Science Fiction as a Voice for the Voiceless

Plot details from the series SukaSuka, Alice and Zouroku, Sakurada Reset.

What do you do at the end of the world?

Prompted by this question, you are likely confused. *The* world? Which world(s)? Are there worlds? What is the end of the world(s)? It could be the universe we live in, including “our” world and other possible worlds.

Science fiction is fascinated by the possible existence of other worlds. Often times, at least for the more standard fare stuff, it’s for the sake of showcasing interesting futuristic technology. However, at its core, sci-fi probes the human condition at a deeper level, asking how humanity organizes itself when prompted by different environmental conditions than the present day present time (Really, fantasy is one in the same, except with magic not technology.)

However, I am most fascinated by the ability of science fiction works, by portraying other worlds, to create empathy for other ways of life. Most famously, Ursula Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness posits the scenario where the gender binary is freakishly abnormal, supplanted by a world full of hermaphrodites who can switch roles; in this reflective manner, Le Guin humanizes those left outside of the strict gender binary found in mainstream society.

This sci-fi capacity for empathy strikes me as similar to the imaginative play that children engage in. They play pretend so they can understand the world around them and the people inhabiting that world – to appreciate that everyone, in a sense, lives in their own world. Science fiction shares this pedagogical goal, often creating literal worlds to highlight how different people live. Additionally, sci-fi series can be used for the purpose of imaginative play, where one envisions a place in this fictional universe or world.

However, science fiction can be seen as even more political than other works, given this capacity. Certain beings can be elevated high or cast down below based on some sort of prediction of how the future unfolds. Sci-fi can be used to denigrate and discriminate.

But at the same time, it can be revolutionary, offering expression to groups that feel voiceless. Based on my life experiences, one such group would be those who have a disability of some kind, especially a physical one. This could be someone who is in a coma, or expresses themselves ‘inappropriately’ (the hallmark of Autism and other disorders that interfere with speech).

What if the imaginative play of science fiction, wherein the creation of a world or worlds to offer enhanced self-expression capabilities, can be applied to such people? Fortunately, there are those who have tried. And hopefully, this is far from an abating trend. I will discuss three series in particular.

In Satelight’s SukaSuka (“World End”), the protagonist and lead heroine Chtolly is faced with a short life. In a powerful scene, the director reveals a set of flickering candles, straight from Chtolly’s mind, that highlights her immense anguish. Memories from a past life besiege her, appearing as candles. In other scenes, these memories are encapsulated by an imaginative depiction of an empty world, with a red-haired young girl sitting on a bed who talks to Chtolly, conveying her true feelings to the viewer.  As the series wears on, her hair transforms from soft blue to the fiery red of the young girl, complementing this approach. Shortly before completing her final, most critical, task in the world, she remarks that she is the happiest girl in the world – this statement rings powerfully because of the hints fed to the viewer about her deepest struggles. If we are to believe anything said by Chtolly, it is surely these final words.

In J.C. Staff’s Alice and Zouroku, Sana is – similar to the previous entry – a being with magical powers, only this time referred to as a Dream of Alice. She takes on the appearance and personality of a young girl, curious about the world but powerful enough to change it. Throughout much of the series, after learning she is not human, Sana returns to this conclusion that she is a monster, leading to her powers wreaking havoc. In the show, Wonderland serves as a metaphor for the feelings of these Dreams of Alice, conveying the instability that Alice faces.

This last example most explicitly describes the ability of science fiction to show experiences that would otherwise remain invisible. In David Production’s Sakurada Reset, much of the population features special abilities, not as dramatic as the magical powers described in the previous two examples. Honoka Katagiri’s ability involves creating a dream world. One wrinkle: she has been in a coma for nine years, a state seen as close to death.

