Today has been a dark day for us all. Firstly, I woke to hear of the tragic passing of an acting legend, John Hurt. As I was scrolling through Twitter and reading the heartfelt tributes pouring in for the man, another story was breaking. A story vile enough to make me almost glad that Hurt hadn't had the opportunity to witness such... hurt. Call it an immigration policy, call it a Muslim Ban, it's irrelevant. It's a dangerous and xenophobic move on behalf of a dangerous and xenophobic US Administration. The details of the ban are available elsewhere, along with much discussion of just how harmful and depressing this policy is. That's not what this blog is about (I just write Doctor Who stories for fun), so I won't explain it here. Instead, I'll just recount a little story. A brief history of Davros. May it stand as a warning, to those who lack the courage to resist their own fears.
Once upon a time there was a planet engaged in an internal struggle. Wars raged across its surface as ideological groups fought for supremacy. Nobody could agree on how the war began, nor who fired the first shot. It was irrelevant anyways, for there was only allies, and their enemies. And these enemies must be fought, or else they wouldn't be enemies, would they?
On this planet, there was a great man. The best of men, renowned as a brilliant schemer, a visionary, the smartest. He had a bigly brain. This man had vision. Ambition. Determination. And the conviction to stare down reality and replace it with his own, improved vision.
He worked his way up from nothing. First he improved his own station, working to prove his name. He sat upon councils and boards, judging the worth of those who wished to work under him. He claimed to be intelligent and to respect the principles of scientific discourse, though his own research was biased or stolen from his associates and underlings. He held similar views on democracy itself. He saw it as a flawed system. Why invest power in the ignorant masses, when men with vision and genius could dictate the way forward. Instead, he saw democracy as a game, a system that could be bent in his favour. With power, he could enact change. Eventually, he turned his talents to politics. He could do so much for so many, if only he had total control. He could end the fighting. Crush his enemies under his military might. Make his homeland great again.
This man suffered ridicule in many ways. His appearance was ghastly, a source of derision for his naysayers. Yet he persevered in spite of his afflictions, though he retained a cruel and callous streak for all who laughed. Some would call him vain, or petty. But he knew different. He had to prove his supremacy to those who mocked him. Not realizing the irony of his pettiness.
Through sheer will, honeyed words and corruption he managed to ingratiate himself into the echelons of power. There he could embark on the scope of his vision. He would return his people to their glory days. He had the power, nay the right, nay the obligation to usher in his new order. With power came policy, with policy came his supporters, his followers and his soldiers.
His soldiers were unstoppable. Fueled by hate, armed with fury and propelled by the unflinching conviction of the unthinking bigot, they laid waste to their enemies. They showed no mercy or compassion. They gave no quarter, for their enemy was pure evil. Their enemy was the opposite of themselves. Their enemy was different, and unknowable, for his soldiers did not know reason.
For a time, the leader was happy without power. There were those who opposed him, who railed and rallied at his attempts to pervert the people he led. Threats came from within and outside, peaceful and aggressive, yet all were crushed under the might of his ferocious army.
Eventually, his own ambition would be his downfall. His attempts to incite hatred among his followers was too successful. His greatest enemies were no more, and his people turned their hate inward. They began to see their leader as flawed. He was weaker than they were. He was too clever, too autonomous. He too was different from them. He looked down on them from an ivory tower, too removed from their struggles. He was not one of them.
And so they tore him down. Destroyed him as they had their enemies before him. They spread out, a wave of anger, abstracted from its origin, left to roar into the void. The people lashed out, looking for a certainty and dignity they could never attain. They were too separated from each other. From other viewpoints. Without diversity, they stagnated, unable to innovate, to think beyond their blinkered vision.
This fortunately made them easy to outmanoeuvre. To outshine and outsmart. They made every other race unite against the enemy of militarized ignorance. Their chief rival had many faces and many lives and many names. The one constant being, this rival was a being of logic, of science, of healing. He promoted tolerance and understanding, compassion and acceptance, though he knew some battles must be fought with weapons, many could be won with words alone.
This is a story that is seen all too often and in all to many ways. We must always remember that we are the Doctor, and it is our duty to stand defiantly between the unjust and the oppressed. As even the War Doctor tells us, we must all say "No More" to the Daleks, to Davros, to any tinpot tyrant who seeks to use fear and hate as weapons. We must stand up for those too weary to stand themselves. We must be ready to lend a helping hand, or to shield the innocent. Today, on the date of John Hurt's death, we must take his words to heart more than ever. This was written with emotion, and without significant editing. It's something I wanted to say, on this day in particular, so speed is more important than editorial standards.
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