This piece has been written for the Orwell Youth Prize in the form of a play. The stage directions are inspired by Oscar Wilde, and the content has been inspired by a range of dystopian works, such as 1984, Fallout, and Fahrenheit 451. It explores the theme of truth by showing the tension between truth and lies; whilst flipping the convention in which people are rewarded for being truthful – into that of a punishment.
Act I, Scene I.
A disused platform of a London Underground station. The architecture is of that severe brutalism
peculiar to the century: tiled walls, once a shade of institutional grey, now slathered with lichen and
grime. A row of corroded metal benches lie against the wall – each perforated in a cheesegrateresque manner – intended to discourage the lowest form of proletariat; the homeless.
Above, a cheap, neon sign flickers intermittently. It holds the promise of a train that has not arrived in
years, and never will. At the far end of the platform, a surveillance camera remains mounted; yet
sparks and crackles faintly. It is the decorum of a machine unwilling to make a scene.
It is late evening. The station is officially closed, which in Old London merely meant that one was not
supposed to be here. Within New London, however, it was a site for secrecy; a dismal oasis beneath
the ebb and flow of foot traffic overhead. The air is so thick with a choking malaise, that it forms a
haze of sulfureous yellow fog
The overhead light trembles in uncertain intervals, casting a miserable, austere glow upon the scene.
[Enter EMRE, still in government-sanctioned uniform. The mining gear is coated with smudges of
coal. He is twenty, of a descent which was once labelled as ‘Turkish’, with skin of a deep bronze –
which the coal dust does not quite conceal. The darkness upon his face is not uniform; it gathers in
the bags beneath his eye sockets, and along the bridge of his aquiline nose. To the Overseer, he is
labour, manifested into flesh and bone. Within him, the impression of strength not yet broken, swells –
like heat beneath iron. His faith is merely ersatz. He produces a small notebook from his pocket, and
begins to write with his fingernail; wiping the coal upon the page.]
EMRE – It is a peculiar thing, to speak when no one has asked you to. It is strange, to be taught your
place before you are taught your name. We are instructed. Instructed in posture, in silence, and in
gratitude. We are taught that labour is virtue, that exhaustion is honour, that obedience is stability.
They give us uniforms so that we may recognise one another, and numbers so that they need not
recognise us at all.
The working man, they claim, is the foundation of the nation. These concrete pillars, however, are
praised only for their invisibility. We are labelled as essential, yet disposable, subhuman, and taboo.
So, we remain beneath. Beneath the city. Beneath the noise. Beneath… [Footsteps, and the chants of
the Praise Parades are audible, getting closer… EMRE catches himself, and pauses until they quieten
down.]
I learned very early that there are correct answers, and there are useful answers. In school, they would
ask us what we thought, and we would wait. Not to seem philosophical, but to remember what we had
been told to think. After a while, you no longer search for what is in front of you. You search for what
will be accepted. And acceptance, I have found, is a far more reliable currency than accuracy.
[EMRE steps towards the camera and angles his head up towards it. However, it is not in a way of
respect – this is made clear by the poisonous glare affixed upon his steeled visage, his eyes blazing
with a deep-rooted vendetta.]
There was a winter in which our sector exceeded its quota by eighteen percent. The announcement
was delivered with ceremony. We were reminded that diligence strengthens the nation. For a time, we
were visible.
A man recalculated the output. Fourteen tonnes had been rounded upward. He amended the report.
Then, an infraction was filed against him for ‘procedural disruption’.
He was reassigned to a deeper level. The tunnels collapsed a week later. Every incident report stated
that the collapse was ‘unforeseeable’. Yet, seismometers logged the tremors twice that morning.
The original quota remains framed in the administrative office. The amendment does not. The
following quarter, no one recalculated.
[The chants from the Praise Parade begin to thin – they are no longer rhythm and uniform. Instead,
replaced by shouts and riots. Loud, domineering, and echoing above… soon interrupted by the cracks
of pistols. Footsteps break into a run overhead. No longer marching. Running. EMRE pushes his back
against a grimy wall, unmoving, until the pandemonium passes. His eyes are shut tight; in a brace for
his life to be cut short at any moment.]
The first time I corrected someone, I was seven.
We were in the weekly Devotion, standing in rows beneath the Overseer’s portrait. The Priest read
from the Approved Narratives, her voice smooth and practiced. “There was no reduction in supplies
last winter,” she said.
[EMRE puts on a mock tone, a nasally voice, clearly to imitate the snobby, classist and
condescending voice that was particular with anyone above the proletariats.]
“Distribution remained complete. The Overseer provides without error.”
[EMRE attempts to make the statement comedic, but winces at the memory – and neutralises his voice
once more.]
I remembered my mother’s words from the night before, words that were supposed to be kept away
from prying ears, and mechanical microphones. Sector Four had received quarter-rations for six
weeks. They were being starved, as punishment for not meeting quota.
I shouted out; as children that age were expected to – almost encouraged. Like little, unknowing spies
for the government. I told them what my mother had said, about Sector Four.
The hall fell silent. The Priest’s eyes rested on me longer than necessary. “And where did you hear
this?” she asked.
I answered honestly. I said it had been at home.
The next evening, officials came to the door. They spoke politely, but my mother was taken to a
“corrective labour camp”. Eighteen months for statistical negligence. My father said nothing, and I
finished my food.
Those eighteen months came and went. Her name was stricken off records, her photographs burnt,
and her number reallocated to some newborn child, who was bound to receive a similar fate.
[EMRE begins to well up with tears, and he sits down upon the corroded benches. He rips the pages
uniformly, and purposefully. Within his disconcertment, he remains incredibly collected. Especially
for a proletariat. One by one, the sheets drift across the floor, like ashen leaves caught in a
tempestuous wind. EMRE lets the notebook fall to the grimy platform. The coal stained pages curl at
the edges; as though they are resisting their fate. There is a long, silent pause as he stands over them.
The only sound is that of the wind rushing and whistling through the desolate tunnels.]
EMRE – The truth is a dangerous thing. Not because it is heavy, or unwelcome, or difficult to hold. It
is dangerous because the Overseer will not allow it to exist. It is not fair, and it never will be.
[He begins to climb the stairs. Once he turns, the lights around him dim.. As he climbs, the light from
the station is exponentially replaced by a harsh, blinding white light from the street above. His
silhouette is all that is visible; strong and unbroken… before he is swallowed by the white glare, and
the stage is left in blackout.]