conviction

[my thoughts and/or interpretation]

for the zine, my friend and i wrote an introductionary greeting and a disclaimer, which you can find [here].

Content Notes: systematic discrimination, state and police violence, murder, descriptions of injuries and corpses, depression, implied torture, sexual abuse, short mentions of drug abuse and eating disorders, dissociation, gore, death, self-harm, suicidality, fire

They've been in power for years now. United in fear, people voted for fascism, not seeing it is the source. Fear makes people irrational, meek and willfully ignorant, so they keep them afraid: Of the unknown, of people corrupting their oh so perfect (national) identity. First it was immigrants, and known political dissidents, then Muslims followed by all other non-christians. The list of imagined enemies is long these days. Now it's us. They don't need a reason to hate us, to want us gone, but they like to pretend. PR is better that way. So they have to make us into the criminals they already believe us to be.

Still, the first time I see a friend in the state-issued magazine is a shock. “No,” I whisper. Murderer the headline screamed. Arrested for the brutal slaughter of three people. The article goes into the blood dripping details of missing eyes, nearly severed limbs and sexual violations. ... was later found out to be a gender deviant and sexual pervert which no doubt led to this violent display of depravity. On the next page is a photo of the crime scene and I can barely make out where one person starts and another begins. Everything is soaked red, bones stick out of mangled flesh, skin is exposed and slashed into ribbons. A pile of broken bodies, nothing is censored, everything is on full display. I tear my eyes from them, reading on, just to recognize two of the names. Fellow queers, acquaintances of mine, friends of the person blamed for their death. He would never do this, there isn't a doubt in my mind. But it doesn't matter, his guilt is black-and-white on the paper. Execution… livestreaming this Sunday after mass… Tune in to see justice… What a fucking sham, this has nothing to do with justice. I could study the picture, look for signs of bullet wounds or taser marks, but I don't need to. This was state violence and my friend is just a sacrifice in their search for a new group of enemies.

The days until Sunday pass in a blur. Press conferences, where they lick their lips, reinforce their lies and can barely hide their glee. They announce their war on the queer community, even if they call us different names: animals, monsters, everything but human. Public outrage and feigned grief. Vigils end in the destruction of the last few queer establishments. Bloodlust is in the air and it all boils down to the execution. We want to watch it together - huddled in one of our rooms, curtains closed, volume low, eyes heavy with fear and grief. But still, we owe it to our friend to pay witness, to show respect and to hold this small private vigil. As heartbreaking as this is for us, it's nothing compared to what he must feel. So we show solidarity in the only way we can - we share the pain and we cry, silently.

It's starting one of us mutters and everyone turns to the screen. A man in a suit is announcing the crimes, his mouth twitches when he mentions sexual depravity. There is a cut, then photos appear and someone starts narrating the grisly details of the murders. I hear the person next to me sobbing, someone else jumps up and vomits in a trash can. The sound of dry heaves and the smell of stomach acid reaches the rest of us. No one complains or comments. I feel bile rising in my throat, but I’m too empty. It burns as I force it back down. Being miserable feels right. Another cut in the program. The camera is now trained on a priest standing in front of a stained window, showing the fall from heaven. He starts preaching about lust and sins of the flesh, damning our friend to burn in hell. Cut. A psychiatrist explaining the dangers of abnormal identities, desires and the way they lead to violence. Cut. A detransitioner describing how taking testosterone brought her to the brink of insanity, how she found her way back and embraced femininity. Cut. (Each word cuts me and my insides bleed.) I feel cold. Frozen, unable to do anything but sit and stare as the live sign pings on. The stream is blurry at first, then the camera focuses on a figure. His hands are chained to the ceiling, and he has to stand on his tiptoes. He's practically naked, stripped of anything but a pair of white shorts. His exposed skin is almost as pale but stained with red, purple and brown bruises. The camera zooms in on his face: bruised as well, swollen, eyes red from crying and unfocused. Then slowly moves downwards, lingering on his chest and his scars. I know they try to frame them as a sign of sickness, but all I see is their beauty. (A distant memory of his radiant smile when I visited him after the surgery. We were so happy then.)

The camera zooms out again, revealing six men in uniforms, with their backs to us viewers. It’s time. I feel a hand searching for mine and I hold it. I reach out as well, and we form a circle of hands and limbs. Lines between us blur, unknowingly we mirror our dead friends, it's unclear where one person starts and another begins. But we are broken in spirit instead. The men raise their weapons, a last moment of quiet. Then they shoot and one of us starts screaming (it might have been me, I don't know). Chains rattle, skin parts where the bullets meet soft flesh. They missed his head, and he screams out, writhing in pain. Blood spills from the openings in his torso, slowly at first, then gushing in the rhythm of his last desperate heartbeats. He goes limp, his life leaving him with each drop. I close the computer. We sit together, cry until our throats are sore and there are no more tears left - we’re bled dry. Then we say goodbye, hug for what may be the last time.

