A Quiet Spark
A hybrid imaginative/discursive composed by Antonio (Year 12 Advanced English)
Static and terror filled the air. High atop each of the city’s decaying walls, screens flared to life with a sharp and artificial buzz. I stood in the cramped living room of our apartment, while the grey walls peeled and the sour scent of mildew clung to every surface as the broadcast began. The speaker embedded above our doorway pulsed a chorus of low, mechanical tones. Across the room, my mother froze with a basket of laundry in her arms, even the dog slunk under the table. We all understood the repercussions for ignoring a broadcast. Onscreen, he appeared, under artificial lighting his face shone pale and waxy, his grey eyes unblinking. His voice soft, however, wielding a heavy command rolled through the apartment. His authority ran throughout the town through which he proclaimed “today we celebrate another year of progress. Another year of unity, of strength and loyalty”. The words flew through me, hollow and suffocating. I shifted uncomfortably, feeling the chip embedded within me buzz - a silent reminder that my compliance was being monitored. My heart thudded against my ribs.
Outside, I could see the street - columns of people standing stiffly at attention, faces pale and eyes downcast. Drones hovered over them like steel vultures, monitoring for the slightest twitch of disobedience. Throughout every fibre of my being rebellion stirred. Not a loud, shouting rebellion rather a small quiet question. What if this wasn’t the only way to live? What if control wasn’t the only way to survive. His speech blurred into the background. My eyes wandered to the dusty shelf where a single text stood, A History of Free peoples, hidden behind my broken photo frames. I paused clenching my fist and I fought the overpowering urge to glance at it. The dictator preached of sacrifice and duty, about threats that justified his tighter control, about gratitude we owed for safety. I had grown to understand fear intimately, however now it mingled with something else, a curiosity I could not even control. The curiosity etched a single question throughout me, plunging into my soul. What had freedom once been, what had it felt like?
As his voice ran through the room, my mind drifted through the present to the past and arrived at a dangerous territory, thinking. There were other ways to govern weren’t there? The thought plunged through my mind, discerning a hazy lesson from the now forbidden history, whispers of democracy, monarchy and even something called anarchy.
Dictatorship, like the one I now lived under was simple. One singular voice, one decision. No need for arguments and no delays. In times of chaos it appeared the most efficient, one person deciding for the ‘greater good’. But this comes at a cost. The cost of thought, the cost of dissent, the cost of being human. Under dictatorship, fear replaces speech. Silence is safer than the truth. People are not citizens, they are merely subjects, monitored, corrected, then forgotten. Our streets were clean, but at what cost? We whisper in our own homes. We bow our heads not out of respect but rather fear. Our individuality is punished. Progress only resides in metrics of obedience. Worst of all, the danger of dictatorship isn’t only the leaders' control but rather who people accept. Compliance doesn’t need weaponry eternally. Once fear is internalised people begin to police each other themselves.
Democracy on the other hand appeared messy. Debates both loud and unresolved, aired in public. Under this structure progress took time, and mistakes are a given. Yet within these flaws lay democracy’s (). It allowed for multiplicity, disagreements, adaptation and reforms. A citizen wasn’t just a crowd figure but rather a participant in the direction of their nation's world. They had the right to do what I did not, question, vote and dissent. Even in flawed democracies, the people had the right to challenge power rather than submission to it. And though many of these societies were flawed, they tried to balance power and voice. The adaptability of democracy once meant societies could evolve alongside their people. Laws were debated then written allowing leadings to be removed, not through coups but rather censuses. Power shifted through elections and dialogue rather than blood.
There were monarchies, kingdoms inherited through ‘royal bloodlines’. History brags of kings and questions who were benevolent, ruling with both wisdom and kindness. Others tyrants, no better than my own leader, cloaking oppression behind their crown and velvet robes. Even the theory of anarchy, a society without laws. Dangerous and chaotic possibly, however in its purest form it spoke of absolute freedom. No constant broadcasts, no surveillance, no forced loyalty and no chips throughout monitoring our thoughts. But could people truly govern themselves even in a state of martial law without destroying themselves?
I pondered what made a good leader. Power alone cannot define greatness. A great leader needed to value their people, seeing them not only as tools or threats but rather as individual human beings.
Perhaps, I wonder, leadership isn’t only about strength and power but rather a balance between listening and power, the quiet strength to share power when it would be much easier to hoard it. In the end, it wasn’t the system that determined freedom, rather it was the spirit of the people behind it and their willingness to care and share power rather than hoarding it.
The broadcast ends with a sharp, and distinct chime. The screen flickered and went dark. For an eternal moment no one moved, silence heavier than the speech itself plagued the city. Shaky breath and a quick flicker led my mother to bury herself in already completed work. I remained frozen, my mind continued to hum dangerous thoughts. Slowly and deliberately I crossed the room. My fingers trembled as they reached for the shelf moving the broken frames, I reached for the singular book. I pulled it aside, from the front it was illegible. With a glance towards the door, expecting it to swing open with enforcers, I opened the book to the first page. The scent of musty paper invaded my nose sharply interrogating it. The text however could not be read and the language had since changed. The symbols made no sense, but I had no need to understand them. The act of opening the book itself was a rebellion. Each word remained a planted seed, of something buried begging to be remembered. What would it truly mean to live, not under the shadow of obedience but rather in the light of our own choosing? Maybe freedom doesn’t begin with a battle, rather with a single question.
