Terrorists Need to Plan
by Cally Phillips
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: The dilemmas facing a twenty-first century terrorist.
_____________________________________________________________________
The thing about the twenty first century is that there are so many lifestyle choices. Don’t you think? I don’t want to be normal, ordinary, sucked in. Who does? I don’t want to be told what fashion is, how to be, what to do. I know I’m a product of my environment but I want to have an impact too. I grew up in the shadow of Protect and Survive. Now we live in the age of Preparing for Emergencies, and it feels like the same old story. But I want to be more than a cog in a wheel. A statistic. A nobody. I want to be somebody. I’m going to make a choice. Not a lifestyle choice, just a choice. I’m going to be a terrorist. And terrorists need to plan.
Like I said, we’re all products of our environment and I guess I’ve got some of the rebellious gene in me. DNA. Can’t do anything about it. You see, my mum hung out at Greenham Common. From day one. Before day one. Yes. I was a tofu eating, Peruvian hat wearing, crusty traveller kid. At least in the summer holidays. I dreamt of Lego and action men, but I was too politically aware to be allowed to play with such things. I was a child of the 70’s. For a couple of years I was known as Sunbeam, but thankfully that one wore thin, and my mum moved on from Greenham to more personal and spiritual challenges, which involved her trying to find her inner self, and consequently, leaving me alone. If it was neglect, I was grateful for it by that time. It meant I could drop the political correctness in favour of whatever musical fad was on that week, month, year.
I made myself a few promises when I stopped being Sunbeam and went back to being Karen. One was that I would eat meat whenever and where-ever I could. That tofu was a thing of the past. And that I’d never wear a hat or a jumper made from yak hair again. Do you know how scratchy indigenous peasant spun wool is against a delicate skin? I wash EVERYTHING in Fairy non-bio these days. Twice. Just because I can.
So I guess I’m a big disappointment to my mum. But you know what, she was quite a disappointment to me too. After all the feminist stuff she went off with a guy called Daniel. An American. I ask you. Lives in Florida. Florida Keys. What’s that all about?
It’s not that I’m being awkward, but as I reassess my position I realise that I’ve turned my back on everything I was brought up believing in. And since my mum was so damned politically aware, that’s left me as a card carrying member of the consumerist generation. And I hate it. I’m so angry. About everything. All the time. But I’m a forty year old woman – we’re not allowed to be angry. Gives you wrinkles, I expect, or damages your free radicals, or some such.
And I was reading this book. American Dream, Global Nightmare, and it got me thinking. That I had a choice. Beyond lifestyle choices. So. I decided. I’m going to be a terrorist. And terrorists need to plan.
It’s kind of ironic really, reluctant peace camp follower to terrorist. Not the usual journey. How do I do it? Well, it was from the book I discovered that terrorists need to plan. But the only planning I seem to know anything about these days is washing and ironing and shopping and how to keep the kids’ sports socks in pairs and how to stop thermo nuclear war from breaking out over the breakfast table, the dinner table, the family holiday… So I began thinking, on the school run, like you do, wondering if I could use my learned skills in order to achieve my goals. Because I’m results oriented. I don’t want to make a gesture, because the adjective most appropriate to the word gesture is futile. I want a result, because the adjective most appropriate to the word result is good. I want a good result. I want to make a difference. Or maybe I just want to BE different.
Is there something wrong with me that I dream of being a black widow? Can’t tell Charlie that of course – you can’t really say to your husband while he’s fixing the washing machine, again – I think I really have to become a black widow. I mean, he might start thinking that I’m about to kill him off. And it’s not him I’ve got the problem with. Not really. It’s all of it. Society at large, I guess you could call it. Or maybe it’s more my place in society at large. I don’t fit. I don’t think any of us really fit where we are now if we think about it. We all want to be somewhere different, something different, someone different. And you know everything is conspiring to make us all the same. Homogenous. Maclives. Now, the problem with planning is, you can get lost in it. And never actually DO anything. But if you do do something, you can do the wrong thing. Like Hamlet. And the planning is really the best bit. Think of Christmas. Christmas is nothing but planning – and disappointment.
The other thing I discovered from the book about terrorists is that they have to appear really normal. Like really normal people. For a long time. To keep their cover up. As a terrorist you only get one or maybe two moments of glory in your life and for the rest of it, you have to fit seamlessly into your environment. Can I do that? I mean, I thought being a terrorist would give me something to do, something different. But it actually means I can’t do anything. For example. I can’t go to the G8 protest march. Because people would see me there. Protesting. And then my cover would be blown. Anyway, I wouldn’t go to that march. How could I? I can’t do marches or protests or politically aware right-on stuff. I don’t want to become my mum. I don’t want my children to have to put up with the twenty first century equivalent of tofu and yak hair – even though they seem quite keen on the idea. Of being right on. Ending world poverty. Making capitalism history.
Maybe I just slipped through the net. I think we kids of the Seventies were an unfortunate generation. I think we never stood a chance. Everyone was so knackered after the Sixties that we grew up in the hangover. I don’t know. It was just a thought. Maybe terrorism isn’t anything more than a lifestyle choice now either? Maybe nothing is. All the planning in the world isn’t going to change the environment I’m a product of. Should I go back to college? Or just capitulate and buy a holiday in the Bahamas for us all. Or – maybe I should just let it happen. Do nothing. Just live my life. Be unobtrusive, normal, ordinary. And you know, if I do that, I could be a terrorist. You’ll never know the difference.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The dilemmas facing a twenty-first century terrorist.
