to slop out on the ground. The saliva and water spattered on her dusty toes.


The vegetable market had opened as Arifa passed by it on the way home. The black cow was back, and was trying to steal a cabbage from one of the stalls. The stall owner rushed out from behind his counter and started beating the animal viciously with a stick. The cow bellowed and galloped ponderously down the street.

Arifa averted her face and went quietly on her way.

It was going to be another unbearably hot day.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2017

Monday, 26 June 2017


My mother called me to the front room, where she was sewing something. “I heard they’re going to give out food,” she said.

I peered at her through the near darkness. Though it was late morning, almost no light leaked past the iron sheets we’d used to barricade the windows. I wondered how she could see to sew. “Where?”

“The KC Market,” she said.

“The KC Market? That’s on the other side of the city. How do we even get there?”

We don’t.” Her fingers went up and down, up and down, sewing, though I could feel her eyes on me. “I can’t walk that far. You know that.”

I didn’t have to look at the bulk of the white bandage wrapping her shin. My question had been idiotic. “By the time I get there they’ll have given it all out,” I objected.

“No,” she said. “I heard it’s only tomorrow that they’ll start the distribution. If you leave right now you’ll get there in plenty of time. Besides, it’s safer travelling at night.”

I stared at her. There was something wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. “How do you know this, anyway?” I asked. “Who told you about this?”

“Your Auntie Tub dropped in while you were out.” Tub was her friend from upstairs. “I don’t know where she heard it.”

“And who’s giving out this food? Who has food to give out?”

“Does it matter who it is as long as there’s food?”

This talk of food was making my stomach twist with hunger. “Does Auntie Tub plan to go as well?”

I felt rather than saw her look away. “No, she says she’ll keep me company while you go.”

My instincts were all screaming now. “Why don’t you tell me what this is really about?” I asked. "What's wrong?"

“Wrong? Nothing’s wrong, except that we don’t have any food. But you know that well enough.”

“We still have some parched rice and flour. Besides, it’s not as though anyone else has any food either. Those who are left, I mean.”

“That’s why I’m telling you to go, so that you can get more before we run out.” My Mother put down her sewing and rubbed her face, the familiar gesture suddenly strange and awkward. “I wish you’d learnt how to sew,” she said inconsequentially. “It’s not really all that hard, but you were never interested.”

“You can teach me if you want. After all there’s not that much to do otherwise, anyway.”

She sighed. “All right, we’ll see when you get back. You’d better get ready to start off.”

I stared at her, puzzled. Unfortunately, the room was too dark to make out her expression. “Will you be all right?” I asked.

“Yes, didn’t I tell you that Tub will be here with me? Now get ready, and make sure to dress warm.”

I stood there for a minute longer, but she didn’t say anything more, so I went to my room.

I was pulling on my jacket when I heard the thump of her walking stick on the floor and she appeared. “Don’t forget your cap and balaclava,” she said.


“Do it. You know why as well as I do.”

“Mum,” I repeated. “Are you sending me away? Is that it?”

She didn’t answer for a while. Then she slowly walked over to me and touched my cheek. “Your face is growing so thin,” she said. “I can see the bones. You’re starving slowly, and do you think I want to see you like this?”

“You’re starving too. And we haven’t starved yet, have we? We’ve managed so far.”

“So far, yes, but for how much longer? If only I hadn’t hurt my leg, like a stupid idiot, we could have left. But now I’m stuck here.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” I glanced down at the bandage. The window of my room was tiny, didn’t look out on the street, and so we hadn’t had to barricade it, so the light was a little better, and I could see that the bandage was stained with blood. “You’re bleeding again,” I said.

“It’s nothing. It’s stopped already.”

“I’ll change the bandage,” I said, kneeling.

“No, Tub can help me do it. Go quickly now.”

I tried one last time. “Mum. You know these people, whoever they are – even if they’re giving out food, they may not want to do it for free. They may want something in trade. And we have nothing.”

“Yes, I thought of that. That’s another reason you should go now, so you can keep a lookout for anything you find on the way, something you can trade.”

I laughed. It sounded bitter and dry as old dust in my own ears. “You know the city has been picked clean. What could I possibly find to trade?”

“You’ll find something,” she said. “Don’t worry about it for now. And don’t forget this.”

I stared at the object she was holding out. “Mum?”

“Take it, I said. You know as well as I do it’s not safe out there.”

I took it. The gun was long and crude, little more than a pipe with a piece of curved metal for a trigger fixed to a wooden stock, with a rope for a sling. It felt astonishingly heavy. “Where did you get this?”

“I had it, from before. It was left with me by...someone. Before all this started.” Her eyes were black pools of pain. “He never came back for it, obviously.”

I didn’t want to look at her, so I examined the gun. With a little experimentation I managed to open the breech. The inside was perfectly clean and smelt vaguely of oil. “Do we have bullets? It’s no good without bullets.”

