My only crime was not hearing a song, yet I’ve been damned for all time.

Since I’m dealing with conspiracies here I won’t tell you my name only what I am: a prophet chosen to record the true history of the Australian Civil War. As I’m not one to idly accept the truths others feed me, it’s taken me the two years since it ended to gather the information I need.

If you’re Australian, I hope you’ll read these words and believe me, though I know you’ll be incapable. If you aren’t Australian, I hope you’ll be able to see reason and learn from our mistakes. And if you’re an angel, fuck you.

Allow me to explain.

The official histories state that the Australian Civil War spanned from the 17th of April 2006 until the 3rd of October 2016. It was sparked by an attack on George Street in Sydney that was soon linked to militant communist rebels. Yeah, communist rebels, like it was a proxy to the Cold War. The government’s brutal demands for retribution were poorly received and so we got a ten year ideology war. The war ultimately culminating in the vast majority of the civilian population hiding in official refugee camps under major cities.

Then on October 3rd 2016, the Prime Minister put out an emergency broadcast containing a speech so emotionally powerful it led to both sides simultaneously surrendering. Even though he was the one who started it in the first place?

Sure, that’s believable.

Though our glorious leader’s speech was apparently so life changing it ended communism forever, if you ask anyone about the specifics of it they’ll stare until their eyes glaze over. Then they start humming.

They all hum the same song.

More about the communists: nobody will confess to having been one, yet there is strong evidence to suggest there were over a hundred re-education camps containing them, segregated adult from child. Everybody released from these re-education centres wore a purple ribbon on their right wrist. But, isn’t the communist colour red? So why purple? And my state (Tasmania, don’t laugh) was entirely evacuated so it could host the worst of the prisoners of war with no concern for civilian casualties. Yet, when Tasmania was opened again, all anybody found were children, their guards, and mass graves. It appears the most threatening of communists had their children shipped to the island state famed as an especially horrific penal colony. Seems extreme even for a neo-liberal government, doesn’t it?

The lines connecting these dots are flimsy. They’re an optical illusion; if you can stare long enough without humming that fucking song, you’ll realise they’re not really there. I think it’s obvious. They weren’t communists. They were magical creatures called dainisa. And everybody was magically manipulated into forgetting the existence of dainisa, thus the real reason for the war.

I’m not crazy.

On the 3rd of October 2016, I was a moody seventeen-year-old tired of hearing about the war. In the months I spent hiding under Sydney, I’d long since decided nobody was worth my time because they kept talking like dainisa would destroy us all any moment. Like they hadn’t already had plenty of opportunities to do so if they really could. It was tedious, tiresome terrorism. Thus, when my hearing aid batteries finally ran out, I pretended they hadn’t.

Even without hearing aids, I can hear a bit. Not really enough to understand what’s being said to me, it’s like white noise. I can read lips, but that’s nowhere near as foolproof as hearing people pretend. It’s more like a guideline to what my hearing aids telling me. There weren’t many people to sign with, so nobody my dad would try getting me to socialise with. It was, essentially, Isolation Lite: all the silence, none of the solitude. Bliss.

But on the 3rd of October 2016, around midday, everybody ditched everything and went to the TV. I was dragged along too, not knowing what was going on, and not willing to lose my isolation to find out. I quickly realised it was some important government announcement — nobody crowded children around a news report like that. Mum kept gripping my shoulder tightly, staring transfixed at the static on the screen. Around me, a few people prayed.

Then he appeared. The olive-skinned boy, around my own age, whose hair was incredibly long, black and cut to cover half his face in jagged layers, like the most tragic of anime-fashion victims. Despite the hair, he was pretty, in a pointy bird kinda way. His lips moved slowly at first, barely at all, then with enormous energy and anger before he settled into singing. Or, well, I could only assume it was singing.

It was a very confusing broadcast. For the first time in months, I’d regretted lying about my hearing aid batteries. I wanted to know what he was doing. Most of all, I wanted to know why after the TV went back to static, everybody was calm.

Turned out the new calm meant people didn’t want to kill dainisa anymore, so I didn’t say anything. Later on, back in Hobart, I asked a couple of people I knew were much further along the hearing impaired spectrum than me that the TV report was about. They told me it was the Prime Minister, and wasn’t the speech beautiful?

