The Men's Camp

Chapter 1 Shula's Diary

I can't stay still because I am thrilled and terrified at the same time. My hands tremble so much that I drop a cup, and the crash as it hits the floor is like an explosion. Auntie tells me I need to calm down. She has been run off her feet all morning, and she doesn't have time for histrionics.

"You've got the nerves," she says. "It's normal. Go and lie on your bed."

I walk upstairs to my room and look at the dark, heavy wooden bed with its soft cotton quilt that someone spent hours making. It's peaceful. I hear only distant bird calls. I tug at the new clothes I put on earlier and glance across at the mirror to see how they fit. They are shapeless and loose, but I look passably pretty with long dark hair and blue eyes. My skin is clammy and sallow with apprehension, but my cheeks are flushed and bright. Instead of looking sick the contrast in my colouring makes me appear exhilarated.

I can't rest. As I pace across my room for the hundredth time, I wish I could tell someone how I feel but I can't. We've been taught from a young age the saying: silence is golden. Words and opinions are kept inside because otherwise it causes trouble. Being discreet is the right choice. But still, I need to focus on something to calm my racing mind. I need to direct my energy somewhere, but quietly, like screaming into a pillow. A very quiet scream. So I sit at my desk. I sit and I write these words. It feels strange, but once I start writing, I don't want to stop. It is like a rush of power. I'm going to write a journal.

I don't write this without apprehension and my fingers tremble as they hold the pen. Records are very, very frowned upon. Records are only to be kept by scientists and historians, not young ladies who are called to serve for the greater good. But I'm good at keeping secrets. I've had a lot of practice. If I write this down maybe someday, I can pass this information to another girl. It might help her to feel better about the things that happen in our society. For me and for the others, many things are unknown and confusing. I always ask auntie questions, but she avoids looking back at me. I hate it when she does that. It makes me feel invisible.

"You'll be fine."

I've heard that umpteen times. Eyes looking at the ceiling or out of a window. An emotionless voice from someone who's unable to comfort me. A phrase that doesn't quieten my worries.

But I shouldn't be too harsh with auntie. It's not her fault. She's only trying to help me accept what can't be changed and embrace my future because today is my official 'coming of age'. It's the day I have been declared mature. In our society we don't have birthdays but rather, the council of leaders make the decision to proclaim us ready. Today, I'll have new responsibilities placed on my shoulders. Sometimes, responsibility feels very heavy but it's the natural circle of life. The young horse, for example, doesn't want to spend a lifetime pulling a plough because it would rather play in the field. However, at some point in its life, it has to accept the place it has been given. In a similar way, I am no longer a child who can stay with auntie. I have to move forward and take my new position. Therefore, to mark this special day, I'll have my first visit to the men's camp. I've never been to the camp before and I've heard very little about what happens there, but I'm told it's necessary. My visit to the men's camp helps ensure the survival of the human race.

For many years, auntie has taught us the history of humankind. I've heard it so many times I can probably recite it from memory. In fact, the first memory that I have is of auntie and her teachings. I can see her, sitting at the large desk in the front of our school room, speaking in her monotonous voice. She shows us slides of awful devastation and unnatural violence. I don't want to see it, but I can't look away. Auntie speaks to all of us. Her words are powerful, and we sit in silence, hanging on every word she says.