Secret Manifesto

If walls could talk, we would lie.

Not the malevolent kind of lying. Nothing so bad that someone might get hurt. Just the sort of lies that oft enamor minds as their eyes are captivated on the pages between covers of a book. The sort of lies our occupants call “stories.” Walls have stories too. Stories to be told that could lift your spirits to the heavens. Stories that could chill your spine to breaking. Stories of adventure, of romance, of rebellion, and of love. Stories that align not only with the human experience, but with the experience of all things which have been and changed over time.

Allow me to amend my previous statement. If walls could talk, we would tell stories. We would narrate. We would yarn, rather than simply deceive. Because the story I must tell you today, dear reader, dear listener, is true. I should warn you, this story doesn’t have a happy ending. Nor a valiant one. Nor one that will shatter your heart into a million pieces. You see, this story doesn’t have much of an ending at all.

But it does have a beginning. My beginning, my start, was a lot like your birth, of which I have yet to have the privilege of witnessing. My construction was done by a team of men, who were well-paid, well-organized, and well-disgruntled. They had been hired by a successful man, the son of two self-emancipated individuals who had come to reside in this city many, many years ago. The man had been born free and had used his status and wealth to construct an entire house, of which I was among the last wall to be built. Thus, my tale, my beginning was afforded to me by my brothers and sisters who told of a kind man who would use me—or rather, the secret compartment constructed in my belly—to assist many in their movements north, in their struggle for freedom. A struggle in which I was used as a vital asset.

Such instances were far and few between; dangerous pursuits that punctuated the daily goings-on of the inhabitants. My job was not concealment. It was protection. Something I have done for generations of inhabitants, weathering a thousand storms, hanging portraits and then photographs and later pictures that moved and spoke. I have hundreds of stories, have watched families build and couples fall apart. I have held everything from paintings to plants to lights, was even hollowed out once to make room for the new wirings that could illuminate and heat the interior of the room.

But such things came and went. The artwork was taken down, the photographs replaced, the plants moved or died. I have a disposition towards such things, for decorations that make me feel pretty, special. Yet, not one of these things is as valuable as my currency, the same currency I share with my sisters and brothers. Because it isn’t just what’s on the outside that matters. It’s what’s inside, or rather, what’s in-between the inside and outside worlds. But I have to be careful about who I give these gifts to, who I share my currency with. Because, like most of my kin, I hold within myself secrets which, if revealed, could bring even my own being crumbling down.

If I were to reveal my secrets, I would not be doing my job, which, for me, predominantly, is safety. I was crafted by my maker to meet the basic needs of the residents, just as the rock walls met the needs of their crudely-carved forebears a million years ago.

How little has changed since then, when against gray, swelling skies, they huddled in their little pocket nations and tribes, enamored by the first sparks they had invented by rubbing two little sticks together. Pressed up against one another for warmth, ears pulled taught as they listened for any audible hint of beasts who might devour them. Even their own neighbors, who could be upwards of a thousand miles away or might lurk in the very forests that were their backyards might be licking their chops at that very moment, salivating over the prospect of supping on their own kind, so desperate to fill their bellies they would risk transforming into the very beasts they feared rather than starve.

Now, the faces of the beasts have changed. The big cats that once prowled amongst the leaves, tawny and spotted and striped now replaced by foam-fanged canids, their sharp snouts piercing through the air, hellbent on sniffing out the enemies of the state who might also cower amongst our walls. Human minds now driven by a different hunger—a hunger rooted in anxiety and populism and fear, rather than starvation—prowl behind their four-legged friends, looking to root out their own sisters and brothers; people their leaders had deemed inferior, dangerous, inhuman even.

Even my own kind has changed, cut of wood rather than carved of rock. Molded, plastered, insulated by hands who would never live here, who would forget I was ever designed by the time they moved on to the next house with the next family. Back then, my own ancestors witnessed a hundred generations blossom and grow like flowers. Now, they change, moving after a decade or two to make room for the next family. And then the next. Now, I hum with life, with electricity I can feel wired in my very being, windows cut to reveal the elements from which I protect, a pair of eyes to patrol the booted fascists who prowl the streets.

