And we try to make the process of forgetting, of unlearning, as easy as we can. It is why all dystopias seem so generic in their systems and appearance; there is the removal of the vehicles of information （the press, the television, the internet, books—even though I think we should have kept television, which can easily be made useful）， and an emphasis instead on the elemental—the things gathered or made by hand. Eventually, the two worlds, the primitive and the technological, are united in endeavors such as the Farm, which looks like an agrarian project but will be powered by the most sophisticated irrigation and climatic systems the state can afford. Eventually, you hope, the people working there will forget how that technology was once applied, and what it was once capable of doing, and how many ways we once depended on it, and what information it could provide.
I look at you, and what you’re doing over there, Peter, and I know we’re doomed. Of course I do. But what can I do now? Where can I go? Last week they changed my profession on all my state papers from “scientist” to “senior administrator.” “A promotion,” said the interior minister, “congratulations.” And while it is, it also isn’t. If I were still classified as a scientist, I’d in theory be able to attend foreign symposiums and conferences, not that the invitations have exactly been flooding in. But as a state administrator, there is no reason, no need, for me to ever leave here. I am a powerful man in a country I cannot leave, which by definition makes me a prisoner.
Which is why I’m sending you this. I don’t think I’ll ever be stripped of my possessions. But it’s valuable, and I suppose I think that if the day comes when Charlie and I are able to leave, we won’t be able to take our money or our things. We might not be able to take anything at all. So I’m asking you to keep this safe for us. Maybe someday I’ll be able to reclaim it from you, or have you sell it so we can use the money to settle elsewhere. I understand how na?ve this all sounds. But I also know that you, being kind, aren’t laughing at me. I know you’re worried for me. I wish I could tell you not to be. For now, I know you’ll protect this for me.
Love, Charles
My dear Peter, October 29, 2077
Sorry I’ve been so quiet, and, yes, I will send you regular updates, if only to say, “I’m here and alive.” You’re kind to want to hear them. And thank you for the new courier—much safer, I think, to have the person be from your side rather than ours, especially now.
Everyone is still astonished that you’re ceasing relations with us. I’m not saying this in an accusatory way, not that it would make a difference—but it just seemed like one of those threats that would never be realized. The bigger fear is not so much your lack of recognition, however, but that you might inspire other places to do the same.
Yet we also understand perfectly why it’s happened. When the Marriage Act was first discussed, six years ago, it had seemed not just impossible but silly. There had been that study from the University of Kandahar about how rising rates of unrest in three different countries were linked to the percentage of unmarried men over the age of twenty-five. The study failed to take into account other socially destabilizing effects, such as poverty, illiteracy, illness, and climatic disaster, and was eventually discredited.
But I guess it had had more of an effect on certain members of the Committee than I （and perhaps they） had realized, though when the proposal was revived and re-presented this past summer, it was framed differently: Marriage would be a way to encourage repopulation, and to do so within a state-supported institution. The proposal was coauthored by a deputy minister from Interior and another from Health, and was thorough and almost troublingly rational, as if the entire point of marriage was not an expression of devotion but an acquiescence to the needs of the society. Which it perhaps is. The deputy ministers explained the system of rewards and incentives for marriage, which could be used, they argued, as a way to ease the population into the concept of a comprehensive welfare state. There would be housing allowances, and what they’re calling “procreation incentives,” which essentially means that people would be rewarded, in either benefits or cash, for having children.
“I never thought I’d see the day when free Black people would be celebrated for making more free Black people,” said one of the justice ministers, dryly, and everyone stiffened.
“The society needs all people, of all kinds, to contribute to its rebuilding,” said the deputy interior minister.
“I guess desperate times call for desperate measures,” the justice minister responded, quietly, and there was a strained silence.
“Well, then,” said the deputy interior minister, finally, in a conclusive way.
There was another silence, this one unhappy as well, but also anticipatory, as if we were all actors in a play and at a particularly charged moment, one of us had forgotten his lines.
Finally, someone spoke. “Ah, what is the definition of marriage here?” he asked.
Everyone in the room either looked down at the table or up at the ceiling. The man who had asked the question was a deputy in the Pharmacology Ministry, newly arrived from the private sector. I knew little else about him except that he was white, and probably in his early fifties, and that both of his children and his husband had died in ’70.
“Well,” said the deputy interior minister, at last, and then she too fell silent, looking around the room almost beseechingly, as if someone might answer for her. But no one did. “We will of course honor all preexisting marital contracts,” she said, after a pause.
“But,” she continued, “the Marriage Act is meant to encourage procreation, and therefore”—again, a cast about the room for help; again, no takers—“the benefits will be given only to unions between biological males and biological females. This is not to say,” she added, quickly, before the pharmacology minister could speak, “that we are proposing any moral…penalty upon those who do not fit this definition, only that such couples will not be eligible for state incentives.”
People began shouting questions at once. Of the thirty-two people in that room, at least nine of us—including, I was fairly certain, one of the authors of the proposal, a rabbity little woman—would not be eligible for state benefits if this act passes. If there had been only two or three of us, I would be more worried—in such situations, people tend to vote against their own interests because they think it offers them greater personal protection. But in this case, there are too many of us for such a proposal to be realized, not to mention the fact that there are too many unanswerables: Would this mean that barren couples’ marriages would become ineligible for state benefits? What about same-sex parents who had biological children, or have means to have more? What would happen to widows and widowers, of whom there were now historic numbers? Were we actually, really talking about paying citizens for having children? What if they had children and the children died—would they keep their benefits? Was this effectively eliminating a fertile person’s right to choose to have children or not? What if the fertile person was physically or mentally unfit—would we still be encouraging them to have children? What about divorce? Wouldn’t this be encouraging women to stay in abusive marriages? Would a sterile person be allowed to marry a fertile person? What if a person had transitioned to another gender—would this legislation not leave them in an irresolvable legal gray area? From where was the money coming to support this plan, especially as two of our primary trading partners were expected to cease relations with us? If procreation is so essential to the country’s survival, would it not make more sense to pardon state traitors and encourage them to have children, even in a controlled environment? Why wouldn’t we just adopt some of the refugees’ children, now orphans, or import children from climatically ravaged countries, and thus divorce the idea of parenthood from biology? Were the authors really suggesting that we exploit a national and existential trauma, the disappearance of a generation of children, to advance a moralistic agenda? By the end of the session, both of the proposal’s authors seemed about to cry, and the meeting disbanded with everyone in a foul temper.