“Here.” I took the packet she held out and emptied it on the bed. The blunt-tipped dull brass objects spilled over the frayed sheet. “So many of them!”

“Yes, there are seventeen. I’m told that bullets are precious these days. Maybe you could trade a few. I don’t think you ought to, though. You may well need them.”

I counted. There were seventeen, as she’d said. “Mum,” I said thickly. “You think I won’t come back, don’t you?”

“Of course you will.” But she wouldn’t look at me. “Don’t forget your cap, and take some water and a bit of food for your journey.”

“I’ll come back,” I said. “I’ll come back to you.”

“Of course you will. Didn’t I just say so?” She was getting increasingly impatient and disturbed. Whatever it was that was worrying her, I was a part of it. “Go now, quickly.”

With one last look at her, which she wouldn’t meet, I went.


The war had passed this locality by, which is why we were still here, but nothing had escaped the gangs that came afterwards, or their looting and violence. The few vehicles still left were gutted wrecks which had long since been stripped for everything that could be used or bartered. Every window was blocked up with metal sheets or sandbags, but I knew most of the houses behind them were empty. Anyone who could leave had left already. If mum had been able to walk, we’d have gone.

And now I was going.

I shook my head, telling myself that I would be back, but kept remembering how she wouldn’t meet my eyes. The weight of the gun slung over my back, was a reminder, too, that she thought I wouldn’t be coming back. A gun shouldn’t be necessary on a trip through the town. Or should it?

We’d heard rumours, back when there were enough people left for rumours to go round, that strange and terrible things were happening in the world outside. The tales varied so much that we never knew what to believe, and mum called them all nonsense anyway. Things were strange and terrible enough already without having to invent things to worry about, she said.

Obviously she’d changed her mind about that.

At the far end of our street, I stopped long enough for a quick look back. A small, squat figure was standing outside, watching – Aunt Tub from upstairs, making sure I was going. She was still staring after me as I turned the corner, perhaps for the last time.

The sky was heavily overcast, the day freezing cold. I came into sight of my old school, which was now a ruin. Back when I used to spend every day squeezed into one of the back benches of its dingy classrooms, I often daydreamed of burning it down. Now it was a roofless, charred wreck, and I averted my eyes as I passed.

Just beyond the school was the river and the bridge. When I was a very young child, before all this started, it had glittered with golden light in the summer sunshine and been swollen and brown after the rains. Now it was a thread of stagnant grey water, from which the rusting wreck of an overturned lorry still protruded. The bridge itself was crumbling and littered with debris.

I’d just reached the near end of the bridge when I heard the noise of engines, coming closer.

These days, there is nothing good associated with engines. When the war was washing back and forth over the city, engines meant soldiers and fighting, and you hid when you heard them. After the war had moved elsewhere, engines meant gangs on the lookout for loot and women, and you also hid when you heard them. I had heard none for several weeks.

Scrambling under the bridge, I crouched down among the weeds.

The engine noises came closer, rumbling overhead, the bridge vibrating. Then they stopped abruptly. I heard voices.

“I tell you I saw something,” someone said.

“Well, there’s nobody here now, so you must have been mistaken. Let’s get on – we’re wasting time.”

“Maybe under the bridge?”

My heart seemed to stop. Looking frantically round, I saw a tiny niche behind one of the pillars. It seemed hardly big enough for a doll, but it was dark. I crushed myself into it.

I heard footsteps, and an elongated shadow fell across the weeds and cracked concrete. I tried to press myself further back, but there was something in there already. Fear was metallic in my mouth and throat.

The shadow wavered and receded. “Nobody there,” the first voice said.

“Told you. Let’s get on, before they all know we’re coming and...”

The engines started again and I didn’t hear the rest.

It was only when the engines had faded in the distance that I found the strength to crawl out of the niche. Something, dislodged by my movements, fell out too, and rolled to my feet.

Without any particular surprise, I saw that it was a human skull.

I thought about the words I’d heard, as I climbed back on the bridge – “before they know we’re coming and...”

And what? Hide? Run away?

I had to run away, before they saw me.

So, crouching like a hunchback, I ran.

On the other side of the bridge, the city was different. The buildings lunged towards the sky, the streets like canyons between cliffs. Anyone could be up there looking down, and I wasn’t certain if this area was still controlled by gangs.

Over the last years, we’d all learnt to avoid gangs.

The rain finally began falling, heavy drops that looked as grey as the sky and the concrete around. A flash of lightning, jagged and searing white, snaked across the sky. Hopefully, it would keep anyone watching indoors. Stooping to keep the worst of the downpour off my face, I trudged on.


Long before nightfall, it was so dark that I was seeing my way by the lightning, and I was so cold and wet that I could no longer feel my feet. And though I needed to keep moving, just in case there really was going to be a food distribution, I couldn’t go much further without collapsing. I needed rest.

A particularly lurid lightning flash showed me an open doorway, a broken steel shutter curled beside it like crumpled paper. The thunder that followed was so loud that I felt as though I’d gone deaf. Automatically, like a hunted animal seeking shelter, I entered the building.