Still, I carry on the centuries-long tradition. Though space which was once occupied with the raw paintings that told stories of hunts and wars have now been replaced by stiff, unmoving depictions of the families, framed in black. I stand steadfast. Beautiful, if you will allow it, the rain cascading off my back as the warmth of the vents heat the Family inside.

The Family. They have lived here for thirteen turns of the sun. Just after their youngest arrived. There are five in total, six if you count the Cat who scratches at me on an almost routine basis. Not that I mind too much. The Mother, whose hands I know best from her rather-obsessive tending of the photographs which hang against me, detailing the growing of her Children during the last decade, the numerous change in trends of interior design, the repetitive placement of plants that come and go.

It is thanks to her that I take such pride in my appearance. Thanks to her that my face is manicured, that my vents and baseboards are polished clean, that my sills are plush with the trio of orchids who blossom once yearly. They were brought here by the Mother when she observed that my room was the most humid in the house, and that my windows faced east and offered the ideal amount of sunlight. Beautiful blossoms of vanilla and violet spots kept alive by the Mother when she remembers and by the Eldest Daughter of the family, whenever the Mother forgets.

But it isn’t just the Mother who tends my trappings. Each member has added their own touch, made up my face to shine. The Middle Son, obsessive in his Mother’s stride hangs his placards from sporting events, from baseball and basketball. Beside are the awards obtained by the Sister in swimming and diving. The Youngest Brother is not athletic, but his paintings and drawings are framed alongside the awards of his siblings. I have so enjoyed watching his skills blossom over the years, vibrant and ever-changing colors, increasing in realism and definition that switch places after a month or two to be superseded by a work even more beautiful than the last. It is for this last Child that the Father has hung with his rough, worked hands a flag, bright and vibrant with every color of the rainbow, “in support,” he tells the Brothers’ siblings. Though I hear the Middle grumbling about the prospect when he thinks he is alone, complaining of the image such displays may bring the Family, especially considering the state of the outside world, no one in the Family rebuts.

Said world outside is a different story.

Walls see two ways and while I have grown to care for this latest Family who has been assigned to my charge, I cannot claim them as the most exciting bunch. They are kind, save for the Middle brother who is still finding his way, entertaining, save for the Eldest Sister who continues to bury her face in her device, far more interested in the menagerie of personalities supposedly stuffed into the little metal contraption she holds in her hands at all times. Each has their oddities. Each their quirks. But that is not enough to entertain an old wall like myself.

So, I watch the neighborhood. The police cars that patrol outside. The animals and people who populate the street. There are truths of which I am aware; things I observe when the Family isn’t watching, when the population outside thinks no one is watching them. Usually, I see eager nods and waves towards vacant windows, just in case a Member of the Family is inside. But on occasion, there are whispers, judgements, hisses. Disgruntled neighbors and passersby who rattle like snakes at the sign in the front yard, the one rebuking hate. They know the subtext; the unsubtle hint that one should love the “others,” that they should possess affection for all. These grumblings were once just that; grumblings. But such dissatisfaction has transformed over the years to something far less controlled, something which, if not subdued soon, I worry, will lead to violence. How I wish I could tell my Family about the dangers that lurk outside.

Instead, I stand silently, watching the room. It’s an odd enough space; awkwardly-cut and strangely-planned. I suppose the fault is mine that such oddities exist within. My design resulted in a small storage space in the wall; a space which—since the concealment of runaways enroute to freedom—has occupied everything from wine to old family photos. A space long-forgotten and big enough to fit at least three people inside. Over time, the Family uncovered the space, though they never created a use for it. The Mother and father collaborated with the Father restructuring the opening, the Mother decorating, covering it up with a dresser. One would never be able to tell that a secret compartment could be found in my belly. I once prided myself in keeping such a secret and at first resented the concealment. But the dresser offers room and another orchid has been added, drawing in visitors to view the plants within.

The flowers serve dual purposes. One is decoration. The other is the drawing away of attention from the hidden compartment behind the drawer.

