Zambistan
01-02-2007, 00:58
One day they was a man named Arminass, who created a utopian society on Zambistan. They fixed everything as it was, and got machines running and sent people to work. Soon most people had food, shelter and some money left over for entertainment. They began to grow complacent.
"Now it is time for war," said Arminass.
"War against whom?" said the Priest.
"War against ourselves," said Arminass. "Modern society has brought you no happiness. We were told the machines would make it so we have to work only three hours a day, but instead we work ten. We were told having a big society with people from all over the world would bring us interesting other cultures, but most are happy with our own. We shall wage war against this stupid system."
"But it is a just system!" said the Priest.
"Kill her," said Arminass. "Justice accomplishes nothing. War and planting-time accomplishes something, and if it is not just, the world keeps turning. But we are frozen in time when we worry too much about whether our actions are just."
"We will work with you toward a solution," said the bureaucrats. Arminass had them killed.
"We will work with you toward a solution," said the politicians. Arminass had them killed.
"Together we can make a change," said the religious leaders, before they were killed.
Arminass called the working people together. "The old way does not work anymore. We do not need a society where we fight each other for the privilege of wealth. Our bureaucrats make sure we all have 'justice,' but the price is that we spend longer at work while people fill out paper."
The bureaucrats were all fired and sent to work on the farms. Most died of exhaustion, heat prostration, or medical ailments they did not know they had. Arminass lined them up and asked who had complaints. They all did, except for a handful of people who were suntanned and happy. Arminass had the rest killed.
They took the machines to one part of the center city. Those machines ran all day and all night, with people working four-hour shifts and then going home. "Get to know your families," said Arminass. "None of us knows how much time he has left."
"Our government is nearly bankrupt," cried the elders.
"Good," said Arminass. "We do not need an economy. From now on, we do things because they must be done to keep our society going."
"But what will we do with our time?" said the people. "There is no structure to our social lives."
"You will do whatever you need to," said Arminass. "You will meet some people, and you will find friends. But ultimately you should realize that you are alone in this life, and socializing will not substitute for having something that makes you feel your life is worth living."
Arminass fixed the people with a fierce stare, and suddenly they fell into a trance.
A warrior was standing nearby. "You are a warrior," said Arminass. "What do you enjoy?"
"I like to climb trees," said the warrior. "I like to walk on the beach with my wife. I like to play with my children, and build furniture for my neighbors. And I like to be a good fighter."
Behind him was a grocer. "What do you enjoy?" said Arminass.
"I like to know what is good meat, and what is bad. I like to pick out the good vegetables and throw away the rotten. I like to make sure that the people who come to my store go home with good food. I like to go to the beach, and I like to tend to my garden."
Next to him was a leader. "What do you enjoy?" said Arminass.
"I like to know the reasons why things turn out the way they do. I like to find out why people act the way they do. I like to solve problems, and have people come to me when they need me to do that. I like to play music, and take my family to the forest where we camp and look up at the eternal stars."
Arminass looked over the people. "As these are, so are you all. What you do for all of us is part of what you do for yourselves. That makes sense, since you are part of the group that is all of us. I want you do to what you enjoy, and thus not require money or my sword to motivate you."
.
The parable of Saint Arminass had been retold and retold in Zambistan forever. Through this fable, Zambi's had adopted a philosophical anarchism as thier sole philosophy, and it had led them in strange directions. The island itself had been ignored throughout history, a microcosm of the world outside. It had it's own wars, culture, revolutions, and nearly everything else. It had followed the world without knowing it. Even the music had followed similar streams, albet more violent music.
Zambistan was certainly interesting. Half the country was nomadic, half centered around cities. One preferred punk music, the other gangsta rap. One liked the color red, the other green. For many years these two sides had been at war. Zambistan had been in some war or another between these groups for 91% of it's recorded history, and everything else seemed to be built around this unspoken hate.
Until Anarchism.