It was so dark that I had to feel my way, and I couldn’t go too far for fear of falling over something and injuring myself. I found a spot in the corner of a bare room, from where I could just see the entrance, and sat down, the wall to my back, and set about trying to rub the warmth back into my arms and legs.

The next thing I knew was that the thunder and lightning had stopped, along with the sound of rain. I was very stiff, so much so that I could barely move. There was the indescribable sensation of it being the middle of the night. I must have been asleep for hours.

I was about to get up and move on when I heard voices from the next room.

“She’s just a girl,” someone said. “She won’t fetch much.”

“Even a girl can work,” the reply came. It was a woman. “And, in any case, we can’t afford not to sell her. After they come back from across the river the price will go down.”

I froze, certain they were talking about me. But there was a scratching noise and I saw the dim yellow glow of an oil lamp reflected from the far wall. Whoever it was didn’t know I was there. I waited, listening.

“When will they be back? Not before tomorrow, right? So what’s the hurry?”

“You think we’ll get this kind of offer again?” There was a contemptuous tone in the woman’s voice. “Everyone knows that they’ve gone, so there will be slaves on the market. So...”

Realisation burst on me like one of the lightning flashes from earlier. Those engines I’d heard earlier hadn’t been soldiers, or a gang.

It had been a slave raid.

We’d heard that slaves were currency, now; they were bought and sold like cattle, though worth rather less because they weren’t food. We’d heard it, but we’d never thought it would affect us. The only ones left in the city were those too decrepit to leave, and they’d never make slaves.

But those of their families who stayed back to look after them would.

I had to get away before I was found.

Moving as silently as I could, I began to edge towards the beckoning black square of the entrance. It seemed infinitely far away, and I’d have to pass the band of light thrown by the oil lamp. For all I knew whoever was in the next room was looking in my direction and would see me at once.

And two slaves would sell for more than one, even if both were girls.

Slowly, trying not to breathe, I eased the gun off my shoulders and fumbled a bullet out of the pouch at my belt. The breech of the weapon, which I’d opened so easily earlier, was absurdly stiff, and seemed far too small for the thick brass shell. But somehow or other my frozen fingers managed to cram it into place.

I must have made some noise while loading the gun, because as I looked up from it the oil lamp suddenly shone in my face.

“Here!” The man was a bulky silhouette behind the lamp. “What are you doing here?”

Suddenly the gun was no longer heavy. It was at my shoulder, and the end of the barrel pointing right at the silhouetted head over the light of the lamp. I could feel my lips peel back from my teeth like a snarling dog.

“Back,” I said. “Slowly, to the other room.”

“Don’t shoot,” he said. I could hear real fear in his voice, and it sent a thrill through me. This man was afraid of me! “Don’t shoot. I’ll do as you say.”

“Libog?” the woman called from the other room. “What’s wrong? Is there...” She broke off abruptly as I followed the man round the door, and she saw the gun in my hands.

“Look, girl,” the man began. “I don’t know who you are, but I don’t mean you any harm.”

“Shut up and sit down,” I said. I never could have managed this tone of authority without the gun in my hands. Far in the back of my mind a part of me was watching as though someone else altogether was doing all these things, some young woman whom I’d never seen before. The man sat.

The room was quite large, so the lamp only lit the middle, and threw misshapen shadows on the walls. There was a worn table and a few chairs, and a bed over against the wall. I could only see two people, the man and woman I’d heard talking.

“What do you want from us?” the woman asked, beginning to rise. I, or rather this girl whom I was watching from inside her head, swung the gun towards her.

“Sit down, Langgam,” the man said. The woman was shaking, whether with fear or anger I couldn’t tell. “Sit down,” he said again.

“That’s right,” I said. “Sit down.”

They were both quite old. The man, Libog, must have been large once, but he was now emaciated and stooped, with a straggling white beard. The woman was small, thin, and very dark.

“If you’re planning to rob us,” Langgam said, finally sitting, “we don’t have anything, so it’s a waste of your time.”

“I’m not planning to rob you,” I said. “All I want you to do is stay right here and not move a muscle while I leave. If you try to stop me, or follow me, I’ll shoot.”

Langgam’s eyes glittered like a reptile’s. “You have no right to order us around.”

“I have every right to protect myself.” I began backing towards the door. “Remember, don’t try to follow me.”

“Wait,” a soft voice said, from the shadows at the back of the room. “Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Both Libog and Langgam turned together towards the corner. “Quiet!” the woman hissed. “Stay where you are.”

“Who’s there?” I demanded. “Come here.”

There was a brief rustling, and a small figure came into the lamp’s flickering light. It was a girl, about fourteen or fifteen years old. Her hair hung round her face and her arms were like sticks poking out of her faded sleeveless sweater.

“She’s ours,” Langgam snapped. “You can’t take her.”

I ignored her. “Who are you?” I asked the girl.

