Twelve years after the end of the world, you and your band of survivors are searching for a new home.
You hear whispers that in the mountains of what used to be known as “Montagu”, there is a community of survivors led by someone called Strongbone.
You set out to find them. The area is isolated but verdant enough for simple farming. The community is large, numbering around three dozen.
You spot the farmers, hunters, foragers, sewists and artisans. You wonder who Strongbone is – perhaps the muscular blacksmith, or the lean hunter? No, they answer.
Strongbone waits in the tent. A medic checks your vital signs and lets you through.
You see a woman propped up by pillows. She wears an eye patch. You learn that her vertebrae have fused due to an autoimmune disease. It also attacks her eye, hence the patch.
In the Before Times, she was a professional desk-sitter. She researched socioeconomic systems, analysed datasets, and wrote stories and poems.
Now, she is the leader of this community of survivors. She’s no orator, nor is she ambitious. Instead, she is approachable, reliable and decisive.
She creates spaces where people feel welcomed and comfortable. Like a tree, she is a space for gathering.
Strongbone is the invention of my friend, Annika. But here is one more detail: Strongbone’s first name is Elzé – me!
Annika created this post-apocalyptic version of me over WhatsApp voice notes when we were discussing a hypothetical apocalypse plan, in a typical late-night conversation for nerds.
I said I would be rubbish in the apocalypse because of my autoimmune disease. She offered the alternative narrative of Elzé Strongbone.
Whether in a post-apocalyptic movie or in the media, stories usually portray chronically ill or disabled people as burdens.
During the pandemic, many people argued that if a person was more vulnerable to dying of the disease, then they were expendable. So why bother wearing masks or social distancing?
The message was clear: being healthy was a measure of a person’s value. I struggle to imagine our prehistoric ancestors agreeing with this sentiment.
There is evidence that they cared for their disabled, sick and injured community members. This defies the image of a cutthroat prehistoric time. It appears, instead, that we have compassion in our blood.
Keeping chronically ill and disabled people alive is not just a consequence of kindness, because everyone can contribute to a community.
That’s what makes Annika’s story so empowering to me. I’m not a limp limb to the community, but rather its leader.
In history, there are many chronically ill and disabled leaders with astounding accomplishments.
One example is King Alfred the Great, who is believed to have suffered from Crohn’s Disease or a similar illness.
He defended his people from the invading Vikings, created political alliances that led the groundwork for uniting England’s kingdoms, and promoted public education.
In an individualistic world obsessed with narrow definitions of productivity, we lose touch of the wisdom entrenched in philosophies such as Ubuntu.
We survive precisely because we support and lean on one another. Each person has something they can contribute to a community. Their value cannot be boiled down to how much they can be monetised.
Though I know all this intellectually, it’s hard not to internalise the constant messaging from the comments people make and the stories we tell.
This ableism bleeds into my thoughts and comes out in sombre and light-hearted moments. The result is that I devalue myself.
Annika’s story about Elzé Strongbone is meant to be melodramatic and silly, but it moved me because it flipped the narrative I had regurgitated.
She communicated that I have value to my community. Apocalypse or not, I matter!