Gregory: I’m humbled to have you here, Kindness.

Kindness: Hi, Gregory.

Gregory: How are you?

Kindness: I’m grateful for your species’ presence on this planet.

Gregory: I don’t think we would’ve made it this far without you. You and Love.

Kindness: Love can be expressed in many ways.

Gregory: Tell me about it.

Kindness: I’m a simple creation in that respect.

Gregory: Do you ever get mad?

Kindness: No. But I get disoriented.

Gregory: What do you mean?

Kindness: There are times when you raise my name on a flag as if I’m your panacea.

Gregory: I don’t understand.

Kindness: Would you like to hear the story of a man who tries to do the right thing all his life?

Gregory: Yes.

Kindness: This story is about a kind and loving man. Not an idiot or naive man. A well-educated and well-spoken man.

Gregory: Was he born a kind man?

Kindness: He becomes one soon after. An orphan from birth. No one raises him but himself. A self-taught Samaritan. He lives in an orphanage right across the street from the largest library in town. He becomes the most frequent borrower of books—every librarian’s favorite kid. He accumulates knowledge upon knowledge and graduates school with the highest honors. This pattern persists within the walls of the University of the Highest Intelligence, where he eventually graduates. He meets his wife there too.

Gregory: What was his choice of profession upon graduation?

Kindness: Are you in a hurry?

Gregory: No, why?

Kindness: Please let me tell this story in chronological order. I’m afraid of forgetting key events.

Gregory: I’m sorry.

Kindness: This story is also about his wife. The most truehearted friend anyone could ask for. She, on the other hand, does not need to go to a library to borrow a book. Her parents’ house has more books than three of his libraries combined. Needless to say, she is well-educated and well-spoken herself. A kind and loving woman—a perfect match.

Gregory: Mhm.

Kindness: His profession, you ask?

Gregory: Yes.

Kindness: He’s got a BA in one thing, an MS in another, and a PhD in a third.

Gregory: And her?

Kindness: The same. Upon completing years of studying within those walls, they move to another city to pursue careers in their professional fields. They rent a beautiful townhouse in the middle of a beautiful area—a few minutes from the city’s largest botanical garden. They have their first child at thirty and twenty-eight respectively. The second at thirty-three and thirty-one, and the third and final at thirty-seven and thirty-five. All girls. They adopt twin newborn boys at forty and thirty-eight.

Gregory: Were they happy?

Kindness: They raise their children according to the laws of a good-natured human. The world, in the meantime, moves at its own pace. At an undetermined time, humans begin to wonder if their interventions in the pace are also part of nature. Their wondering does not linger in wandering. “We are part of nature, hence we ought to steadily progress our world at a preordained pace,” they claim.

Gregory: Did the couple support this claim?

Kindness: They’re weighing it daily.

Gregory: Were they happy?

Kindness: They’re happy, but also aware of the world’s suffering outside their enclosure. This makes them unhappy. They have friends they kindly disagree with and friends they agree with. They do not accept unkind disagreements or governments that suppress those who kindly disagree.

Gregory: How did they cope with such fragmented happiness?

Kindness: They become writers after the birth of their second child. They write about me and love and pain and suffering. She writes novels—he writes articles. She sells millions of books and wins many prizes. He becomes one of the most celebrated journalists working for the most celebrated paper. They co-write a seminal bestseller: About Something. They influence many millions of people within and outside of the enclosure, create three local nonprofits, and support six overseas.

Gregory: This sounds too good to be true. And by the way, that book was on one of Dr. Ist’s bookshelves in his office. I was going to read it, but then forgot about it. It was years ago. I think I was in my early twenties.

Kindness: The boys are two years old when the greatest war erupts. She insists on traveling with him to the frontline trenches of the war to report back on the pain and suffering. He insists that their children need their mother to raise them. Not a grandmother, a grandfather, or other relatives. She concedes.

Gregory: How did the war erupt?

Kindness: Each side has its justification. Each justification has truth in it. Each truth is empirically supported by each government’s jurisdiction. Each government drafts the majority of its population to battle in the greatest war. Each person goes to war foregoing all they have but the truth. Me and love and pain and suffering in the trenches become one.

Gregory: Did he enlist as a soldier or as a reporter?

Kindness: He enlists as a reporter, but upon arrival, becomes a soldier. He quickly discovers that every soldier in the frontline trenches is a reporter. Most don’t survive to report back.

Gregory: Mhm.

Kindness: He fights shoulder to shoulder with a gardener, a sex worker, a welder, a gang member, a philosopher, an auto mechanic, a shoemaker, a theoretical physicist, an actress, a programmer, a businesswoman, and a fisherman.

Gregory: Did he learn how to use a weapon on the battlefield?

