It was the greatest social experiment the world had ever seen. It would change the way people related to each other, the way they treated each other, the way humanity would move forward. It would be televised Mondays to Wednesdays from 7.30 to 9.30pm Eastern Standard Time.
The experiment was essentially this: five thousand people would be selected at random from across the globe and legally compelled to relocate to a compound that had been constructed on a rig in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. With the aid of one hundred percent accurate live translation devices – the designers of the experiment rejected criticisms that translation was a nuanced art, preferring to describe it as an objective science – they would live together in an idealised society. All their basic needs would be more than taken care of, and any more elevated personal aspirations would be carefully nourished. Painters would be provided with personal studios, supplies and ongoing workshops. Athletes would have access to a large stadium, cutting edge equipment and expert trainers. Explorers would be led to unmapped areas of the compound and permitted to map them for the first time. And so it went.
The intent of the experiment was not to see whether these people would get along, nor to see whether they would excel at their chosen vocations. It was to see whether, when everyone was permitted to be their best self, they could love every other person alive, without resentment, jealousy or fear. It was to see whether love was innate to humanity, something that was drained from people from the moment they were born, something that could function as an absolute, rather than directionally. A matchmaking service would be run, intending to match every single configuration of individuals. The designers would see whether everyone could, in fact, feel love for everyone else.
But the experiment was a disaster.
The producers soon learned that humanity had no perfect state. People had tried to tell them this, but they had been ignored. The producers believed they had the innate ability to structure an environment to generate the desired outcomes. They believed that if they finally used these powers for good, the results could be astonishing.
This belief was shattered when the inhabitants of the compound began to rebel. It didn’t matter how wonderful their lives were, how personally fulfilled they might be. They knew it was a lie, a lie the producers felt would eventually become a truth, but never did. And because of this, they knew that whatever feelings they felt, whatever love or hate or achievement or failure they perceived, were also a lie.
So the painters sharpened their brushes, the athletes seized javelins and gripped heavy weights, the explorers readied their survival equipment, all others crafting weapons where they could, and each and every one of them attacked the producers and crew at the same moment. They used explosives to blow holes in the walls, chunks falling into the ocean, and levelled the equivalent of city blocks. They formed chased the small number of staff through back offices, forcing them to their aircraft, shouting and hollering at them as they flew into the sky, never to return.
Articles were written wondering how the experiment was ever approved, how it was ever funded. Multiple documentary miniseries explored the decisions made prior to the design and construction of the facility, and the fallout among senior executives. Some went on the record to claim that they knew it was a bad idea from the start, but they had been silenced. Writers and academics repeated that they were astounded an idea so reminiscent of famous dystopian cultural texts had been financed and given a slot on primetime television. The designer at the heart of the experiment retreated to a luxury hideaway, claiming that the sole intent of the production was purely to broaden the scope of love. No one, of course, faced consequences.
And the compound remains, still televised six hours a week, showing what may or may not come to pass.
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A Quick Recommendation
This very short story by Rachel Heng in Guernica, ‘Sand’, is told from the perspective of sand, a choice that somehow feels natural. Over a few paragraphs it manages to stretch time and explore cruelty, life, strength and hope.
We were cliffs once, clawed by eagles, pinned by roots of slanted trees. Lashed by wind, rain, and time — ever so slowly, we crumbled.
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