“I’m called Miri.” The girl was trembling as hard as Langgam, but with cold. The skin of her fingers was blue. “I don’t want to stay here with them. Take me with you.”

I stared at her and felt something close in my head, like a door. Everything shouted at me go, leave, get out now. But I remembered what they’d planned to do to her, and what they’d been talking about doing while she was right there in the room with them. I swallowed hard, feeling something like a stone roll down my throat.

“All right,” I said. “Come.”

Langgam came halfway out of her chair, and only Libog’s hand on her arm restrained her. “You can’t do this!”

“Look, young lady.” Libog’s voice was weary. “We can’t stop you, but this girl is literally all we have. If we lose her, we’ll starve.”

“So you’ll trade her for food, is that it?” I snorted. “And when that food is gone, what will you do?” I jerked my head at the girl. “Come quickly.”

I thought Langgam was about to make a grab for the girl, but she sagged back in her chair, looking old and defeated. “What will you do with her, make her your slave now? Is that it?”

“None of your concern,” I told them. “Remember, don’t follow me or I’ll shoot.”


We made it out of the house before I started shaking. The reaction was so sudden and overwhelming that for a minute I could not walk. Doubled over, I bit down on my own fingers to stop my teeth from chattering. I felt as though I was about to collapse in a jerking, twitching mass on the street.

It was the girl, Miri, who got me going. I felt her hand on my arm, pulling. “Miss,” she said, “come on, miss, please. They’ll start chasing us in a minute.”

I let her lead me, along streets I had never been down before. Little by little, I stopped shaking, and finally regained control of myself enough to stop and turn to the girl. “Where are we going?”

She looked up at me. “As far as we can from them, so they can’t find us. They’re horrible, both of them.”

“They’re scared of my gun,” I said. We began to walk on again. The streets were narrower here, filled with debris, and the buildings half-ruined. It must have seen heavy fighting during the war. “Who are you, anyway? A relative of theirs?”

The girl shook her head. “I was lost, trying to find my parents. We were separated, during the fighting. I got sick, and didn’t have anything to eat. They found me and took care of me, at first.” She made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob. “Then when I could walk again they told me that I had to work to pay for the food and medicine they’d spent on me. And that’s what I’ve been doing ever since...working.”

The mention of food reminded me that I hadn’t eaten all day, and suddenly I was very hungry. All I had was a small bag of parched rice, which suddenly seemed far too little for me, let alone for both of us. But Miri’s eyes glittered hungrily as I opened the pouch, and before I’d chewed my first mouthful, all I’d given her was gone.

“Is there any more?”she asked hopefully.

“We’ve got to keep it for later,” I said. “Try and chew slowly, to make it last.”

Once again I wondered why I’d brought her along, what had possessed me to do such an insane thing. But when I put away the remnants of the rice and reached for the bottle of water I’d filled from the rain barrel before leaving home, I found the girl’s thin shoulders shaking.

“Miri,” I asked. “Why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

She hugged me, her face crushed against my chest. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I know I shouldn’t have asked you to bring me along. But I was scared.”

“You did the right thing,” I said, patting her inadequately. Her skin was freezing. I wish I had some clothes to give her, or that I’d taken some from  Libog and Langgam. I didn’t dare to go back, or to look in any of the buildings around. “They’d have caught me, too, if I hadn’t had the gun. Let’s keep going.”

The clouds overhead had finally parted, and a half-moon sent down a little light, which was lucky. The streets were so clogged with debris and wrecked vehicles we couldn’t have passed through otherwise. “Do you have any idea where we are?” I asked.

She giggled suddenly. “No. But isn’t it nice to be free?”

“Yes, well...” I glanced at her. “I was rather hoping to find food to take back home to my mum.”

“Your mother? Where were you planning to go for food?”

“There’s supposed to be a distribution at KC Market.” Saying it now, I realised how silly it sounded. Who had food to distribute? And how long would it last? “You know where that is?”

“No. They talked about this KC Market place, Libog and Langgam, I mean. I think it was quite far away.”

“Let’s go and find it. We might get something.” We’d better find something if I were to feed myself and Miri, not to speak of taking something back home as well for my mother.

“Do you remember what it was like before the war?” Miri asked as we walked on.

“Yes. Why, don’t you?” She must be old enough to remember a little at least. The war hadn’t been going on that long.

“Not much. There were four of us – my parents, and my brother. My mum was a teacher, my father worked at an office someplace, and I didn’t like my brother much.” She threw that last bit in almost defiantly.

“Go on,” I said.

She pushed her straggly hair back from her face. “The night the fighting started, where we lived, I mean, my father was telling us a story. It was a silly story about a fairy who had lost her way in the human world and was too stupid to find her way back. My brother wouldn’t settle down to listen. Suddenly there was a huge loud noise, the walls shook, and the lights went out. My mother came running in from the front room, snatched up both of us and crawled under the bed.”

