Free Freedom Island by Andy Palmer

invasion or extremism, or the loss of prestige and influence. They wanted progress so desperately they bought the story without question, that change is good—but real progress takes time and they were impatient. This was the lesson the fascists had already learnt: People live for just seventy-five years and everyone wants to live to see their dreams—if you want that, young man, I suggest you aspire to modest things.’
              ‘Where did it go wrong?’
              ‘Ideals, like the romantic idea of a European Nation, or indeed communism or fascism, require everyone to take part, which requires oppression. It was an ideology of fantasy and distorted history, a new world order no less than fascism was: repackaged, resold sugar-coated as federalism with the power of the word and the soothing mystical clouds of passing time, rather than the might of the gun: Fascism had evolved. There were the honeymoon years of wishful enthusiasm, blue banners and meaningless slogans to paper over the cracks, reverse-engineering an identity for us, but the Union was increasingly forced to react to local nationalism, local self-interest and paranoia, regional corruption and divergence or deviation, contrary opinions or traditions. It was muddling its way on from crisis to crisis under the pretence of progress, harmonising this and that, shutting out opposition, centralising policy-making more and more toward an ‘ever closer union’—as going backwards could only ever lead to failure. The Union was hurtling towards a centralised extreme, the kid gloves were off, the fairness and diplomacy were replaced by warnings and threats—’
              The history lesson gave way to passion: ‘we have no control, we don’t know how the rules are made, we have no cultural identity. They’ve had us forgetting our past to make us all think the same! We, and our lives, moulded to some plan dreamt up in meeting rooms by invisible bureaucrats who understand nothing about us, whose interest in us only goes as far as their wall-map!’ His words were thick with pain: ‘We pursue dreams that are not ours, with emotions that are not ours. We convince ourselves that this is how we feel—the way they tell us to—and we crush our deeper emotions, our depression and our anger, our frustrations, our hopelessness, in order to live off the emotions that they feed us. This island is packed full of repressed emotions to the point of self-destruction!’
              We walked on into the park and past Canterbury Castle, now a play area for children. Society and Family had given them everything, knowing life is short, and in return the children were its eyes and ears: they reported on family members, passed on derogatory remarks or details of hushed meetings. It looked as if the proximity of the play area was making the old man nervous. I still couldn’t make out if the old guy was serious—was he connected to the Insurgents, or just a grumpy old man with too much to say?
              ‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Is anybody doing anything?’
              The old man bided his time until we sat down on a bench a little further on. Opening his newspaper he resumed talking, as though to himself. ‘A few. A few, like you, have appeared here and there, who felt sufficiently uneasy and had sufficient time and energy—and bravery, to question—to challenge—the system. I include myself, although time and energy are no longer on my side.’
              ‘Only a few?’
              ‘Most people simply overreact. They commit crimes, go insane or run off to live on a beach somewhere, drinking and drugging themselves to death. Or they wind up in damn Rehab or rotting in jail, or censored to the point that every word they speak is monitored. They are labelled nationalist or racist, deranged, unhinged . . . anything contrary to