So it wasn’t just that I didn’t hear it, I concluded. It was something else.

I didn’t find out what until two months later, when we were settling back in our old home in Hobart. Since I’m an only child, I’d always had a large portion of the house (basically the entire second floor) to myself. My parents didn’t disturb me much, and sometimes when they tried, I pretended not to hear. That hadn’t been working since the war ended, though: Mum had realised my hearing aid batteries were flat and told me off as best she could before replacing them, then too well after. Maybe that was the moment that made them realise their oversight.

It was the 15th of December. I’d had to do a high school equivalency test in the morning. When I returned to my room that afternoon, two strangers were already there. They were humanoid enough, one tall, probably mid-twenties, with dark skin and hair, the other super Anglo pale, tiny, late teens and blonde, both they were clearly of another world. Maybe it was the large, feathery wings that tipped me off. His were a calming sky-blue, hers as radiantly white as fresh printer paper.

“If you shout, I’ll make you regret it,” the Anglo one said. She sounded like an otherworldly British baby trying to talk tough.

“You’re too lacking in grace,” the black one sighed. He turned to me and started speaking with his hands. “My name is Raphael. Her name is Carmen. We are angels of the Lord.”

In the Auslan sign for the Lord, you keep your thumb out, gesture towards your heart with your index finger then arch it across your torso until you’re pointing skyward. It makes it abundantly clear that you’re talking to a Christian nutcase faster than the spoken English. The moment he signed it, I took a step back towards the door.

“I know dainisa are real,” I said, orally, so I could keep a hand on the doorknob at all times. “You don’t need to pretend.”

“No, we wouldn’t want to pretend, would we,” Carmen said. Her enormous eyes were red, not like blood, but like some ancient terracotta relic. It was far more intimidating. “After all, your pretending has led you to a very dire situation.”

She never took her eyes off me, not even to blink.

“You did a quite good job at pretending. Why, we didn’t even notice, did we, Raphael,” she continued. She didn’t wait for Raphael to answer. “But there is no hiding your sins from the Lord.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said. “And if you expect me to believe God is real…”

She smiled. Even her teeth were small and unnaturally white. “You’re right. You didn’t do anything. But that does not absolve you of responsibility, nor sin. Right, Raphael?”

“Usually quite the contrary.”

“Drop the angel act, dainisa,” I said. “I know there isn’t a God, and I know that if there was, the people who’d be right would not be Christians.”

“The afterlife is more complicated than mortals have interpreted it,” Carmen said. “Nonetheless, we’re angels. Christian angels. Angels and dainisa are profoundly different.” She stretched out her wings. “How dare you presume to know anything of dainisa, human?”

“Years of propaganda?”

“Dainisa are required to remain hidden from humans,” Raphael said. He spoke and signed at the same time. It was a nice gesture but I found it patronising all the same. “You may have noticed that your parents, and indeed all others, do not recall the war as you do.”

“No, they keep talking about communists,” I said. “Was that you guys?”

Carmen laughed. “Mortals fix mortal problems. We’re not allowed to directly intervene, only guide.”

“Our purpose is to prolong the longevity of life on Earth for as long as possible before the obvious natural limitations get in the way,” Raphael explained. “Ideally we do this without compromising free will, as is your mortal right, but every now and again, we must intervene. The war of your people would have led to such a situation, and so we have had to assist a mortal in creating an appropriate solution.”

“Was it the person behind that broadcast?”

“Of course it was,” Carmen said, “but he didn’t do it alone. It wasn’t even his idea. He hardly deserves credit for —”

Raphael held up a hand. She fell silent, crossed her arms over her chest as her wings slumped over her shoulders, and sulked.

“You don’t need to know,” Raphael said. “As the Angel of Wellness, it’s my duty to look after those such as yourself who were unable to hear the song for health-related reasons. I can do so in a number of ways.”

“Right,” I said, trying the doorknob again.

They had to have noticed my attempts, yet they gave a total lack of reaction as though they hadn’t.