More violence, more arrests, more deaths. We stay apart and stop all communication, to make less obvious targets, to keep each other safe. Whenever they find a group of us, they kill all but one, blaming the survivor. We are the perfect victims. The perfect scapegoats. Some try to flee, most get caught. Executions, jail, work camps. The terror becomes background noise. Too constant and too big to process. I live my life on autopilot, go to work, try to blend into my surroundings. I thank a god I don't believe in for my privilege, for being able to pass, then feel guilty. At home I take pills until they knock me out. If I overdose, so be it. I almost wish I would. But every morning I wake up again. I hate the world, I hate this country, I hate myself. I stay alive, afraid, alone.

I'm almost relieved when they finally come to get me. They drag me from my desk at work, stuff me into the darkened back of their police car, no one tells me why, not even a lie, there is no need to pretend when it's just us. In some ways this honesty is freeing. I stay quiet all throughout the drive - it seems endless. When we finally arrive and they shove me from the car into the building, I catch a glimpse of trees. We must be far outside the city, no one will ever find me. No one will try. Inside, people talk at me, ask if I know where my friends are, if I know anything about an agenda, if I'm ashamed to live a lie. They shout slurs and accusations, call me a traitor and a monster. My muteness seems to make them even angrier but it's the only shield I have, so I don't say a word, barely make a sound when they slam my head on the table and toss me in a dark room (one of many). They barely give me food, but I'm used to that feeling, it's almost comforting. They send a doctor, but medical abuse is nothing new. They even send a priest which makes me laugh - rough and unused. I spit in his face and he hits me until I lose consciousness.

This goes on and on and on, every day is the same. I've always felt disconnected to my body, but in this darkness I master it. They can't break my mind so this is where I hide. I feel like a brain in a jar, falling from great heights. A pilot in a defective ship. Scared and weightless, a terrible end in sight, but unharmed for the moment. Someday I will shatter, but until then I'm flying somewhere they can't get me. At night the screams drifting from the other cells bring me back to earth and in moments of peace we exchange names and pronouns, whisper soft words of care and comfort. You're human. You're valid. You're beautiful. You don't deserve this. We're here with you. You matter to us. We won't forget you. One day they will burn for this. Some of us fall to diseases, to starvation, to violence, to medical experiments. Others get shipped off. For everyone who disappears, another joins the ranks. No cell stays empty for long. We are much_many more than they realize. Those of us who survive become hard. How could we not? They robbed us of our softness and turned our love for each other against us. But queer people have always existed and will always exist. Even if we don’t make it, if our generation goes extinct, there will be new ones.

Heavy steps echo in the hallway. Everyone of us knows the sound, knows him. He is part of the firing squad, a real believer and a monster through and through. He is not supposed to be here, but no one cares about what happens to us. They don’t even have cameras, we are that unimportant. There could be a fire and they wouldn't move a finger to help. He visits every Sunday. (Violence is his religion, our blood his communion.) First he kills one of us on live TV, then he comes here to take out his aggression (or is it a twisted kind of hunger?) on another one of us. That’s his ritual. A gun is not personal enough for him, he likes to get (too) close, to fight and conquer. To hear us scream and beg. I was always too unresponsive for him, so normally he goes to someone else. Today he choses my neighbor. I hear him unlock the door, muffled words. Silence, then shouting, the sounds of fighting, loud thumping… I start drifting away, I don't want to hear this.

My door opens. The surprising visual input draws my attention but I expect him to stand there, so I stay in my haze until she calls my name. I blink, trying to focus on the figure. I've never seen her before, only heard her voice at night, but I recognize her immediately. Her mouth is smeared with blood, her clothes are dirty and drenched in bodily fluids, her bare feet have shreds of skin and hair on them. She is the most stunning creature I’ve ever seen. I get up and stumble, not used to the sudden movement, but she catches me. Presses me against her chest in a tight embrace. I feel her voice vibrating against my skin. I bit him. And then I jumped on his head. She laughs - dread and adrenaline, panic and joy. The sensation makes me chuckle. We stay like this for a moment, reveling in the first friendly touch, the first good feeling either of us has felt in ages. Then she lets me go and holds up a keycard. Help me get the others.

One after another, we open cell doors, hold out our arms and help each other up. We connect names to faces and all of them are beautiful. It doesn't matter that some of us are missing limbs or eyes, are full of scars or have experimental augmentations. We are wonderfully human. Together we move, gain momentum. We are one mass of flesh and bones, merged into a flood of bodies and we roll over the soldiers trying to stop us. We have the element of surprise on our side, they are understaffed and we crush them like a wave. They can't shoot all of us, we bite and scratch and trample them down. We steal their clothes and their guns, loot the place, find more weapons and gasoline. When we bust through the doors, we barely slow down - we just light up the place behind us and keep running.