“And?” I asked absently. The mention of lights brought memories of electricity, of lamps turning on at the flick of a switch. It felt like another universe. “What happened then?”

“I don’t remember too clearly, but it became hot and I couldn’t breathe. I heard my father shouting that the house had caught fire and we had to get out. There was a big crowd outside, and people running everywhere, and my mother dragged my brother and me by the hand through it. But somewhere along they lost me. Maybe my mother just let me go.”

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

“She never came back to look for me,” she said. “I kept running, screaming for her, but she never came back. Maybe she thought they had a better chance with one baby, not two.”

“She might have come back for you,” I said gently, “and missed you because you’d run away looking for her.”

She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now anyway. At least I survived. If you call it surviving.”

I knew the rest, could picture it, the sick, starving girl stumbling through the gutted city. “I’ll take care of you,” I said, feeling stupid even as I said it. How could I take care of her? I couldn’t even take care of myself. But she merely nodded.

“You already did, saving me from them. I’ll...” She stopped abruptly. “What’s that?”

I looked up, and, for a moment, it was all I could do to fight down a scream.

I’d heard that it had happened a few times towards the end of the war – civilians who’d risen up against the soldiers, of which army it didn’t matter, and had taken summary revenge. I’d never believed it. How could even a determined and furious band of civilians take on trained soldiers armed with machine guns, and hope to win?

Once upon a time, before the war, this must have been a traffic signal post in the middle of a busy intersection. The lights were long gone, the signal a truncated metal tree growing out of a concrete stump set in the shattered ground. The soldier they’d crucified on it still had his uniform and helmet on, but he’d been dead so long that the cloth had fallen to rags and he was just bones and sinew, mummified flesh and teeth.

“Do you think he was still alive when they did that?” Miri asked. There was a strange note in her voice, almost like satisfaction. I wondered for a moment what else had happened during her wanderings, about which she wasn’t telling me.

“I don’t know and don’t care.” There was a banner of some kind hung from the skeleton, the letters faded almost to illegibility. I thought I could make out FUCK FREEDOM. “Let’s go.”

The next hours seemed to merge into each other. By the time the sky began lightening, I was so tired I was moving only because it was less exhausting to keep going than to stop. My eyes were blurry from tiredness, and though Miri was still stumbling on by my side, she’d already fallen a couple of times, and I didn’t think I’d have the strength to help her up if she fell again.

We’d managed to find our way out of the ruined section of town which we’d spent the night wandering, and had reached a main road I vaguely recognised. In the distance, rising like a broken tooth from a diseased gum, was the shattered cylindrical shape of the stadium. KC Market, or what was left of it, should be not far on the other side of that.

“Come on,” I urged her. “It’s not much further.”

She nodded. In the early morning light, she looked even thinner and weaker than before, and I thought she might be younger than I’d imagined, twelve or thirteen at most. Her clothes hung on her like rags from a scarecrow’s frame, bulging out at the waist where she’d tied an old rope in lieu of a belt.

“What will we do if there’s no food?” she asked.

“We still have a little bit of rice,” I said. “After that, I don’t know.”

The morning grew brighter. It was bitterly cold, but Miri didn’t seem to feel it so much anymore. Her grip on my arm was tighter than before, too. It was as though she’d found some inner source of strength and energy.

We were close enough to the stadium to see the shell holes in the cylindrical wall when she fumbled at the rope she used as a belt. “Wait, take this.”

I looked down at the thing she was holding out. “What’s in that packet?”

“Open it and see.”

I took a look. The packet was half full of small tablets, green and pink and blue. “Drugs?”

“Yes. It’s enough to buy food with. Maybe.”

“Where did you get drugs?”

“Where do you think? How do you suppose I endured those two people without drugs? They had lots, all kinds, once, but they mostly traded them away long ago. I’d hidden this one packet for myself.” She sighed. “I kept it under my clothes all the time. That was the only safe place, because I knew he wouldn’t touch me. She watched him like a hawk to make sure he didn’t.”

I opened my mouth but the words wouldn’t come.

“Not for my good, you understand,” she said. “It was only because she didn’t want him straying. Of course, if they’d sold me...I’d have taken them all together if you hadn’t brought me with you.”

“And that would have...” I suddenly realised why she’d seemed to have got stronger. “You took some this morning, didn’t you?”

“Just a couple of the green tablets. You can take one too. You need it.”

“No. But why are you giving me this?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Because you were good to me. Because we need food.”

I put the packet into my pocket. “Even if we can’t trade these for food, I’m not giving them back to you. You do realise that?”

She smiled. There was a cluster of cold sores at the corner of her lip. “Do as you want. They’re yours now.”

I nodded, and gave her the rest of the rice. “You can eat this instead.”

Quickly, as though I’d snatch the grain back from her hands, she did.


There was no food distribution at KC Market, exactly as I’d imagined.

