Technology—what truly is technology?
Some reap its benefits, while others recoil from its presence. It is akin to fire: it illuminates and warms, yet it also burns and destroys.
We now inhabit an era where water is deemed less vital than technology.
To eat, to drink, to clothe oneself, to relieve basic needs—to live or even to die—there is no path but through the avenues of technology.
And thus, one of the prevailing proverbs of our time declares:
"Technology is the secret of life."
If you are a dweller of Earth—or any other planet—if you are from this time or any epoch yet to come, and you hear this message, then heed my call, for soon... very soon... I shall... perish.
Greetings.
Welcome.
Good morning—or good evening, or good noon—so that I may reach you at any hour of your day, my dear friends.
I am your new teacher, entrusted with your care in the coming period, and I shall impart to you lessons so profound that one day, you shall...
But before he could continue, a mocking voice cut through the air—Benjamin Benker, a student, spoke out:
"Aren’t you weary of that same tired introduction, sir?
For weeks now, you have repeated it daily, word for word, without omission or addition!
If you were training animals, you would treat them with more respect—you would not strip them of their sense and dignity!
No, sir, we feel—we feel keenly!
We possess dignity!
When shall we be executed, that we may at last be freed from this torment?"
The teacher (with sorrow):
"I am sorry, truly I am.
But you know well that my intentions are not cruel.
It is not by my will, but rather by the nature of our time, children.
Instead of blaming me, Benjamin—or any of you, Albert Reed or Keith Black—you should rather blame..."
He faltered, hesitated, then whispered to himself:
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"I shall no longer fear... It is but a death—nothing more."
Suddenly, he raised his voice with uncharacteristic courage:
"You should blame the state!
Blame this merciless government!
We live in the year 2255, and still, compassion is plucked from the human heart, one fiber at a time!"
A grim, bitter smile twisted his lips—like a volcano fissuring just before its world-ending eruption. His voice, laden with fury, continued:
"We, my dear ones, are outcasts of this era.
Do you know why?
I shall tell you.
It is because our knowledge is deemed insufficient.
Yes, in this world, the lowliest soul is a scientific prodigy.
And anyone lacking mastery of technology—or sufficient expertise in its use—is, as I told you before... an exile."
"We live in a time that sentences those ignorant of technology... to death.
You may cry, 'This is unjust! God has not created us equal in our abilities!'
And I would answer, 'You are right!'
Yet what remedy did the government offer?"
He paused, exhaling a long, heavy sigh:
"They rounded up all those who could not navigate the labyrinth of technology and cast them into a place they dared to call a 'school'—but it is no school.
It is a prison."
"There, the prisoners are taught hollow words, meaningless lessons, until the day arrives... the day of their execution."
"And not only the technologically illiterate were cast aside.
No, it extended to the black-skinned like you, and the physically impaired—like me.
Even we, your teachers, are but dead men walking."
"And now that you know the truth, I shall sit with you till the end of the lesson, explaining no more meaningless nonsense."
He roared:
"Do you understand, or must I repeat myself?"
The teacher sat down, his gaze heavy with pity—not solely for his students, but for himself.
Within his heart, he lamented:
"What crime did I commit to be born a dwarf?
And what crime did they commit to be born black?"
Tears streamed down his cheeks, not merely of sadness, but of a soul set aflame with helpless sorrow.
When his day's labor ended, he would go to meet some elderly companions—souls, like him, abandoned by a society obsessed with technological prowess.
He brought them food, for in this era, they lived like beggars, surviving only through the rare mercy of a passerby.
From the little stipend granted him by the state, he gave freely.
And so, day after day:
"Hello, welcome, good morning—or good evening, or good noon—so that I may reach you at any hour of your day, my dear friends.
I am your new teacher, entrusted with your care in the coming period..."
The next day:
"Hello, welcome, good morning—or good evening, or good noon..."
And the next, and the next...
Weeks slipped by, and nothing changed—except the approach of the teacher's execution.
The teacher clung to life, for deep within him, something cried out—something that yearned to serve humanity, to leave a mark upon a cruel world.
Night after night, he wept and prayed for deliverance.
But when the day of execution came, he rose and faced it.
He entered the execution chamber, and sat upon the chair that would carry him away—to a world free of such cruelty and oppression.
The guards placed a black hood over his face, granting him at least the small mercy of not seeing their sneering, gloating expressions.
The lever was pulled.
At that moment, a tremor ran through the hearts of a few present.
Screams pierced the stillness, as the currents of death surged through his body...
And then—the light went out.
To be continued...
