Since the dawn of civilization, there have always been sides—each with different beliefs, but ultimately pursuing the same goal.
We've been forced to choose one, shape it to fit our way of life, at any cost. And anything that doesn't align with that idea is deemed a threat.
Sometimes it's called patriotism, other times superiority—or simply a way to ease guilt by pretending we're doing the right thing.
As technology progresses, so does the brilliance of deception. The cycle repeats.
We are doomed to repeat cycles.
If Jesus were to return, they'd probably crucify Him again.
INDOCTRINATION IS POWER
I grew up like any kid in my town—getting into mischief with friends and wandering where we shouldn't. And that was the problem.
When you're a child, you're unaware of many things. One of them is consequences.
I used to watch my parents behave oddly whenever they were around government authorities, and I would wonder:
"Why? Why fear the people who are supposed to protect us? If they serve the people, why be afraid if you're not doing anything wrong?"
Every day at school, we had to sing the national anthem when we arrived and again before we left. I wondered why we always started at 7 and left at 4—it felt oddly similar to my dad's work schedule.
In class, we were taught both religion and politics, along with the history of our country—all with a patriotic tone.
I didn't understand what politics had to do with a child, but what puzzled me more was this:
Why is there always punishment if you don't obey?
"Don't help others? Straight to hell."
"Want wealth for yourself and not share it? You're a traitor to the country."
How was I supposed to know if I was doing the right thing?
NATIONAL PRIDE
By the time I was twelve, I began to notice how political propaganda became more frequent. I could recognize it by the colors: we were the red ones; the blue ones were the bad guys.
They told us the blue side would eat us alive—that living among them meant constant abuse and human rights violations.
I remember my dad having friends over. They'd tell the usual "man jokes":
"Got a girlfriend yet?"
"How's sports going?"
"Why so quiet? Don't tell me you turned out weird?"
I didn't pay much attention.
What I liked most were their arguments. Sometimes they'd talk about how outsiders wish they could live in our country—how lucky we were to be born here.
Then came politics.
Apparently, the blue side had sanctioned us. But one of my dad's friends said:
"Threats are like blank bullets. Useless."
His name was Gustav. He seemed deeply loyal to our country.
My father debated with him about how our government imprisoned anyone who disagreed with its policies. Gustav simply replied:
"The government knows better than us. That's why they protect us."
But… protect us from what?
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS
One afternoon after school, I saw my dad walking out of my room with other men. Over time, I noticed they met after every government TV broadcast.
They were always kind to me—telling me I was a good kid and should keep behaving well.
One day, I found a piece of paper behind my room. At first, I thought it was trash… but it had a list of dates scribbled on it. A draft. Some crossed out, others rewritten—as if they couldn't decide which one to pick.
A DAY OFF?
One morning, on our way to school, my cousins and I took a different path. Along the way, we ran into a boy who seemed to know my cousin Thomas.
They shook hands, and something passed between them. A small bag.
No one paid much attention. We continued walking—
But I realized this wasn't our usual route.
Arthur, my other cousin, asked Thomas if I should even be there.
"Let him come," Thomas said. "He won't say anything."
"Just don't tell my uncle, alright?" Arthur told me.
I was curious about what was going to happen.
We arrived at a park—completely empty. It was 7 a.m. on a Wednesday. Everyone else was busy at that hour.
The stranger took a lighter from his pocket and handed it to Arthur. Thomas gave him a piece of paper, which Arthur rolled into a cigarette.
That's when I knew I wasn't supposed to be there.
I couldn't hide my nerves. If someone caught us skipping school…
They started smoking. After a few minutes, they were in a good mood.
The boy turned to me and said:
"I like you. You don't talk. That's a good sign."
I kept quiet mostly because my mother had taught me:
Silence keeps you safe.
Thomas began coughing.
The others laughed, calling him weak for not handling the smoke. But it kept getting worse. He couldn't breathe.
He collapsed.
Arthur and the other kid rushed to help him. I approached, terrified.
Foam dripped from his mouth.
He lay there, staring up at the sky—dead silent.
We all froze.
I thought he was dead.
Suddenly, he blurted out:
"For a second… I felt like I was flying."
Arthur punched him in the balls for scaring us.
As he got up, we noticed a man from the neighborhood talking to someone and pointing our way.
Before I could even process it, Arthur shouted:
"RUN!"
All I could think about was my mom—and everything she warned me never to do.
We ran.
The stranger and Arthur took the lead. I was falling behind.
Thomas grabbed my arm and dragged me along.
The man chasing us was a cop. Not alone—three of them.
The boy said:
"This way! I know a shortcut!"
We headed toward some old abandoned train cars. Crawled through a hole between the wagons. Huddled against the side in silence.