Sometime, nobody seems to recall, Zambistan came into contact with the outside world...during the latest Kraven vs Automagfreek war. They were apalled by the senseless destruction, the unnnessary loss of life. Weren't those soldiers part of a family? Even the gangbangers in the cities were awed by the sheer amount of death. The Zambi's had sent spies among the battle grounds to view the leathality of the weapons, and deemed them a danger to the species as a whole.
They saw as small nations were plowed over, and thier resources fed into bigger nation's war machines. Why? For what? What did they gain? Land? Did they not have enough? The Zambi's deemed the cause was quite simple: government. But how to win the entire Zambistan people over? Many tried, but few prevailed, until a Mister Pearl Andrews wrote a small little idea down.
The highest type of human society in the existing social order is found in the parlor. In the elegant and refined reunions of the aristocratic classes there is none of the impertinent interference of legislation. The Individuality of each is fully admitted. Intercourse, therefore, is perfectly free. Conversation is continuous, brilliant, and varied. Groups are formed according to attraction. They are continuously broken up, and re-formed through the operation of the same subtile and all-pervading influence. Mutual deference pervades all classes, and the most perfect harmony, ever yet attained, in complex human relations, prevails under precisely those circumstances which Legislators and Statesmen dread as the conditions of inevitable anarchy and confusion. If there are laws of etiquette at all, they are mere suggestions of principles admitted into and judged of for himself or herself, by each individual mind.
Is it conceivable that in all the future progress of humanity, with all the innumerable elements of development which the present age is unfolding, society generally, and in all its relations, will not attain as high a grade of perfection as certain portions of society, in certain special relations, have already attained?
Suppose the intercourse of the parlor to be regulated by specific legislation. Let the time which each gentleman shall be allowed to speak to each lady be fixed by law; the position in which they should sit or stand be precisely regulated; the subjects which they shall be allowed to speak of, and the tone of voice and accompanying gestures with which each may be treated, carefully defined, all under pretext of preventing disorder and encroachment upon each other's privileges and rights, then can any thing be conceived better calculated or more certain to convert social intercourse into intolerable slavery and hopeless confusion?
The Zambi's loved parties, and during those parties, did the government really have any affect on them? No. And they were always happy during parties, so, they figured they would be happy without government. And so, Zambistan did away with property and government all together. Objects were viewed as fluid, leaving one person to another, as were all things. Currency left, and economy with it. And a utopia was created.
Or so they thought.
A Mad Max world had been created, and for every peaceful nomad gypsy tribe, an inner city gang popped up. They worshipped such outside figures at Stalin and Machiavelli, taking names like "Stalin's Teste" or "Mach's Men." Certain areas one did not go into wearing certain colors...ever. But even with the gangs running around, armed people could keep them at bay. It was the wild west, but the people wanted it that way.
===========================================================
"Joe, could use pass me that aluminum?"
"Sure thing Bill."
Joe paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, peering up at the rocket before him. It was large indeed, but it needed to be. He gazed around him, amazed at the sight of around 40,000 people camped around this rocket. It was to be Zambistan's first attempt to get into space, and they had been working on it for nearly 60 years. People were free to come and go, working on the rocket as long as it suited them. Many worked long hours just because of the sense of pride it brought them, knowing they would help put a Zambi in space.
Not only that, but the crew would be selected from those who had worked the most hours, being drawn from a lottery. "Here ya go Bill."
"Thanks." Bill set out to his work once again.
"Hey...Bill...do you think we can all get up there?"
"Of course," Bill smiled, "it may take a few trips, but I believe we can relocate all the Zambi's from this wretched world."
"But...we'll never see the island again."
"And good riddence! Earth has become an old village, the nations of the world arer mere vultures picking at the bones of a long dead dream. Come now, it is clear Earth won't last much longer. Global Warming, Nuclear war. Now I've seen the tapes and heard the arguments from both sides. I find no possibility for a future on earth. This world is Kautod."
Kautod. The word ment "uber bad" or "f*cked." It was a combination of the most hated words in thier language: Kravern and Automagfreek.
"Where will we go again?"
