Day 1 of Gilead: The Jedi Have Fallen
Will the rebellion survive Gilead?
"This is Master Obi-Wan Kenobi. I regret to report that both the Jedi and the Republic have fallen, with the dark shadow of the Empire rising to take their place. This message is a warning and a reminder for any surviving Jedi: Trust in the force."
The hollow voice echoed through the dim room, fading into silence like a ghost of a bygone era. I sat motionless, the words resonating deep within my core. My fingers lingered over my phone, its surface warm and worn from scrolling, almost a relic amidst the disarray of rebellion.
Outside, the sun blazed unforgivingly, casting stark shadows across the barren streets in the desert. It was day 1 of Gilead. Democracy hadn't perished in secret, cloaked under the veil of night; it had been extinguished boldly, brazenly, under the glare of that uncompromising sun. The shift was palpable, the air now heavy with a silence that screamed louder than any proclamation or riotous outcry could.
I watched as the horizon seemed to hold its breath, the world teetering on the precipice of this new and uncertain dawn. It was eery. There would be no triumphant fanfare to mark the occasion, no moment of reverence for the fallen. Just the inexorable march of time ushering us into an age where liberty was but a whisper, a fleeting dream dissolving in the light of day.
"Trust in the force," the words echoed again in my mind, a mantra against despair. And in that silence, surrounded by the remnants of what once was, I closed my eyes, reaching for that sliver of hope that stubbornly clung to existence within me.
For even as democracy breathed its last in the daylight, there remained a flicker, a spark that refused to be snuffed out—a spark that would kindle the fires of resistance.
Tears eventually came, a silent cascade that I made no effort to stifle. They traced wet trails down my cheeks, warm in their descent, yet leaving a chill as the air kissed the dampness on my skin. The sorrow needed no prompt; it was a response to an unspoken elegy for a world that had been flipped, end over end, until its skies were grounded and its earth suspended above.
I leaned against the cool glass of the window, forehead resting just above the spot where my breath fogged the transparency. My gaze fell upon the road outside, where jubilation reigned among those who supported the new regime. There they were, sprawled in the comfortable laps of luxury—5th wheel trailers with slide-outs extended like greedy fingers, million-dollar Class A rigs gleaming beneath the sun's approving eye.
Women and men adorned with their ridiculous red hats and flag apparel, too unbothered to pick up their dog shit in the sand. This new regime wouldn’t impact them much other than the imports and taxes. Their obnoxious chats we overhear at campfire time, disgusting as hell, linger in my head. The rhetoric about all Mexicans being rapists and “taking our jobs” seems massively hypocritical when they support an adjudicated rapist enough to put him into office.