Thomas covered my mouth. We held our breath as the officers passed.
Then we heard them circle back.
They were going to search the wagons.
That day, I prayed harder than I ever had—not for fear of being caught, but because my dad would kill me.
The cops checked wagon after wagon.
Arthur, shaking, grabbed a plank—ready to strike if needed.
One officer opened our door… slowly.
A blue eye peeked in. Cold. Piercing.
Then he opened the door fully. His expression was terrifying.
Arthur didn't hesitate—smashed the plank into his face and knocked him out.
We bolted. But one cop grabbed my sweater—ripping it—and I fell.
Arthur and the boy ran.
Thomas turned back and helped me up. We ran toward the forest, dodging trees, trying to shake them off.
We couldn't lose them.
Branches whipped my face. Then, suddenly—a fence.
Nowhere to go. They were closing in.
They were wolves. We were prey.
Thomas and I looked at each other.
On the other side of the fence, a road led back to town.
Thomas looked at me and said:
"Don't break your leg."
He lifted me up and threw me over.
I landed hard but got up to help him. He shouted:
"RUN!"
He dashed in the opposite direction. The officers stopped.
Two chased Thomas. One climbed the fence after me.
I was frozen.
Then I ran.
Fast as I could. But I couldn't outrun an adult.
Trash bins lined the street—I hurled them behind me to slow him down. Zigzagging. Anything to get away.
I rounded a corner—my house was in sight.
Snot and tears covered my face.
I saw my mom cleaning the window. I screamed her name.
She didn't hear me.
The cop grabbed me just as she looked down.
She ran out, terrified.
The officer shouted that he had caught us doing drugs.
My mother was in shock.
He yanked my arm, demanding to know the others' names.
I said nothing.
He shook me. I cried. Then—
His partners shouted: they had caught the other boy.
They'd captured Thomas.
The officers came to our house, interrogated my mom—blaming her for allowing this.
She insisted we were on our way to school.
He slapped her.
She held her face and cried.
They didn't let us go. Not before beating me—and then Thomas—with their batons.
They warned us: next time, we'd be arrested.
Later, my mom looked at me—furious.
Thomas and I sat at the table.
She demanded an explanation.
I said nothing.
Thomas told her we wandered into the park.
She didn't believe us.
She looked at me and asked again.
I looked at Thomas… then at her.
I said I didn't know.
That we were walking and ended up at the swings.
Then we were running.
She didn't buy it. But without evidence, she had to let it go.
"What am I supposed to tell your father?" she muttered.
Then she told me to shower, and Thomas to clean up before going home.
As he left, he said:
"That's why I like you. You don't talk."
ADULTS ONLY
I showered.
Tried to rest…
I fell asleep and had nightmares—Arthur getting caught, cops with murderous faces, chasing me. I couldn't run fast enough. They caught me.
I woke up screaming—drenched in sweat.
My dad and his friends were in my room. Staring.
He asked:
"Why weren't you at school?"
I lied. Said they sent us back home.
Before he could reply, one of his friends joked:
"A day off, huh? Those were the days…"
My dad changed the subject and told me to leave the room.
I refused.
The same friend said:
"It's fine. He won't understand anyway."
My father hesitated, then agreed—warning me not to touch anything.
They spoke for two hours. Using code words—"wart," "posts," "pawns."
I thought it was a weird game.
They wrote everything down. If something changed, they tore the page out and threw it away.
Afterward, they cleaned everything—carefully. That's when I realized what that paper behind my room had meant.
RED NIGHT
Elections were coming. The air felt tense. More security, more military. Streets closed.
The only upside? No school.
But I had no idea what was coming.
That night, during the results, we were watching TV. My dad and his friends, my mom and I.
When the winner was announced, my father snapped.
"They cheated again! Idiots! They've doomed us all!"
My mom pulled me close. I didn't understand.
"What's going on? Why is dad so mad?"
She replied:
"Nothing, sweetheart. He's just upset because bad people cheat."
My father stormed into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of whiskey, poured a glass, and went upstairs.
Minutes later, we heard a crowd outside.
Someone knocked at the door.
"Don't open it! I'll go," my father shouted from upstairs.
When he came down, he wore a kind of armor.
A helmet. Protective glasses. A black scarf around his neck. A bulletproof vest beneath a long gray leather coat.
He opened the door.
The same men who used to meet in my room stood there.
They looked different—serious. Focused.
"Are you ready?" they asked.
My dad turned to look at us—me and my mom.
His eyes… it was like he knew it might be the last time we'd see him.
That kind of look that cuts through you.
That says everything without a word.
He turned back, covered his face with the scarf, nodded, and left.