Kindness: Yes. In fact, in the thick of one of the battles, he takes over the machine gun upon the death of the machine gunner to save the surviving soldiers in this trench. He succeeds in saving the welder, the gang member, the actress, the fisherman, and two nurses. All no longer longing for their fallen pieces. The remains of the dead capitulate to the soil when they flee, despite his frantic efforts to gather their fragments to take back home along with his writings.

Gregory: Was his side losing the war or only this battle?

Kindness: They walk for days, leaving behind mountains and meadows—trenches upon trenches heaving with the dead. “I couldn’t have gathered them all anyway,” he mumbles to himself. The battle, or the war, you ask?

Gregory: Yes.

Kindness: All sides are homesick all the time. Those without a home hope to call the gained ground home any day. Those who retreat hope to call somewhere home someday.

Gregory: Hm.

Kindness: They finally reach the ocean, where they come across their side’s platoon. The platoon escorts them aboard the ship. The ship embarks on a journey to the nearest and safest shore, carrying the wounded and the captured, who are separated by a metal fence. The gaps in the fence enable former battleground soldiers to communicate hate. The discordance of their voices is repeatedly hushed by the ocean’s stentorious lullaby. The historians on each side of the fence are the most compelling communicators.

Gregory: May I ask you a possibly inappropriate question?

Kindness: Yes.

Gregory: When did this happen?

Kindness: I don’t keep track of time.

Gregory: Mhm.

Kindness: The voices slowly begin to subside when the polemicists can no longer bear the smell of their hunger. He waits until the voices can no longer be heard—only the waves—takes his notebook out from the inner pocket of his coat, and begins to make sense.

“I see pain and suffering in your eyes.

“I see love and kindness in your eyes.

“I see longing for home, missing your loved ones, missing your deceased friends.

“I see rage. I see the urge to protect all that is good. I see everyone’s small steps toward making this world a better place. I see bravery and righteousness.

“We write and read volumes upon volumes of books about vast waypoints along the course, but for some reason . . .”

He stops here and looks up. Almost everyone—on both sides of the fence—is all ears. But their eyes . . . He realizes that no one on this ship understands any less than what he understands. He feels like an idiot—a naive man. He closes his notebook, steps down from the wooden pedestal he climbed to deliver his speech, and lets the ship dissolve into the boisterous ocean. No one utters a word for the rest of the journey back to the shore.

Gregory: Kindness, please stop for a moment. I thought about many things we may discuss . . . I did not expect our conversation to take this turn. Why are you telling me this story?

Kindness: What were your expectations of this conversation?

Gregory: I don’t know. I did not have any particular expectations, but I thought we’d be talking about something more . . . uplifting, I guess.

Kindness: Fine. Tell me what you’d like to talk about.

Gregory: I just wanted to share my thoughts with you. I hope you don’t take this amiss. I’d like to hear more of this story.

Kindness: The ship reaches the shore. A helicopter takes off—it lands on the nearest airfield. A plane takes off. She drives several hours to bring him back home. The airport personnel recognize her and let her through the gates of the airfield. The plane lands—she catches up with it. He sees her. The plane parks. She parks behind it. The rear cargo door opens, illuminating her quivering body. Her vehicle’s headlights illuminate stacked-up wooden coffins and soldiers aimlessly walking past her. He walks out last.

Gregory: Were any of the soldiers he saved that day with him on this plane?

Kindness: No. They part ways in the port.

Gregory: Hm.

Kindness: She’s supporting the families of the troops left behind in every way she can since his departure. She also publishes one book while he’s gone. The first illustrated book with her drawings. It is about a variety of embraces for various occasions. The last few pages are dedicated to war. She spends countless sleepless nights contemplating the choreography and intensity of the first embrace she’ll give him when he returns—bearing in mind the wounds on his new body. That drawing appears on the last page of the book.

He walks toward her and stops at an arm’s distance. They stand on the runway, looking at each other trying to find what was never lost. Some time passes, she turns around, walks over to the vehicle, opens the driver-side door, and gets inside. He joins her after a long stare at the empty runway. She starts the engine and drives him back to where he left from. They don’t speak on the road. Their children run outside and stand in formation in anticipation of scampering around their parents as they arrive. She parks the car on the driveway, facing them, but leaves the engine running. He doesn’t look up. The oldest daughter stops herself and her siblings from running toward the vehicle. Their grandparents, from their mother’s side, are standing behind them. She looks at her mother, backs up, and drives away.

They drive in the opposite direction from the airport for hours. Still wordless. They arrive at their friends’ house in the middle of the woods and stay there for months—in silence. She takes care of him—bathing, cooking, clothing, unclothing, shaving, shopping, laundry, chewing, feeding, and putting to bed.

Gregory: Was he able to move around on his own?

Kindness: He returns with all his limbs attached to his body.