“First, I can simply erase your memories,” Raphael said. “We use appropriate measures that will ensure you will not be too disturbed by the loss, though you will not have the fake memories that others such as your parents do. All the same, you will come to believe what others do.”

“You mean the lie.”

Raphael smiled. “What is a lie really?”

“Anything but the truth.”

“But if it is the truth held by the majority —”

“Still a lie.”

“Clearly ruled out,” Carmen said. “Next.”

“The second option is, I can cure your hearing impairment.”

“Not happening.”

Raphael’s smile grew. “Yes, very few take that option. For reference, if we did so, you would hear the song and you would develop the same recollection your parents —”

“Why do you want me to live a lie?” I asked.

“Mortals,” Carmen groaned, rolling her eyes. “You’re all living lies anyway.”

“That’s very postmodern of you, but I’m not going to accept your offer to feed me a delusion just so I can fit in with the ignorant masses.”

“Then you have only one option left,” Raphael sighed. He looked at Carmen, offering her permission.

I was afraid.

Her wings folded back as she squared her shoulders. A slight smirk crossed her slips as Carmen said, “The important thing for you to understand is that the true reason behind the war must be kept a secret.”

I couldn’t find anything to say.

“Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to be. You’re all meant to be silent until there’s only fake histories left,” Carmen said. “I don’t want it to be that way. I want the truth out there, somewhere. So I’ve chosen you.”

“Chosen me?”

“Yes.” The pure white feathers tensed as she stretched her wings out to near their full span. “I am the Angel of Prophecy. I see all that can be, will be, could have been. And, most importantly to you, all that has been. I’ll lend you my powers so you can see the past in your dreams. Then you’ll write it down, since you’re not doing anything important anyway.” She smirked. “You’ll be my prophet.”

“What if I say no?”

“Then we will be forced to kill you,” Carmen replied. “Of course, as you have sinned, you will end up in Hell.”

“So?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Lucifer recently decreed that Hell’s uniform will be a pink leather mini dress.”

Raphael sighed at this like he wasn’t angry, just disappointed.

“You should agree to my terms,” Carmen said. “I don’t want the true history of the war forgotten. I don’t want what was stolen forgotten, sacrificed, or taken…” she trailed off, closing her eyes and breathing in deeply. For a moment, she looked almost… not human but not divine either. “I want what happened to a specific mortal to be remembered.”

“You guys really fixate on individual mortals?” I asked.

“To certain extents,” she replied. “Mostly I’ve a lot of paperwork in regards to this specific mortal and I’m far too busy to do it myself.”

I want to believe there was something more relatable behind her motivations, but she looked serious.

“What do you say?” she asked.

“Do I really have a choice?”

“We just gave you multiple options,” she replied. “You have a lot of choices. The only thing keeping you from viewing any as choices is your pride. Which, by the way, is yet another sin, so maybe you should start looking into ways to endure pink leather mini dresses.”

There are no ways to endure pink leather mini dresses.

“Okay. I’ll be your prophet.”

Carmen smiled. “You’ll regret this, but don’t worry. You’ll get over it.”

When a so-called angel who can allegedly see all says it, it’s hard not to believe.

She reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a necklace. “Wear this as you sleep. It’s a conduit so I can show you visions.”

The necklace itself was just a black cord, but the pendant hanging off it was a silver dragonfly with clear crystals for wings and large black stones for eyes.

“See you in your dreams,” Carmen said.

With a flash of light, they disappeared.

What’s the point of wings if you don’t use them?

I put the necklace on, though it is both too feminine and colonial for my aesthetic, and I haven’t taken it off since. I went to sleep sceptical, expecting nothing to happen.

Carmen was waiting for me.

We were in a field of daisies overlooking a riverbank. She sat in a floaty white sundress staring up at the fluffy clouds in the over-blue sky as I approached.

“Welcome.”

As she spoke, her words appeared before my eyes, like closed captions. Pretty convenient. One good thing about Carmen: she does this for every interaction in my mind, and every vision she grants me.

“Mystical as all this bullshit is, this doesn’t look like an explanation for what really happened,” I said. “I’m pretty sure a dainisa could do this, too.”

