The Trial

 

I had a series of interviews with several different people in this organization. More interviews than I’d ever done in my life. Each one chipped away at my nerves. It was stressful. Repetitive. Clinical. But the title they dangled in front of me—General Manager—was too good to ignore. Too shiny to be real. I had my doubts. I felt the catch before it revealed itself.

But what else was there? All the other doors had slammed shut. So, I said yes. I packed my bag, boarded a five-hour flight to Sydney, and prepared for the jump to New Zealand.

Then They came for me.

It started with a phone call. Casual tone, but off. They asked me a few vague, seemingly harmless questions. Then one of them dropped it:

"Have you ever been rejected a visa by any country?"

A question loaded like a trap. Yes, I had. But I also knew the question wasn’t theirs. They wanted me to think the Americans were behind it. Classic misdirection. But I knew better. This entire performance—the interviews, the delays, the offer too good to be true—had been orchestrated for this moment.

They wanted me angry. They wanted an outburst. They wanted me to snap mid-flight so they could wrap it all up in neat, damning paperwork.

But they’d underestimated me.

I’m the god of emotional intelligence.

I smiled. I followed them calmly to the hall. No rage. No panic. Just clarity. And then, as I turned to face their gray, power-drunk faces, I dropped the only word that mattered:  “Fascists.”

The kind of word that hangs in the air like smoke after a shot. I didn’t shout it. I didn’t have to. The truth has its own volume.

Then, just as expected, the protocols of denial and obfuscation kicked in.

No one was responsible. No one knew anything. Everyone was just "doing their job."

In the end, the New Zealand authorities took the fall. Quietly. Formally. I wasn’t given any clear reason for being removed from the flight—just vague lines wrapped in polite indifference.

I wrote letters. I pressed. I dropped the F-bomb of political language again and demanded answers.

Eventually, they responded. A soft, almost apologetic whisper of bureaucracy: “We held information that prohibited you from travelling.”

That was it. No details. No context. Just that.

It was weeks after they had promised to explain everything. Weeks of silence dressed as process. And when they finally gave me that line, something in me snapped—not in anger, but in recognition.

It reminded me of a story from my childhood. One of those adult-world lessons dressed up as a joke, but that hits different when you grow up.

It felt like they were saying, “You’ll find out later.”

As if truth was a luxury. As if I hadn't already seen enough to know what game they were playing.

                                                         ****************************

My father only trusted his old Mercedes Benz to two kinds of people: Armenian and Jewish mechanics. He believed they had the right hands and the right hearts for such a machine.

He was particularly close to the Jewish one—an older man with a brilliant sense of humor and a sharper tongue. The kind of guy who didn’t just fix cars but delivered punchlines while doing it.

Knowing full well that my father was a devoted Muslim, he would call out to his son in front of him, saying:

“You drink, you gamble, you womanize, you lie and cheat…”

Then, just as the list got uncomfortable, he’d pause, fake some righteous anger, and with a thick accent bark:

“Just come out—tell me that you are a Muslim!”

Every time my father retold this story, he’d mimic the voice, the intonation, even the furrowed brow—like he was channeling the man himself. And every time, he’d laugh just a little before shaking his head and whispering something about how wisdom doesn’t always wear the same clothes.

After many years, I found myself returning to The Trial by Kafka—perhaps to remind myself how intelligent some of the childish games I once invented really were. One game in particular stands out. Its main character was a small plastic gorilla that belonged to my brother. He liked this game so much that he always handed over the poor gorilla gladly, eager to watch what would unfold. What began as a child’s game now feels like a rehearsal for the theater of injustice that plays out in the real world—where the innocent are punished, and those in power never have to explain why.

 

In the game, the gorilla was arrested by some very rough characters. I voiced every role. But it was the gorilla’s voice that caught my father’s attention— My father used to laugh, pointing out that the gorilla sounded like the Jewish mechanic friend he admired so much. Despite the gorilla’s tough, muscular appearance, it had an innocent, childlike voice, and it asked just one question over and over:

“What have I done?”

The responses were always delivered in deep, intimidating tones:

“YOU’LL FIND OUT LATER.”

That was the only answer the poor gorilla received—again and again, throughout the entire game.

Now, years later, I’m struck by the symbolic weight of it all. The Jewish accent of the gorilla. The innocence on trial. The Kafkaesque absurdity of asking questions in a system designed to never answer. And most haunting of all, the final scene—just one second before the gorilla is hanged:

“What have I done?”

The responses were always delivered in deep, intimidating tones:

“YOU’LL FIND OUT LATER.”

                                                         ********************************

Today, as I revisited the many chapters of my life—the rejections, the silence, the pain—I found myself returning to Kafka’s The Trial. Its haunting absurdity stirred something old in me. I suddenly remembered the little plastic gorilla from my childhood game. In the final scene, with his soft, innocent voice, he asked once more: “What have I done?”

This time, he received an answer.

“YOU’LL FIND OUT LATER.” said the rough men.

And then, they hanged him.

Disclaimer: The Refrences to the “state of Israel” are made in early days after terrorist organisation Hamas attacking Israel on October 7, 2023. After Crimes committed in Gaza and the attack on Iran, the author does not recognise Israel as a country but as a colonial settler apartheid regime that is created by colonial powers as concentration camp (Auschwitz II) run from British Cyprus military bases. From now the author refers to it as Concentration/Occupying Regime Ruling Palestinian Territories (CORRUPT)