They say that we are part of this nation. They say that we
are its essence, we are its pride. That we are a democracy, and that everyone, everyone has a place here. They also say
that we are safe, that we are respected. That we are all equal.
Lies. Nothing but lies. Pathetic slips of information that
had us fooled. We thought that we were dull grey cocoons swaying gently against
a tree, one day to be elegant butterflies, splashes of colour creating our
individuality. Instead, we are doomed to forever sway and one day be cut down,
dead and lifeless.
Everything that I believed in came crashing down without any
warning whatsoever. My sense of security, my sense of place failed. Instead,
whilst my girlfriend was exclaiming about how lucky we were to be so protected,
I was constantly looking over my shoulder.
And finally, I realised that there was no point in lulling the people of
this country into a false sense of trust. I had to tell them the truth. I had
to prove to them that they didn’t belong – that no one really cared about them.
I had to sacrifice my life which had been much easier than I
originally anticipated – except for leaving my family behind. I guess when
you’re sick of living a lie and carrying it out unknowingly, you detach
yourself from it. I was anxious too – what if no one took me in during my big
escape? What if I was abandoned at the mercy of a power that had once promised
me a great life but soon would be pursuing me with possible intentions of
torture?
“These programs don’t make us more safe.” Newspapers have
quoted from me, and I can only look at myself from a distance, barely
recognizing the passion – the happiness inside the tired man who fought so
voraciously. “They hurt our economy, they hurt our country, they limit our
ability to speak and think and live and be creative.”[1] They jeer
at our false sense of adoration too. They mock us, and snigger at our blind
trust. They persecute the man who speaks the truth and encourages the
organisation who fed them lies.
My plane had been grounded frustratingly in my attempt to
seek asylum and so I was forced to stay somewhere that didn’t want me – Berlin , Germany Germany would be merciful enough to
give me a life here. I was forced to stay in the sepulcher-like embassy in Berlin whilst I waited
for the natives to make their decision. It took a long month. A month in which
I railed, and ranted and was hated and admired.
I thanked my lucky stars when they accepted my application, fervent in
my joy. The feeling was ephemeral, however. A pyrrhic victory.
So then, I tried to start a new life, uncertain of how long
I would be permitted to reside here, of how long my funds would last, if I
could even survive on my lonesome. They say that humans are incapable of being
solitary creatures but I had to put on a brave face so I attempted to smile and
make merry. My nation wanted an authorization for my extradition, but Germany ;
thankfully my most loyal ally at this stage – they refused.
The government still declines to be associated with me
otherwise, which is completely understandable because of their close alliance
with my own country; though if I were to be honest, it did sting. But the
people, the civilians, that belong here are so kind– oh, for a few scarce hours
at a time; I almost feel that I am someone who is valued again. I feel that I
can talk freely, and that I don’t have the pressure to hide away in fear of my
life. They love me, they adore me, and in an odd way, I sometimes feel that
they have come to care for me. But I can’t let it encapsulate me because it
won’t last forever and a short-term attachment is only setting me up for instability.
Getting a job was difficult too – whilst I was admired anonymously, knowing me
in reality was thought risky. I managed to struggle through that experience, of
constantly being rejected wherever I went – to have the people that I thought
understood, suddenly gossiping about me, pointing me out in the streets as the
new side-show freak. Even the weather is harsh, completely unlike the soothing
winters of my country. No, these winters are almost terrifying, the frigid air
whipping around at strong speeds until an individual is left staggering around
like a young child all over again.
An amusing thing that keeps me entertained are the hordes of
people from all over the globe making judgments about me, and my actions too.
Sometimes, they dishearten me, especially if they are sourced from my own
nation, but many times they make me rejoice because the words are getting
through – and people are seeing the truth! The rose coloured glasses have taken
on a different tint, and are quite on their way to
becoming translucent.
“What do you think – traitor or genius?”
“He gave up his life
for nothing – everyone spies on everyone – he just provided the pointless
evidence.”
“Perhaps he’s in
cahoots with Russia .
Rumours, rumours.”
“He’s opened our eyes.
Can you claim that you’ve done the same? I’m proud to call this man one of my
nation’s greatest people. Disagree with me if you will, but you now know so
much more.”
“This man is just
brilliant. A round of applause, anyone?”
“Gutless. Truthful.
Passionate. Could this be the future of the world? #humanityinfaithrestored”
I worry about my family the most, I think, because I don’t
know about their state. I don’t know how
they’re doing or how my girlfriend is doing and whether her family hates me or
respects my actions. I don’t know where I stand with anyone, considering that I
haven’t been able to get into contact with any of them and I gave them no
warning in my sudden departure. Not
through phone calls, or measly letters, or even emails. I don’t know, if every
day, they have to live in fear of their security, because they have seen our
cracked society for what it really is. Hopefully, the public attention keeps
them protected, because if anything happened to them… I don’t think I could
ever forgive myself for they are the only people, the only ones who love me for who I am. I can bear their hatred,
and I can bear their anger. What I can’t bear however is not knowing their
fate.
I’m called a whistleblower, but I prefer to name myself a
patriot. I’m neither a villain nor a hero – I am simply doing my duty. I’m
still a part of my country, regardless of whether my passport has been revoked
– a lack of material piece of paper is incapable of denying who I am. I yearn
for the day for when I’ll be able to call my country my home once again.
Word Count - 1200
[1] Snowden, Edward upon the receiving of Sam Adams’ Patriot Award,
October the 12th, 2013. <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z5Kc6Cp1HHw>
School assessment concerning the topic of belonging. I have a feeling that I will be ready to burn my english notes soon enough. (and I've still got a whole year to go)
Don't know if you still check this. x
