For more than three years, every day, I returned to work in the same area, that of my mother. I was twelve now. Despite my condition as a slave, those moments spent with her gave me the impression of tasting, in flashes, something rare… perhaps what one calls happiness. The guard who watched over our sector said nothing. He saw us talking, he knew… but he did not speak. It was like a tacit agreement.
One day, while I was working near her as usual, I was telling her about my day, the tasks, the punishments, the porridge. She stopped for a moment and said softly:
— Do you know the daughter of the one who is… let's say, our owner among the slaves?
— Mizellla, yes. Her father forbade me to approach her.
— And… do you intend to obey him?
— Of course. Otherwise, he will beat me again.
She remained silent. Then:
— And… what do you think of this Mizellla?
I looked at her for a moment, searching for my words.
— She's different. She's not like us. She's free.
— Would you like to be like her?
— I don't know. I don't know how free people live. I am a slave… and I have tasks.
My mother shook her head, sadly.
— Being a slave, Joron… is not a life.
— Oh really? Why?
She said nothing at first. Then she looked at me:
— Try talking to the other children. Those who live with you. You'll see… it might help you.
When evening came, after our usual porridge, everyone prepared to sleep in the pen. Me too. But that night… I didn't want to close my eyes. I don't know why, but I wanted to keep watch, not be alone.
I gently shook a boy lying near me. He sat up, looking at me with a somewhat lost expression.
— What do you want? he asked me.
— To talk. To get to know each other. We have lived together for more than twelve years without really talking…
He looked at me, surprised.
— Is it allowed?
— It's not forbidden… as far as I know.
He smiled shyly. And we talked. All night. We even laughed. It was incredible. Apart from my mother, I had never felt something so… simple, gentle, human.
The next day, I couldn't help but tell my mother everything, while we planted seeds. She listened with that tender look, that discreet smile. I think it made her feel good too, to see me like that.
The following evening, I went again to talk to my new friend. He told me about his day. We had no dreams, no plans. We only spoke of what we were allowed to do: search, obey, survive. And yet… it was good.
Then, something came back to my mind.
— You don't have a name, do you?
He looked at me with wide eyes:
— A name? What is it for?
— To identify us. To give us… a kind of existence.
— And you, do you have a name?
— Yes. I am Kai. And… also Joron.
His eyes lit up:
— Two names? Lucky! That means you have two lives!
I smiled. He made me want to give him that.
— Do you want a name too?
He nodded eagerly.
— Yes, go ahead! Give me a name!
I observed him for a moment. His smile, his marked skin, his bright eyes despite the fatigue. Then I said:
— How about Sami? It means "the one who listens." Because… you are the first to really listen to me.
He looked at me, moved, and whispered:
— Sami… I like it. I am Sami.
And that night, in our filthy pen, chained, exhausted… we had created something rare. A friendship. A spark.
Sami and I had become inseparable. Even at work, we were always together. He had asked to join the area where my mother worked, and the guards had accepted without a word. My mother had also grown fond of him. It was as if, slowly, despite our condition, something was brightening. I had the feeling… of loving life. For the first time.
Every evening, after the porridge, we still talked. Always. Like a ritual. An escape. That night, our small circle of two attracted the attention of others. Several came closer, curious. One of them asked us:
— Why do you always talk, every night, like that?
Sami smiled and replied simply:
— Because we are friends.
The boy frowned.
— What is… a friend?
I leaned slightly toward him, and said:
— It's someone who is there for you. Someone you feel good with. Someone you can talk to, laugh with… even if we live in pain.
Another, more withdrawn, added:
— But the guards did not allow us to have friends. Did they allow you?
Sami chuckled softly.
— They don't have to allow us. It's up to us to decide what we share between us.
A small silence. Then a timid voice:
— And… can we be your friends, too?
Sami gave me a knowing look, then nodded with a big smile:
— Of course! That will be even better, won't it Kai?
I smiled in turn, my heart a little tight with joy:
— Yes… Come on, we will give you all a name to start with!
It was the beginning of a little miracle.
We began to name those who had never had a name. One by one. Some already had a first name — passed on by a brother, a sister, or whispered by a forgotten mother. Those helped the others find one. There were more than eight hundred of us. And yet, it was fluid. Organized. Warm.
Something had changed. Deeply.
We no longer merely survived. We recognized each other. We named each other. We helped each other. When one of us fell under the blows of a guard, he was no longer alone. Others came, lifted him up, bore his weight. When one cried silently, another reached out a hand. Our work was still hard, but our hearts were less so.
And the guards… began to notice.
They watched us with a new eye. Suspicious. Worried. What they saw, they had never seen before. Solidarity. Unity. Strength.
Because when slaves become united… they cease to be simple docile bodies. They become a people.
And that… they did not like at all.
Our fragile union had not gone unnoticed. The guards had noticed it — and they did not like it. Quickly, they reported to the man who ruled everything: Mizellla's father.
Enraged, he abruptly rose from his seat, fists clenched.
