The Ministry of Time

by Kaliane Bradley

An underrated symptom of inherited trauma is how socially awkward it is to live with.

Ideas are frictional, factional entities which wilt when pinned to flowcharts. Ideas have to cause problems before they cause solutions.

This was one of my first lessons in how you make the future: moment by moment, you seal the doors of possibility behind you.

Loyalty and obedience are fostered by stories.

Oh, England, England! The thing you do best is tell a story about yourself.

When I first joined the Ministry and they’d pressed me through HR, a woman ran her finger down the column with my family history. “What was it like growing up with that?” she asked. She meant it all: Pol Pot Noodle jokes on first dates, my aunt’s crying jags, a stupa with no ashes, Gary Glitter, Agent Orange, we loved Angkor Wat, regime change, not knowing where the bodies were, Princess Diana, land mines, the passport in my mother’s drawer, my mother’s nightmares, fucking Chink, you don’t look it, dragon ladies, fucking Paki, Tuol Sleng was a school, Saloth Sar was a teacher, my grandfather’s medals, the firing squad, my uncle’s trembling hands, it’s on my bucket list, Brother Number One, I’ve got a thing for Latinas, the killing fields, The Killing Fields (1984), Angelina Jolie, Do you mean Cameroonian? Do you mean Vietnamese? Will you say your name again for me? I considered. “I don’t know,” I said. “What was it like growing up without it?”