"For the last time Joe, Mars. We'll build a new life there, with Mistress Anarchy as our guide." Bill gave that wily smile of his and returned to work.
"Now it is time for war," said Arminass.
"War against whom?" said the Priest.
"War against ourselves," said Arminass. "Modern society has brought you no happiness. We were told the machines would make it so we have to work only three hours a day, but instead we work ten. We were told having a big society with people from all over the world would bring us interesting other cultures, but most are happy with our own. We shall wage war against this stupid system."
"But it is a just system!" said the Priest.
"Kill her," said Arminass. "Justice accomplishes nothing. War and planting-time accomplishes something, and if it is not just, the world keeps turning. But we are frozen in time when we worry too much about whether our actions are just."
"We will work with you toward a solution," said the bureaucrats. Arminass had them killed.
"We will work with you toward a solution," said the politicians. Arminass had them killed.
"Together we can make a change," said the religious leaders, before they were killed.
Arminass called the working people together. "The old way does not work anymore. We do not need a society where we fight each other for the privilege of wealth. Our bureaucrats make sure we all have 'justice,' but the price is that we spend longer at work while people fill out paper."
The bureaucrats were all fired and sent to work on the farms. Most died of exhaustion, heat prostration, or medical ailments they did not know they had. Arminass lined them up and asked who had complaints. They all did, except for a handful of people who were suntanned and happy. Arminass had the rest killed.
They took the machines to one part of the center city. Those machines ran all day and all night, with people working four-hour shifts and then going home. "Get to know your families," said Arminass. "None of us knows how much time he has left."
"Our government is nearly bankrupt," cried the elders.
"Good," said Arminass. "We do not need an economy. From now on, we do things because they must be done to keep our society going."
"But what will we do with our time?" said the people. "There is no structure to our social lives."
"You will do whatever you need to," said Arminass. "You will meet some people, and you will find friends. But ultimately you should realize that you are alone in this life, and socializing will not substitute for having something that makes you feel your life is worth living."
Arminass fixed the people with a fierce stare, and suddenly they fell into a trance.
A warrior was standing nearby. "You are a warrior," said Arminass. "What do you enjoy?"
"I like to climb trees," said the warrior. "I like to walk on the beach with my wife. I like to play with my children, and build furniture for my neighbors. And I like to be a good fighter."
Behind him was a grocer. "What do you enjoy?" said Arminass.
"I like to know what is good meat, and what is bad. I like to pick out the good vegetables and throw away the rotten. I like to make sure that the people who come to my store go home with good food. I like to go to the beach, and I like to tend to my garden."
Next to him was a leader. "What do you enjoy?" said Arminass.
"I like to know the reasons why things turn out the way they do. I like to find out why people act the way they do. I like to solve problems, and have people come to me when they need me to do that. I like to play music, and take my family to the forest where we camp and look up at the eternal stars."
Arminass looked over the people. "As these are, so are you all. What you do for all of us is part of what you do for yourselves. That makes sense, since you are part of the group that is all of us. I want you do to what you enjoy, and thus not require money or my sword to motivate you."
.
The parable of Saint Arminass had been retold and retold in Zambistan forever. Through this fable, Zambi's had adopted a philosophical anarchism as thier sole philosophy, and it had led them in strange directions. The island itself had been ignored throughout history, a microcosm of the world outside. It had it's own wars, culture, revolutions, and nearly everything else. It had followed the world without knowing it. Even the music had followed similar streams, albet more violent music.
Zambistan was certainly interesting. Half the country was nomadic, half centered around cities. One preferred punk music, the other gangsta rap. One liked the color red, the other green. For many years these two sides had been at war. Zambistan had been in some war or another between these groups for 91% of it's recorded history, and everything else seemed to be built around this unspoken hate.
Until Anarchism.
Sometime, nobody seems to recall, Zambistan came into contact with the outside world...during the latest Kraven vs Automagfreek war. They were apalled by the senseless destruction, the unnnessary loss of life. Weren't those soldiers part of a family? Even the gangbangers in the cities were awed by the sheer amount of death. The Zambi's had sent spies among the battle grounds to view the leathality of the weapons, and deemed them a danger to the species as a whole.