Someone had been here recently, though. The rows of stalls were covered overhead with fresh plastic sheeting to keep off the weather, and the trash littering the ground hadn’t all rotted away. It looked as though it were only waiting for shopkeepers to set up their wares, and customers to arrive. We walked along the rows of stalls, searching for any food that someone might have left. Unsurprisingly, we found nothing.

I think we were both so engrossed in looking through the stalls that we must have missed the sound of engines. And so it was that we walked round a corner and almost into their arms.

There was a moment of total frozen shock as we stood staring at them and they back at us. There were three of them, clustered around a small lorry. All of them had guns at their belts or slung over their shoulders. One, in a black cap, was in the act of lowering the tailgate. He turned round, staring.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Just look at them,” the second one said. He was tall and had a wispy beard. “They’ll do.”

“Yes.” The young man in the black cap dropped the tailgate the rest of the way. “This might not be a total loss after all, then.”

The gun on my back was as far away as the moon, and against their weapons would have been no good anyway. I began to back slowly away. “Look, we don’t mean you any harm. Just let us go.”

“Let you go? I don’t think so.” The man in the black cap was younger than I’d thought at first, and bigger. “Things have been a total loss lately.”

“That’s right,” the tall bearded man nodded. He had a scar across his face. “There’s literally nothing but bedridden old men and senile women left. We thought we wouldn’t have a single thing to trade with.”

“We shouldn’t trade the older one though,” the black cap told him, pointing at me. “She’s old and pretty enough to have better uses.”

“As long as you don’t keep her to yourself.”

I let them talk. I’d been backing away all the while, and was almost at the turning. If we could get past it, and take off running through the stalls, they couldn’t follow in the lorry. They could chase us, but they were big and heavy, and we might be able to get away.

Of course, they could shoot at us, but if they did, they’d be risking spoiling their own merchandise, wouldn’t they?

Only another couple of steps, and I could run. But I couldn’t, because Miri hadn’t backed away with me. She was still standing right there, silent and staring.

“Miri,” I tried to whisper, as though it would do any good. “Come on, Miri.” But my whisper was stuck in my throat.

The man in the black cap reached out and took her arm. It was too late, I should run, but I couldn’t. My feet were suddenly too heavy to move.

“Wait.” It was the third man, who’d not spoken so far. He was only slightly older than me. The small flat black pistol in his hand was pointed in my general direction. “Take the older one, but let this one go.”

“What?” The black cap turned. “Why?”

“I mean it. We’ll take the older one, but we’ll let this one go.”

“No,” Miri said. “Both of us. We both go.”

There was a long silence, and then the youngest man nodded. “I see. All right then.”

“What’s going on?” the black cap said. He dropped Miri’s arm. “I don’t understand.”

“I’ll tell you later.” The youngest man gestured with his weapon at me. “Get out, both of you.”

We went.


We were back in the maze of the ruined city before I felt able to speak again. “Miri...”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it, all right?” She kicked at a piece of rubble. “It was bad enough when my parents abandoned me and took him with them. And now he’s...you saw what he is.”

“He let us go, Miri.”

“Yes. After I didn’t leave him a choice.”

“Did you want to go with him? Just for a moment?”

 “Why do you even need to ask that?” She turned to me. “Did I ask them to let you go and I’d stay with him? Did I?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” The sky was clouding over. It would rain again soon. “We still don’t have any food.”

“We have the drugs,” she said. “They can do magic, drugs can, if you let them. Or we can sell them for food, if we can find anyone willing and able to buy.”

“There are plenty of unhappy people,” I said. “Plenty of desperate people. Plenty of people willing to sell all their food for a moment of happiness.”

“Yes, all we have to do is to find them.”

We passed the crucified soldier, and neither of us bothered to look up at him.

The rain began to fall.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2017

Tuesday, 20 June 2017

The Uses Of A Convenient Refugee Crisis

Refugees are big business these days, in more ways than one, as will readily become apparent. In fact, if you’re a self-respecting part of the corporate-political nexus, a Refugee Crisis is not convenient, it’s essential.

But refugees don’t appear out of thin air just like that. People have an inconsiderate habit of preferring to live in their own homes, in their own countries, among their own friends and relatives, and have to be forced out into a migration if you’re going to have the refugee crisis you need.

So how do you go about creating it?

There are some simple steps.

Stage 1: Create a socioeconomic breakdown or arrange a war.

A war is preferable to a mere socioeconomic breakdown, because the threat of being blown to pieces is a greater motivational force than reduced income and the possibility of being mugged in the streets. Also, wars involve the creation and consumption of weaponry, and the creators of those weapons obviously stand to make a handsome profit on them. Also, nations tend to have the distressing habit of throwing out governments responsible for socioeconomic crises and replacing them with more nationalistic rulers with far greater suspicions about foreign capital.

So, if at all possible, arrange a war. It should not be all that difficult. You have, at your disposal, funds enough to buy “activists” and arm and train mercenaries. You also have full control of the media, while pretending that it is free and independent. This will come in handy later, when you need to direct public opinion.