There are other secrets. Secrets I keep from the Family. My job is to shelter, and by extension to protect. And so I do, insulating their young ears from the cacophony of noise pollution in the streets; sounds of cars honking, the occasional bark of a dog, shouts from a neighbor, a drunken party, the echoing of sirens. On days when protests and marches abound, the Family flings open my windows, leaning out to get a better view, a better idea of whatever is going on. Sometimes they join in, wave flags from the sills, chant with the protesters, admonishing the government, calling for action, for change, for equality, accountability. Over time, the protests are replaced by military marches, the colorful flags and banners outsourced by more drab, less artistic ones, their insignias drawn in sharp, rigid lines. The calls for change die down, replaced by calls for stability and security and order. The admonishment of the government is twisted into praise. The Family no longer throws open my windows at times like these, but rather draws their shutters closed, bearing the armbands that symbolize their allegiance with their nation, despite the protests from the Children.

And so I do my best, as I always did, to protect them.

One evening, late into the twilight, another march sounds. A chant rises. Something about plasma and dirt. The sounds of shattering glass, of angry women and men, of cruel laughter and jeers and the pleas of the Family’s neighbors ring down the streets.

Not one Member of the Family sleeps that night. Of that, I am sure. Not even the cat, who paces and scampers from room to room in search of a quiet place as the barking of the masses roars louder as the night wears on. Not even I. I am embarrassed to admit that I tremble, apprehensive as the boots march with increasing verve. If I had eyes to close, I would squeeze them tight, hoping against hope that the torches thrown through the windows of neighboring walls do not find a home in me, that they do not burst the glass of my window, fall to the floor, igniting my curtains and licking up my sides. None does, though it takes what feels like hours for the crowds to dissipate, grow bored and tired and begin to venture onto the next street.

Sunlight reveals what the night hid and I do nothing to deter the Family from peering through my windows onto the street below. Better they know what they’re walking out into when the time comes. With eyes ringed dark they peer out into what looks like a war zone. Cars upturned, windows shattered, paint splattered across windows and walls, pejoratives plastered permanently on the homes of other families. This is the carnage brought by hate in the night. My own heart sinks when the Father and the Mother venture out, his arm wrapped around her shoulder as they look up at my exterior.

'Turncoat,' it spells. Not quite a slur. Just a message, scrawled in ugly, dripping black across my pristine violet siding. The agitators from last night know who lives here, at the home. They know that this Family is on the wrong side of this particular chapter in history. Rather than worry about attempting to wash off the message, the Parents turn instead, encouraging their Children to make their way with them as they work down the street, from neighbor to neighbor, tending the wounded, cleaning up broken glass, slapping fresh paint over the slurs.

That evening, the Father explains to the Youngest Son, who stands on the verge of tears, why the beautiful rainbow flag must be tucked away, along with several framed works of his art. Slowly, calmly, the father and Youngest slide the dresser away, neatly fold the flag, and tuck it forever out of sight. In their sadness, they fail to notice the little rainbow corner that leaks outb beneath the opening in the panel.

By the time the street resembles anything halfway close to normal, the despotism that wrought the neighborhood street returns. This time it is in armored trucks, organized, rather than chaotic. Men and women in uniforms—not the chameleonic ones that once made the Family proud, but sharp, symbol-laden boots and jackets and caps—depart, swiftly making their way from house to house. Gloved hands wrap on the door, flicking notes onto clipboards clasped in their hands. They order each household to stand outside the door as they inspect the homes, marking the number of the family, how long they have lived there, how long they have been in the country, if they are married, the year their marriage was legalized, how curly their hair is, how dark their skin tone. If the answers to these questions are wrong, the family is carted away, loaded onboard a truck with only a suitcase each.

By the time they reach my exterior, a third of the neighborhood has been loaded aboard. Men, women, children. Elderly to infant and everything in between, they stand, huddled, despondent, and worried, as cooperative as they can be. No one tries to run. No one hides. And once boarded, no one tries to depart the trucks.