However, the dream world – termed One Hand Eden (OHE) allows Honoka self-expression.  As Eden, per descriptions by the Sakurada authorities and medical personnel, supposedly this ability allows for immense – fake – happiness. In a way this fits a stereotype that persons with disabilities are complacent to exist without pushing their boundaries. Barriers, so the logic goes, are something to live behind for safety. Nonetheless, Honoka maintains full control of her world.

Surprisingly, this creation born of reverie extends far beyond the ramblings of a mad Justin (he knows who he is). In a word, it’s a dull place, mostly fashioned after the real world, in a way providing the viewer a literal depiction of what Honoka’s life could be like. More importantly, what she would like it to be.

A simple conflict is set up, betraying the simplicity of a bed-ridden Honoka. In OHE, there is no Honoka, only Michiru, who is fully mobile, clad with a blue bird on her shoulder. Knowingly, Michiru welcomes the viewer and the main characters to the dream world, establishing a clear distinction. Other than the blue bird, one could be forgiven for mistaking the dream world for the actual one. When pressed, Michiru insists she has never heard of “Honoka”, one of the only seemingly abnormal detail. Such a discrepancy suggests that Honoka is both aware of her situation in the real world and consciously moves away from it; this escapism, or so it seems, perfectly complements an ability called One Hand Eden. 

Central to the OHE is the blue bird on her shoulder, a being named Chiruchiru who acts as the dream world deity and allows Michiru to live comfortably in her Eden, away from her real existence as Honoka Katagiri. So where does this lead us? Clearly, despite living in a coma, Honoka’s actions betray a deeply conflicted identity, with one foot in the real world and the other foot in OHE.

Does this situation contradict what we know about comas? Honestly, who knows. From the perspective of society, a coma patient is a drain on resources, especially in a despicable healthcare system like ours that values efficiency over lives. From an outside perspective, Honoka qualifies as completely unresponsive. However, in the OHE, she maintains full ability to respond, to the point of molding the world to her whims. If we are to take this work seriously, then perhaps it does follow that comas are not truly a vegetative state as tends to be thought. After all, your brain features altered and reduced activity during sleep, but that does not mean you’re a vegetable at night.

Especially here, calling Honoka’s efforts escapism would be remiss and reductionist. As her Eden, she has full control over expression, which is vastly different from the real world. As she reminds us, “I can’t even stand up in the real world, but I can run around in here!” Michiru does not face the systemic barriers that Honoka does, and can do what she likes. The fundamental contradiction of the OHE is how it gives her what she wants *too often* (as symbolized by Chiruchiru) while offering this spectacular freedom. To me, this gives Michiru, as Honoka’s stand-in, an impressively human feel, a genuine tack at self-expression through the dream world.

No matter how idyllic Michiru paints the OHE, there are inconvenient truths, again leading to a humanizing narrative outcome. Or, one. Namely, a monster that appears at night, threatening to destroy the dream world. That is where the main characters step in to help Michiru, but at no point did the show convince me that she was just the disability version of a damsel in distress. Rather, it strives powerfully towards providing a voice for someone who would be voiceless otherwise.

Considering Honoka’s story from a social perspective reminds me of the subtle ways in which persons with disabilities are ‘stripped’ of the ability to speak earnestly and deeply.  This stripping goes beyond a person with a medical condition that prevents speaking, which can also include coma patients.  Even if a person speaks, they very well be ignored if it’s perceived as ‘inappropriate’, which is especially true for persons with disabilities. The enthusiastic behavior of Michiru suggests that she is beyond it, but the monster proves otherwise. Chtolly and Sana similarly seem to carry this fear of not being heard, that their deepest struggles will not be understood because of how their bodies work.

For that reason, these stories where the imaginative play of science fiction is used to give voices to the voiceless is so powerful to me. This concept need not only apply to the One Hand Eden, just to disability in general, but can also be used to uplift persons from other marginalized groups as well. Through such stories, those considered mute, unresponsive, or otherwise a “drain on society” (especially a capitalist society) are revealed to be as acutely human as the rest of us.