Begin by planting stories in said media that the “regime” you target is a brutal, vicious tyranny. These stories should call out for war in the name of saving people, because, you understand, you need to set the stage for a refugee crisis. You can’t do that if you demonise the entire population and demand they be exterminated.

Once those stories have taken hold, push them through reliable liberal puppets, especially celebrities with a large following. The average liberal has no such thing as a mind; all it wants is to feel good about itself, and to that end it will slavishly and mindlessly ape whatever its peer group says and does. If you can get that peer group to openly endorse and demand war, your job is half done.

Stage Two: Intensify the War.

Now your average war using modern weaponry is a fairly expensive thing, and one of its drawbacks is that it tends to send your own troops – poverty draftees though they may be – home in coffins or missing limbs. This is not good for public relations, and tends to cool off that selfsame liberal hankering for infliction of bloodshed you are trying your best to foster. Therefore, if the country you’re targeting is capable of shooting back at you, you’re far better off unleashing hordes of proxies – “rebels”, jihadis, Nazis, whatever fits the situation – on it. These vermin are expendable as far as you’re concerned, and, besides, they have one tremendous advantage. Unlike your troops, who may possibly be unenthusiastic about taking part in what is clearly a war of choice, these terrorists are often highly committed, and with the arms and training, money and diplomatic support you provide, can inflict massive and sustained damage.

Also, the liberals I talked about will embrace them as freedom fighters, while, if you send your troops off to some country they can’t find on a map on the other side of the planet, they may start having questions about your motives once the coffins start coming home.

Now look at all the other advantages of using, say, jihadi proxies. These are psychopaths you can readily recruit, manipulate, and send off to kill and die, which will, in the short term, reduce some of the dangers they might pose at home. A disaffected petty criminal or thug who in the normal course of events would be occupying a jail cell and eating food at taxpayers’ expense can instead be turned into a weapon and sent off to do your bidding, which he will in the belief that he’s actually obeying divine orders, and be far more effective at it.

Unless the target nation is truly incompetent, in which case your puppet “activists” should be enough to bring the government down in a stage managed “colour revolution”, it will react to the attacks by your proxies by cracking down, hard. This is the point at which you must double down on the media war. You must accuse the enemy of all kinds of atrocities, and arrange for your puppet jihadis to create appropriate atrocities to blame on them. The liberals will now not only support your arming and training these precious “freedom fighters”, they will go further and demand military intervention to “save the children”.


With more weapons and funds than ever before, your jihadis can then take the war into the civilian territory of cities. Unlike the classic guerrilla wars of the twentieth century, today’s guerrilla wars are fought largely in cities, and will continue to be so fought. Attacked from within the mazes of streets and warrens of residential buildings of the average modern city, the target government will have no option but to strike back, causing huge civilian casualties. This will kill two birds with one CIA-supplied bullet.


First, it will give you further propaganda ammunition for your media to use, and the demands for war “to save the children” coming from your brainwashed liberals will grow so shrill that – unless someone else, like say Russia, stops you – you will feel entitled and empowered to start said war. By this time the target nation will be fairly weakened, and you may be able to wage it without too many casualties, especially if you confine your activities to air strikes and (except for “advisers” and disguised special forces) allow your terrorists to do the fighting on the ground. Even if you do take casualties, you can pass them off as deaths and injuries suffered in the war against tyranny and despotism.

Secondly, it will create a tidal wave of refugees, who will swamp services in the territory the government still controls and spill over into neighbouring nations. These refugees, of course, are a resource, and we will now discuss how.

Stage Three: Using the Refugees.

In the course of this article, I have assumed, probably legitimately, that any country that intends to use this tactic will be a late-stage capitalist economy. Such an economy has some characteristic features.

First, the market is saturated. There are only so many cars, washing machines, television sets and other goodies each individual can own. The population is typically nearly static, and even if it is not actually falling, there is never quite enough demand to consume all that is manufactured.

As a consequence, competition becomes cut-throat. Richer, larger companies can afford to undercut smaller firms, which go out of business. But the end result is that the market is sliced up between a few competing enterprises, which are almost equally powerful. Unless they begin cooperating openly to fix prices, which in turn is likely to run afoul of monopoly laws, the result is smaller and smaller profit margins.

What do you do about this?

You take the step that leads to the third feature of a late-stage capitalist society. You try and maximise profit by any means possible. You fire your local workers and outsource all your production, if possible, to South East Asian sweatshops using de facto slave labour. But that also leaves you with a public relations problem (and in a late-stage capitalist economy, appearance and public relations are far more important than substance). So your other option is to replace your own workers with others.

Can you see one use of the refugees now?

First, they are desperate for work, and will do anything for a fraction of the pay you would be expected to give native workers.

Secondly, you can pose as a humanitarian benefactor, who is giving these poor people the chance nobody else is.