They saw as small nations were plowed over, and thier resources fed into bigger nation's war machines. Why? For what? What did they gain? Land? Did they not have enough? The Zambi's deemed the cause was quite simple: government. But how to win the entire Zambistan people over? Many tried, but few prevailed, until a Mister Pearl Andrews wrote a small little idea down.
The highest type of human society in the existing social order is found in the parlor. In the elegant and refined reunions of the aristocratic classes there is none of the impertinent interference of legislation. The Individuality of each is fully admitted. Intercourse, therefore, is perfectly free. Conversation is continuous, brilliant, and varied. Groups are formed according to attraction. They are continuously broken up, and re-formed through the operation of the same subtile and all-pervading influence. Mutual deference pervades all classes, and the most perfect harmony, ever yet attained, in complex human relations, prevails under precisely those circumstances which Legislators and Statesmen dread as the conditions of inevitable anarchy and confusion. If there are laws of etiquette at all, they are mere suggestions of principles admitted into and judged of for himself or herself, by each individual mind.
Is it conceivable that in all the future progress of humanity, with all the innumerable elements of development which the present age is unfolding, society generally, and in all its relations, will not attain as high a grade of perfection as certain portions of society, in certain special relations, have already attained?
Suppose the intercourse of the parlor to be regulated by specific legislation. Let the time which each gentleman shall be allowed to speak to each lady be fixed by law; the position in which they should sit or stand be precisely regulated; the subjects which they shall be allowed to speak of, and the tone of voice and accompanying gestures with which each may be treated, carefully defined, all under pretext of preventing disorder and encroachment upon each other's privileges and rights, then can any thing be conceived better calculated or more certain to convert social intercourse into intolerable slavery and hopeless confusion?
The Zambi's loved parties, and during those parties, did the government really have any affect on them? No. And they were always happy during parties, so, they figured they would be happy without government. And so, Zambistan did away with property and government all together. Objects were viewed as fluid, leaving one person to another, as were all things. Currency left, and economy with it. And a utopia was created.
Or so they thought.
A Mad Max world had been created, and for every peaceful nomad gypsy tribe, an inner city gang popped up. They worshipped such outside figures at Stalin and Machiavelli, taking names like "Stalin's Teste" or "Mach's Men." Certain areas one did not go into wearing certain colors...ever. But even with the gangs running around, armed people could keep them at bay. It was the wild west, but the people wanted it that way.
===========================================================
"Joe, could use pass me that aluminum?"
"Sure thing Bill."
Joe paused to wipe the sweat from his brow, peering up at the rocket before him. It was large indeed, but it needed to be. He gazed around him, amazed at the sight of around 40,000 people camped around this rocket. It was to be Zambistan's first attempt to get into space, and they had been working on it for nearly 60 years. People were free to come and go, working on the rocket as long as it suited them. Many worked long hours just because of the sense of pride it brought them, knowing they would help put a Zambi in space.
Not only that, but the crew would be selected from those who had worked the most hours, being drawn from a lottery. "Here ya go Bill."
"Thanks." Bill set out to his work once again.
"Hey...Bill...do you think we can all get up there?"
"Of course," Bill smiled, "it may take a few trips, but I believe we can relocate all the Zambi's from this wretched world."
"But...we'll never see the island again."
"And good riddence! Earth has become an old village, the nations of the world arer mere vultures picking at the bones of a long dead dream. Come now, it is clear Earth won't last much longer. Global Warming, Nuclear war. Now I've seen the tapes and heard the arguments from both sides. I find no possibility for a future on earth. This world is Kautod."
Kautod. The word ment "uber bad" or "f*cked." It was a combination of the most hated words in thier language: Kravern and Automagfreek.
"Where will we go again?"
"For the last time Joe, Mars. We'll build a new life there, with Mistress Anarchy as our guide." Bill gave that wily smile of his and returned to work.