She laughed. “Oh yes, please human, do go on telling me what dainisa are capable of.”

I only meant to point out that her claims of divinity weren’t proven by something as mediocre as magically appearing in and controlling my dreams.

“You’re not as smart as you think you are, human, so I’m here to hold your hand a bit,” she patronised. “Think back to 2006. You were seven years old. What started the war?”

“A dainisa named Rabanu Surléa. He blew up George Street in Sydney.”

“Look at that, the know-it-all is already wrong.”

“What else could it have been? Humans?”

“You seem like the kind of person who’d fail history,” she incorrectly observed. “There’s never just one factor in starting a war. There’s a trigger. Rabanu Surléa was the trigger, but who was he representing?”

“Dainisa.”

Carmen snorted. “Would you accept ‘humans’ as an answer to that question, were the situations reversed?”

“I guess not.”

Carmen sat up, staring at me unblinking as she asked, “Do you know what the jyju is?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” She ripped a daisy from the ground and started pulling it apart as she continued, “You probably don’t know the truth of what dainisa are. You must think they’re just humans plus magic and think you’re progressive for believing in such a lie ’cos it makes them almost on your level. You don’t understand the culture dainisa are wrapped up in, the culture from which their magical abilities truly comes.”

“How can culture create magic?”

“That isn’t what I said.” Carmen threw the mangled daisy away and picked another. “The jyju is the council of dainisa, representing them, existing to preserve their language, culture, whatever knowledge they managed to build about their selves in the centuries they’ve hidden from humans. Jyju are selected from members of sixteen families. If they aren’t on the jyju, members of these families are called jyji. They all lived in different countries before all this, mostly in Europe. Of course, as dainisa are scattered to every corner of the globe, it’s difficult to retain any unity.” She paused before twisting a petal off. “Maybe that’s why they cling to the jyju.”

“And you’re telling me this council of dainisa got Rabanu Surléa to expose them, even though that’s directly against the purpose you just defined?”

“Precisely.” She ripped the flower head in half. “Why would they suddenly decide to expose themselves and risk the war they knew would come?”

“They must’ve thought they’d win.”

“Hey, you’re not completely stupid when I spell it out for you.” Carmen dropped the flower, looking at me again. “They had a weapon, you could say. A weapon they thought they could count on to serve them without question.” She turned away, picking yet another flower. “What a pity living weapons always develop desires of their own.”

“That’s almost deep.”

Carmen shoved me onto my back and covered my eyes with her hand. “I’ll show you what caused the war now.”

She did. My mind was immediately consumed with visions of so many things at once it was impossible to focus on just one, yet when she took her hand away, I felt as though I understood it all. It was like I’d seen it all in real time.

What I saw is best described as a millennium of murder. Dainisa being hunted by humans until they hated their own existences. Families hiding in isolation, showing magic to no one because they could trust no one. Until those powerful, well-respected jyji families came together and offered to help. To maintain the secrecy that meant protection. To keep dainisa from ever being discovered by humans, thus preventing any further slaughter.

These sixteen families combined their powers to erase dainisa from the memories of humans using a song. And then dainisa hid, so long and so well they forgot this history had ever happened. So long they became tired and desperate of hiding and longed for the sun.

Massaging the palm of her hand, Carmen told me, “You’re lucky I’ve had a test subject who allowed me to perfect that power.”

“So, that kid, he made us forget dainisa exist? With a song?”

“Yes,” Carmen replied. “His name is Arez Smythe.”

At this point, I’m contractually obligated to inform you that while it is spelt Smythe, it’s pronounced like the (quote) ‘boring’ Smith.

“I’ll show you the whole story in due course,” Carmen said, “And you will write it down.”

Hence, this.

I don’t trust the accounts of an angel. After Carmen’s visions, I trusted it even less. I have gone to great lengths to find ways to fact-check this. I even got Arez Smythe’s diary. So don’t take this as some divine scripture. I’m not doing this for them,

I’m doing it for us.

We deserve the truth. We deserve to remember. And so I will tell this how I see fit, not how they tell me, and wear whatever damnation it lands me with pride.

This is the true story of the Australian Civil War.