Gregory: I’m sorry for interrupting again. It seems that you’re leaving so many details out. I hope you don’t mind me asking questions.

Kindness: I don’t. Here is . . . I do remember one night clearly.

The night they arrive, she brushes his teeth for the first time. She’s very careful with her strokes. He’s always had sensitive gums. Upon finishing the brushing, she suddenly realizes a flaw in her plan. His mouth is full of foam requiring a voluntary rinse. Following a momentary contemplation, she bends him forward, toward the sink, opens the faucet, takes a mouthful of water, turns his head toward her, holding it with both hands, opens his mouth wide open, and gushes the water from her mouth into his—repeatedly turning his mouth over the sink to empty the leftover liquids. She then dries his face with her sleeve and takes him to bed.

Gregory: Hm.

Kindness: The sides are still fully engaged in a tug of war when, one evening, while shopping in the nearby town, she hears the news blaring unusual and disturbing events. Groups of unidentified militia are setting fire to libraries all over the world. All sides lack resources to stop them from committing these crimes. They release videos of each incident. The militia approaches a library at night when the doors are closed, megaphones their arrival for anyone remaining in the building to vacate the premises, and burns it down to ashes. Toward the end of each video, a speaker announces:

“I see pain and suffering in your eyes.

“I see love and kindness in your eyes.

“I see longing for home, missing your loved ones, missing your deceased friends.

“I see rage. I see the urge to protect all that is good. I see everyone’s small steps toward making this world a better place. I see bravery and righteousness.

“We write and read volumes upon volumes of books about vast waypoints along the course, but for some reason, we always end up on this ship.”

The bags fall out of her hands like missiles from a dive bomber. She’s paralyzed. The first day they arrive at the house, she washes his clothes and discovers his notebook in his coat’s inner pocket. She reads it from cover to cover that night and every night since—memorizing every word.

After a few shots of the library on fire, the speaker continues:

“Take responsibility for your actions by taking responsibility for your government’s actions in your hands.

“Warriors unite and fight against disinformation and control over information.

“Stop the warmongers before it is too late! Stop the warmongers before it is too late!

“We call the man who inspired us all to step out into the fading light and lead our movement. Guide us into a bright future!

“Here’s the sketch of our leader:

 

“If you recognize him, let him know about his expanding army in every corner of this world, marching toward all that is good.”

She flies out of the store, gets in the car, at last picks up her phone, and steps on the gas with all her residual strength. The first message is from her mother, whispering the expected: Their home is brimming with authorities asking about her son-in-law’s whereabouts. The second message is from their friends, groaning the unexpected: They had to tell the authorities her husband’s whereabouts. She abruptly pulls over short of making a left turn to the trackway leading to the house. An armada of black vehicles, accompanied by two helicopters, whisk by her. She pleads for permission to give up. We don’t grant it to her.

Gregory: We?

Kindness: Yes.

Gregory: Mhm.

Kindness: She floors the gas pedal, catches up with the convoy, armed with a flashlight, and looks for him through each vehicle’s tinted windows as she passes them by. But the light from the flashlight bounces back at her. She resorts to trumpeting her presence. They turn on the light in one of the vehicles. She sees him. He looks scared and clueless. She’s uncertain of the interpretation, but for some reason, this gives her hope. The authorities reach their building. She parks outside and waits and waits. Her phone rings. She picks up.

“You may come inside. Someone will escort you to where your husband is held. You can call your lawyer if you like.”

She walks into his cell to find him looking at her with the same look from when he was in the back seat of the vehicle. But now she’s certain of what it means: “Give up already!” She doesn’t grant his plea.

The warring sides cease fire and unite for this one instance to broadcast a video where his wife pleads with the militia to stop their activities. He appears at the end of the video silently staring at the camera. A speaker announces:

“Your leader is mute. He’s an invalid, incapable of lifting his fingers. We will grant you full impunity if you surrender in the next twenty-four hours. It’s over. Give up.”

The burnings intensify and metastasize to museums. There’s no end in sight. The sides decide to extend the ceasefire for an undetermined length of time and bring back the troops from the battlefields to stop the rogue militia from setting human knowledge and beauty on fire.

That’s all I remember, Gregory.

Gregory: Mhm, I understand. Do you remember your childhood?

Kindness: Yes.

Gregory: How was it?

Kindness: Rocky.

Gregory: What do you mostly do now?

Kindness: Now?

Gregory: I mean around our present time.

Kindness: Attend large-scale gatherings with those who give speeches.

Gregory: What type of gatherings?

Kindness: Where innovations are introduced. Or political.

Gregory: Any interesting observations you can share?

Kindness: Not really.

Gregory: Mhm. Kindness, thank you for being here!

Kindness: Thank you for inviting me.