_____________________________________________________________________
The thing about the twenty first century is that there are so many lifestyle choices. Don’t you think? I don’t want to be normal, ordinary, sucked in. Who does? I don’t want to be told what fashion is, how to be, what to do. I know I’m a product of my environment but I want to have an impact too. I grew up in the shadow of Protect and Survive. Now we live in the age of Preparing for Emergencies, and it feels like the same old story. But I want to be more than a cog in a wheel. A statistic. A nobody. I want to be somebody. I’m going to make a choice. Not a lifestyle choice, just a choice. I’m going to be a terrorist. And terrorists need to plan.
Like I said, we’re all products of our environment and I guess I’ve got some of the rebellious gene in me. DNA. Can’t do anything about it. You see, my mum hung out at Greenham Common. From day one. Before day one. Yes. I was a tofu eating, Peruvian hat wearing, crusty traveller kid. At least in the summer holidays. I dreamt of Lego and action men, but I was too politically aware to be allowed to play with such things. I was a child of the 70’s. For a couple of years I was known as Sunbeam, but thankfully that one wore thin, and my mum moved on from Greenham to more personal and spiritual challenges, which involved her trying to find her inner self, and consequently, leaving me alone. If it was neglect, I was grateful for it by that time. It meant I could drop the political correctness in favour of whatever musical fad was on that week, month, year.
I made myself a few promises when I stopped being Sunbeam and went back to being Karen. One was that I would eat meat whenever and where-ever I could. That tofu was a thing of the past. And that I’d never wear a hat or a jumper made from yak hair again. Do you know how scratchy indigenous peasant spun wool is against a delicate skin? I wash EVERYTHING in Fairy non-bio these days. Twice. Just because I can.
So I guess I’m a big disappointment to my mum. But you know what, she was quite a disappointment to me too. After all the feminist stuff she went off with a guy called Daniel. An American. I ask you. Lives in Florida. Florida Keys. What’s that all about?
It’s not that I’m being awkward, but as I reassess my position I realise that I’ve turned my back on everything I was brought up believing in. And since my mum was so damned politically aware, that’s left me as a card carrying member of the consumerist generation. And I hate it. I’m so angry. About everything. All the time. But I’m a forty year old woman – we’re not allowed to be angry. Gives you wrinkles, I expect, or damages your free radicals, or some such.
And I was reading this book. American Dream, Global Nightmare, and it got me thinking. That I had a choice. Beyond lifestyle choices. So. I decided. I’m going to be a terrorist. And terrorists need to plan.
It’s kind of ironic really, reluctant peace camp follower to terrorist. Not the usual journey. How do I do it? Well, it was from the book I discovered that terrorists need to plan. But the only planning I seem to know anything about these days is washing and ironing and shopping and how to keep the kids’ sports socks in pairs and how to stop thermo nuclear war from breaking out over the breakfast table, the dinner table, the family holiday… So I began thinking, on the school run, like you do, wondering if I could use my learned skills in order to achieve my goals. Because I’m results oriented. I don’t want to make a gesture, because the adjective most appropriate to the word gesture is futile. I want a result, because the adjective most appropriate to the word result is good. I want a good result. I want to make a difference. Or maybe I just want to BE different.
Is there something wrong with me that I dream of being a black widow? Can’t tell Charlie that of course – you can’t really say to your husband while he’s fixing the washing machine, again – I think I really have to become a black widow. I mean, he might start thinking that I’m about to kill him off. And it’s not him I’ve got the problem with. Not really. It’s all of it. Society at large, I guess you could call it. Or maybe it’s more my place in society at large. I don’t fit. I don’t think any of us really fit where we are now if we think about it. We all want to be somewhere different, something different, someone different. And you know everything is conspiring to make us all the same. Homogenous. Maclives. Now, the problem with planning is, you can get lost in it. And never actually DO anything. But if you do do something, you can do the wrong thing. Like Hamlet. And the planning is really the best bit. Think of Christmas. Christmas is nothing but planning – and disappointment.
The other thing I discovered from the book about terrorists is that they have to appear really normal. Like really normal people. For a long time. To keep their cover up. As a terrorist you only get one or maybe two moments of glory in your life and for the rest of it, you have to fit seamlessly into your environment. Can I do that? I mean, I thought being a terrorist would give me something to do, something different. But it actually means I can’t do anything. For example. I can’t go to the G8 protest march. Because people would see me there. Protesting. And then my cover would be blown. Anyway, I wouldn’t go to that march. How could I? I can’t do marches or protests or politically aware right-on stuff. I don’t want to become my mum. I don’t want my children to have to put up with the twenty first century equivalent of tofu and yak hair – even though they seem quite keen on the idea. Of being right on. Ending world poverty. Making capitalism history.
Maybe I just slipped through the net. I think we kids of the Seventies were an unfortunate generation. I think we never stood a chance. Everyone was so knackered after the Sixties that we grew up in the hangover. I don’t know. It was just a thought. Maybe terrorism isn’t anything more than a lifestyle choice now either? Maybe nothing is. All the planning in the world isn’t going to change the environment I’m a product of. Should I go back to college? Or just capitulate and buy a holiday in the Bahamas for us all. Or – maybe I should just let it happen. Do nothing. Just live my life. Be unobtrusive, normal, ordinary. And you know, if I do that, I could be a terrorist. You’ll never know the difference.
About the Author
Cally Phillips was born in England of Scottish
parentage. Now in Turriff, she has lived most of her life in various
parts of Scotland, urban and rural.
Cally works for Ayton Publishing as series editor and also promotes the work of “Scotland’s Forgotten Bestseller” S. R. Crockett through his online literary society, The Galloway Raiders www.gallowayraiders.co.uk
Cally works for Ayton Publishing as series editor and also promotes the work of “Scotland’s Forgotten Bestseller” S. R. Crockett through his online literary society, The Galloway Raiders www.gallowayraiders.co.uk