The Death of Privacy

My father has told me the story of the hunt so many starry nights that I will never forget it. I will tell you as he told me:

“I was not allowed to go on the hunt. Only men who had fulfilled the rite were allowed to go. I stayed behind with the women and children. With the women and children I went about my daily tasks while listening to every sound, every sign that they might come back. With the women and children I waited — the whole day and the whole night. We had to wait until the next day for the men to come back. They arrived at the camp, sweat glistening on their bodies in the high midday sun. They arrived with bloody marks on their bodies, telling us that there had been a fight. The men came back, laughing, excited, full of stories of the fight. They told us how they had lured her away from her favourite hiding place. They told us how they had chased her to the Lake of Technical Advancement, how they nearly got her, but she had used the upcoming night to hide away. They told us how they had chased her through the Woods of Human Rights, the dark, impregnable woods we normally stay away from. They told us about the men who had been lost there, not to be seen again. Those who persevered followed her through the dark woods. All the way through the dark woods to the Gorge of Fascism. They told us about the great plan they had deviced, how they had cornered her. Triumphantly they opened the bag and pulled her head up by her hair. And we all knew that Privacy was dead.

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