Atone

By R.J. Tennyson

“Five minutes, Madame President.”

“Thank you.”

Feriha Kartal has only been President for six months. She was unanimously elected Head of State by the members of both houses of parliament. Electing her was a show of bipartisanship that everyone hoped would begin to repair the damaged political and public policy landscapes of the first half of the century.

Today is the thirty-fourth anniversary of the republic and the thirty-fourth Republic Day.  Although Feriha will be the seventh President to address parliament, she will be the first woman.

Feriha stands in front of a long dress mirror and straightens her navy blue tailored jacket. Her hand shakes as she brushes lint from her sleeves. She’s made hundreds of speeches before, but none as important as today’s. What Feriha longs for is a nation that is once again united. A nation that will never forget the sins of its past, but has permission to atone and ensure that its recent history never repeats. A nation that can again be proud of itself.

For the decade before the republic was formed, and for another decade after, the government (regardless of whether it was controlled by the right or left) preyed on the fear of the masses to ensure those at the top of the privilege pyramid remained in power; both elected and assumed.

Manipulation of the media by those with power ensured that the middle-class’ suspicion of the working class soon grew into hatred. They are taking what is yours, the powerful screamed; and the media echoed. The middle-class were so well directed to look down, they forgot to look up.

The working-class loathed that they were being looked down on. They knew they weren’t taking what belonged to the middle-class, they had barely enough for themselves – so they begin to ask questions. They are taking what is yours, the powerful screamed again, this time even louder than before. Again everyone looked down, and this time it was only the most vulnerable that looked back. Those that had had everything taken away.

“Are you ready, Madam President?” asks the tall man standing in the door way.

“My entire life,” she replies, turning to face him. “But I think we can forgo the formalities, Tom. Let’s do this, Mr Prime Minister.”

“Okay, Feriha, let’s.”

As the two leaders walk side by side into the chamber, their arrival is announced. ‘Please rise for the President and Prime Minister of the Republic of Australia’. The room erupts into applause as they make their way to the stage. Feriha steps behind the lectern, Tom takes his seat to her left, and a hush falls over the chamber. The only sound is a soft sob coming from the public gallery.

“Today as a…” Feriha pauses, looks in the direction of the sobbing, then continues.

“Today as a nation, we say sorry to the persecuted. To those who turned to us for help, but were instead confined to gulags as political prisoners…”