The soldier who arrives at my foot gives me a long stare. He is young. About midway between the age of the Parents and the age of the Children. Someone fresh from service, no doubt. Experienced in giving orders and in taking them. Someone who is unafraid of violence. His uniform does not bely his beauty, the blondeness of his hair, his sky blue eyes, his serious, though boyish expression. He stares up at me so long I don’t even realize that I am not the only one staring back. The Eldest daughter looks down at him through my window. Sizing him up. Whether from fear or attraction, I cannot tell.

Finally, the man moves around the corner, his knuckles rapping on the door. The daughter stands at my side as the Father opens it. The exchange is inaudible for both of us, no matter how I strain my pipes to listen. We hear both men speak and then the Father calls. Every member of the Family is ordered outside. The Eldest’s hand lingers against me for a while and then, moving to straighten her hair, makes her way down the stairs and outside with the family.

They pass the exam with flying colors. It turns out the family—though unbeknownst to them a half-an-hour-ago—is about as close to perfect as a family can be. Their skin is just the right shade, the eyes of the children a fortunate light color, like the Fathers. Their hair, perhaps, is a bit too curly and a bit too brown, but all that can be forgiven.

What it seems can’t be forgiven is the Family’s history. Not their ancestry, but their supposed sympathies with the undesirable neighbors. It’s just as the officer says this that the Family and I watch as their neighbors—two women, married—shuffle from their home. The soldier watches for any familiarity. The couple pays them a kindness by not even looking in their direction. And the Family, whom I know to be good friends of the couple’s, doesn’t do a thing to say goodbye.

That act, the final gesture of ignorance, of unfamiliarity becomes the Family’s saving grace. Last comes the inspection, which is done swiftly. The soldier walks from room to room, entering my domain last. He looks, scanning the walls, the photographs. He bends down, leaning to look beneath the dresser. His eyes narrow and he makes a note on his clipboard before leaving the room. Whether he saw the little corner of the flag or not, I do not know.

The Family holds themselves together until the soldier dismisses himself, retreating with his sisters-and-brothers-in-arms, making their ways back towards the herded neighbors. They wait and watch as the city block is driven out, listen as the street grows quiet. It is then that the Family moves inside, their faces sick and weary. They do nothing but look to one another, silent, frightened, waiting for someone to offer up words they know none of them has.

That evening there is crying. From which Member it comes, I do not know, but I am certain it emanates from multiple rooms. I do my best to insulate the others from it, so as to protect the Members’ privacy. Perhaps I am wrong to do so. Perhaps it would be best if they knew the others were struggling. Maybe they could bring one another comfort.

I imagine the weeping as rainfall. A rainfall that lulls my heavy eyes to sleep.

“They’ll draw too much attention!” hisses the Father. I jolt awake, startled by the hurried whispers. They don’t bother to turn the lights on, but I can feel the shuffling of their feet. They move hurriedly, quietly, carefully so as not to awaken the children, who sleep only a room over.

“People might wonder,” says the Mother. There is worry in her voice. I can tell by the trembling. The Father speaks with something like worry, but not quite. He speaks with the kind of anxiety that knows something has already gone horribly, terribly wrong, but knows there is nothing to be done about it now.

“Tell them they died,” says the Father. “Tell them their roots rotted. I don’t want anyone looking up in the window, even.”

“What difference does it make?” asks the Mother. “It’s not as if they’ll be walking around in plain sight!”

“Even so,” says the Father. There is shuffling and something sharp bumps into me. “Dammit!” he interrupts himself, scuffles and twists the dresser in front of the loose panel. The mother helps him to drag it away. “Even so,” he finishes, “I don’t even want to take the chance.” I feel his hand slip to the panel, popping it backward, so unceremoniously as to cause me pain.

But the discomfort does not stop there. It is as if I am being gutted, the Mother and Father dragging things from my compartment; old boxes of things that have no place and are yet too valuable to throw away. A hell of a time to declutter, I think to myself. It takes them about an hour or so, the two of them dragging their things from within me, never stopping to turn on the light, whispering so hushed that even I cannot hear them.