Third, not all the refugees are going to be semi-skilled car mechanics or masons. In fact, it is far more likely that the majority of them will be the educated middle class – doctors, teachers, media professionals. These can easily, with only a modicum of retraining or none at all, be integrated into your own hospitals and universities. They are people unused to hardship, who have left behind a lifetime of comfort, and will be desperate to work at something they know how to do, even at a fraction of their former salaries. And what do your own doctors, media professionals, and teachers do then?

Faced with competition from people who are willing to work at a tenth of what they themselves earn, what can they do but accept pay cuts themselves? What alternative do they have?

And, fourth, if your war keeps festering, these refugee camps serve as excellent recruitment pools of more angry, despairing young men to arm and train and send off to do your bidding for you.


So many birds killed with one more CIA-supplied bullet!

But, wait, I’m not through yet.

Stage Four: The Refugees’ Revenge.

It’s more than obvious to anyone who spends more than ten seconds thinking about it (that is, anyone who isn’t a liberal), that not all the refugees flooding your shores will be harmless civilians. A lot of them will, inevitably, be petty criminals, thugs, malcontents and sociopaths, who would be petty criminals, thugs, malcontents and sociopaths anywhere. They won’t stop being such only because you let them into your country. Soon enough, they will resume their criminal activities. At first these will be among their fellow refugees, but this can’t go far, because the other refugees will have nothing left to steal or extort. So, inevitably, these criminals will turn on their host societies...that is, on you.

And if your war goes sour, then what happens to those terrorists you armed and trained? Not all of them will be willing to give their lives in glorious last stands. A lot, if not a majority, will look for somewhere to run. One obvious place to run will be along with the refugee flood, where they have an extremely high chance of getting to safety by using the genuine refugees as camouflage. In a tide of fleeing humanity, where everyone is running for their lives, who will ever know who they are?

But, of course, just because they’ve been defeated and sent fleeing doesn’t mean they will necessarily accept their defeats and settle down. Far more likely, they will turn their anger on the same society around them (that is, on you, again).  The reasons are not difficult to understand.

Remember how you recruited them and indoctrinated them with religious fervour to give their lives for jihad? Well, to do that, you’d have had to convince them to hate every sign of female emancipation, personal freedom, and tolerance – the same features that are also hallmarks of your own society. You failed to get them to cram the women of the target country into niqabs and shut down nightclubs...and so, when they look around and see your nude beaches and your nightclubs, what do you think they’ll do?

Secondly, don’t think they’re just automatons. They’re human beings. They have the same resentments and urges to vengeance as the rest of us. You promised them a quick victory, and sent them off to get slaughtered. Now they’re back, having seen their friends get slaughtered, while you did nothing that could actually help them win. Do you think they’ll forgive and forget?

Thirdly, when you arranged for your proxy war, you couldn’t possibly have operated in a vacuum. You will have had to work in conjunction with someone; some outfit that provided an ideological framework and leadership for these people. This outfit might have many names – let us call it, here, al Jihada. You think al Jihada is your tool, to use when you want and discard when necessary.

What, precisely, makes you imagine al Jihada does not think of you in exactly the same way?

The high command of al Jihada is also as intelligent as you, and as amoral as you, and thinks of the average jihadi foot soldier in exactly the same way as you: a disposable pawn. However, its own image of the future is radically different from yours.

All you want is slave labour for your farms and your factories, and a captive market in the conquered and destroyed target country for your corporations to exploit. For al Jihada, that is a stepping stone, only. What does it want in the long term?

For an answer...just look around you.

Stage Five: The Backlash.

These, then, are the effects of the refugees on the host country:

First, rising unemployment among the natives as they are replaced with refugees. If they are not laid off they can expect a substantial fall in income.

Secondly, rising crime levels owing to the crooks among the refugees. Since these criminals are not known to the police and their modus operandi are unknown, they will at least at first enjoy a fair amount of success. And this success in turn will bring them into both conflict and cooperation with local gangs, which will in any case further increase the crime rate.

Thirdly, terrorist attacks from vengeful returned jihadis and from al Jihada sleeper cells among the refugees.

Quite naturally this will all lead to increased tensions among the locals, and will be exploited by right wing elements, who will cite demographic and cultural threats from the refugees, blaming them all for it. The refugees, and non-refugees of the same broad ethnicity, will come under increasing attack from right wing gangs and political parties, both verbally and physically.

Don’t panic! Never let a good crisis go to waste. This is only a further opportunity. All you have to do is use this to...

Stage Six: The Police State.

Citing the increased terrorist attacks (from both sides; you want to keep the liberals happy), you say the needs of security demands increased public and private surveillance. You put up CCTV cameras on every street corner, making sure they are able to fail mysteriously when you need to do something you don’t want on public record. You tap phone conversations, monitor emails, and in fact do everything to ensure no real threat rises against your rule and system, ever again.

Meanwhile, your war has ended in disaster, has it? Never mind. Public memory, aided by your slavish media, is so short as to be nonexistent.

Stage Seven: Pick a fresh target country. The new refugees will serve to undercut the old.


Rinse, lather, repeat.

You’re welcome.