— How did they manage to unite?! They are supposed to remain divided, isolated, suspicious of each other! If unity settles in, it can lead to troubles… resistance… revolts!
One of the guards, visibly uneasy, replied:
— Chief… We don't understand how it happened. It was sudden. We saw it form without warning.
The man glared at them.
— I don't want united slaves! Go, find a way to break them. Crush them. Divide them. They must never support each other like this again!
— Yes, chief! the guards cried out bowing before leaving the room.
But what Mizellla's father did not know was that his daughter… had heard everything.
Behind the large wooden door of the office, Mizellla — who was now 12 years old — listened, motionless, eyes wide, breath short. When she no longer heard a word, she burst into the room, furious.
— Dad! she shouted. You told me you had freed the slaves! You promised me they were well treated! Why do you want to prevent them from uniting? From loving each other?
Her father jumped, caught off guard.
— Mizellla... you… you heard everything?
— Yes, I heard everything! she answered angrily. Why did you lie to me? Why do you hurt them so much? What have they done to deserve this life? Why steal their freedom?
Her father sighed deeply. He approached, trying to keep a calm voice:
— Listen, my dear… The world works this way. There are those who rule, and those who obey. It's a natural law. A duality. The strong and the weak, the master and the slave. Without this balance, everything collapses.
He gently placed his hand on her head, with a false smile:
— You too are part of the dominant. You're my daughter. You can have everything. You don't have to worry about them.
But Mizellla stepped back, violently rejecting his hand.
— Dad… it's monstrous! You disgust me! I… I'm disgusted to be your daughter!
The man's expression changed. There was no more indulgence. Only rage. With a brutal gesture, he raised his hand… and slapped her.
Mizellla fell to the ground, one hand on her burning cheek. Tears welled up immediately.
— Dad… why?!
He froze, breathless, shocked by his own action.
— Mizellla… I… I don't know what came over me.
But the girl got up, eyes wet with tears, heart broken.
— You are a monster… I hate you! she screamed before running out of the room.
He remained there, frozen, arm still raised… alone. Strangely touched, but unable to understand what he had just lost.
After this act, Mizellla had taken refuge in her room. Lying on her bed, she cried silently, shoulders shaking with sobs. Her face was buried in her arms, as if to hide her despair from the whole world.
Her father entered quietly. He remained motionless for a moment in the doorway, observing his daughter with mute sadness. Then he sighed long and weary, and slowly approached.
He sat beside her and, with infinite gentleness, stroked her hair.
— Listen, my dear… I know you want to do good. That you want to understand, repair, free. But the world… this world is far crueler and far more complex than you can imagine.
Mizellla did not answer. Her tears still flowed, silent. Her father looked at his hands, then resumed, with a graver voice:
— I was like you, once. I believed in justice. I believed a sincere heart could change the course of things. I dreamed of a world where peoples could live together, free, equal. But that dream… it broke.
He paused, his gaze lost in the void.
— This world is built on twisted balances, on silent compromises, on invisible chains. Even the oppressed learn to cling to it. Even those we think to save can become executioners. You want to reach out to the weak… but sometimes, it is they who sink you, out of fear, ignorance, or simple survival instinct.
He placed his hand on Mizellla's shoulder.
— Hypocrisy, my daughter, is the language of the world. They smile at you in front, and stab you behind. Those who shout "freedom" one day will sell you the next for a bit of comfort. I tried to fight against it. I believed I could bear the weight of injustice… and that weight crushed me.
He lowered his head, overwhelmed by the memory.
— You think you can fix what is broken. But some things have been broken for too long. They are now part of the world. And you… you are still so young, so pure. I fear they will destroy what is beautiful in you. I prefer that you understand the truth now… rather than discover it too late, when nothing will remain of your heart.
A heavy silence fell in the room. Mizellla finally lifted her head a little, eyes red and full of doubts.
Mizellla gently raised her head, her eyes reddened by tears.
— So we must do nothing? We must just… resign ourselves? Close our eyes? Let injustice win without ever standing up against it?
Her father looked at her for a long time, without harshness. On the contrary, his eyes were full of tired sadness, of bitter experience.
— That is not what I say, he answered softly. I say you must be lucid. You must choose your battles. You will not be able to save everyone, Mizellla. And some don't even want to be saved. The world is unjust by nature, not by accident. It was not made for balance, but for controlled chaos.
— But… if we let this logic govern, nothing will remain. No hope, no soul.
He gave a small sad smile.
— The soul… is often what burns first when one tries to change the world. You can keep your fire, but learn to protect it. To channel it. Purity alone breaks. It must be tempered by lucidity… and sometimes, by pain.
Mizellla was silent for a moment. Her gaze was still full of tears, but a determination was beginning to emerge.
— I want to understand, Dad. But I don't want to give up. Not yet. Maybe I'm naive… but if no one believes that things can change, then nothing will ever change.
He looked at her for a long time, as if seeing a reflection of his own past in her.
— Then be stronger than I was, he whispered. But promise me one thing: never let your pain become your truth. That is how the purest become the cruelest.