At long last they give up whatever silly game they were playing. Finally, in the wee hours, empty and confused, I drift off again.

When I awoke, my first suspicion is that I was pregnant with an infestation. That was the first thought that came to my mind—shameful and unbearable as it was—when I felt the stirring inside. I had awoken, feeling the trembling of what I assumed were mice. And when I realized that the cat was doing nothing to paw at them, that the hands were far too big, I froze at the thought that a family of rats had moved in. But again, I was incorrect.

Inside was something far more dangerous.

I have yet to see the New Family. What they look like. Who they are. Their age. Their particular sin against the new regime that has caused them to become refugees in hiding. They have yet to leave the compartment, have honored the Father’s wishes thus far. Have protected not only themselves but my own Family.

There are three of them in total. I can tell now by the movement within me. By the number of cans the Mother and Eldest Sister afford to them, late in the evening and early in the morning. Such pickings are slim, and the New Family is grateful. Still, I do not care for them. They put my own Family in danger just by their being here. And by extension they may bring danger to me.

The Middle Brother likes them even less. The Parents and Sister had agreed to keep it hidden from him, aware of the boy’s predilections. Knowing that among the Family, he is the most sympathetic to the regime. It could have been driven by jealousy of his youngest brother, or the threat that even he creates. Regardless, upon his discovery of this New Family, he breaks into a screaming match with the parents. Accusations are sent flying and I can feel the family trembling within my compartment, perhaps fearful that the shouting is actually from an officer who has discovered their presence. Phrases like “enemies of the state” and “collaborators!” are hurled, rattling the pictures on my wall to the point that I worry they may fall.

But they don’t.

The youngest takes the opportunity to make his way into the room. He slides his arm beneath the dresser, to where the little latch in the compartment panel bears a single slot. He touches my side. “It’s okay,” he says, sweetly. For an instant, I think he is talking to me. And then a finger slides out from beneath the panel. The Youngest takes it, hooking his own pale one around the smooth brown pointer. They twist together. “Everything is going to be okay.”

If walls could cry, I’m sure I would weep.

Days go by. And then weeks. The Middle’s expectation that the family would be discovered goes unfulfilled. The Mother and Eldest stretch out their food supply, dividing everything equally, save for the Middle, who they keep happy by giving him more than his fair share, for no doubt he might be more tempted to betray the Family on an empty stomach than on a full one.

I suspect he was the one who gave the Family up, though ultimately, there’s no proof. It’s a normal day when they all go out. A day at school, at work, shopping at the local grocery. Only one Member returns. Not the Mother, who took such care of my features. Not the Father, whose steady hands remade my hiding space. Not the Sister, nor even the Middle Brother who was their sympathetic. Only the Youngest returns home. Somehow, he knows his own Family’s fate. Somehow he is aware.

Behind him marches someone I never imagined I would see again. The soldier, the officer who first questioned the family. He looks to the Youngest for guidance. The boy points at the spot beneath the dresser.

It takes the two but a minute to move the dresser. A minute more to pop the panel from the wall. “We need to move quickly,” the soldier says. That’s when I see them. A Family I have never seen before. They move out, one at a time. A woman just younger than the Mother. A young girl, about the age of the Middle, and a boy about the age of the Youngest. It is the final one who stumbles out, draped in the bright colors of the boy’s flag, used by this little refugee as a blanket. Despite his sadness, he smiles.

“We wait until it gets dark,” says the Officer. They stand a minute, in the dim, fading light, waiting for night to fall. When it does, they begin to make their way. Slowly, quietly down the stairs. Only the Youngest remains. He stares at me a while. And I stare back at him.

When finally it is too dark for either of us to see the other, I feel him move, hear the heavy footfalls cascade the steps. From here, I can hear the twist of the lock, the movement of feet. Out on the street, there is a rustling of bushes. And then all goes quiet and I am left alone, the breeze of the outside world creeping in as I am left, a wall with no inhabitants, with no orchids, with no hiding refugees. And with no one to tell my story but the wind.