The Breaking of Omelas

The Breaking of Omelas

For those who have never heard of the wondrous city of Omelas, I would recommend Ursula K Le Guin’s account of the city (In her short story “Those who left Omelas”), to better understand the city’s full spectrum of depths and heights.

In the radiant city of Omelas, where joy and harmony flourished in every corner, a sombre truth, invisible to the outside, tainted everything in a dark, sticky soot. For all the city’s good fortune rested upon a single very unfortunate child, locked away in a small dark room somewhere beneath the city streets where the festivals marched, the markets were full of life, and the children roamed carelessly.

Curled in utter darkness, covered in his own excrement, long given up calling for help or pleading for a bargain, he would just whimper to himself quietly, his tears long dried. He may be about ten years old, but his body was stunted at the age of six and sits crumpled like a man of old age. Occasionally, the door would open and a person or two would look at him in disgust. They never talked to him. Sometimes, one of them would look at him with shocked or curious eyes, asking questions about him to the other person, but never asking him. Sometimes they would kick him, questioning his humanity, never considering their own inhumanity.

Not far from there, up above the street in the city hall building, an officiant was receiving members of the public. He welcomed a young mother with her newborn in her arms into his office.

“Ah, good day, my dear! Congratulations on the birth of your child! Quite a joyous occasion, I’m sure. How are you feeling? And how is the babe? How can the municipality assist you in navigating these early days of parenthood? How may I be of service?”

The mother was a bit embarrassed coming to his office, but his warm familiar smile reassured her enough.

“Good morning, Officiant. The baby is well and I do hope to see you on his naming day two days forth. I am fine myself as well, for the most part. But alas, dreams of Omelas’ cursed child have haunted my sleep as of late and I wake with grievous worries for my own child…”

The officiant furrowed his brows in a look of concern.

 “Oh dear! I can only imagine how disturbing this must be, especially with restless sleep that is a natural part of motherhood, and that it would be even worse to confuse the two children in your dreams. We praise the heavens, of course, it was just a dream. But was that it? Was it just a bad dream? Or have the bad thoughts lingered in your mind? Can I assure you in any way that your child is safe, and this nightmare was nothing but a bad dream fabricated in the mind of a caring mother?”

The mother, encouraged by his willingness to hear her out, explained:

“The question that troubled me as I woke up was: will my son ever be truly happy? Our city of Omelas is truly a city of beauty in all aspects, but it seems we have condensed all that is wrong into a single point, into this single child. And yes, perhaps it’s better than some allusive alternatives, but we haven’t really gotten rid of the sadness. Can we be truly happy whilst having that dark burden weighing on our hearts?

The officiant, serving at his role for more than two decades, was quite familiar with this question.

“Ah, the age-old question of the price we pay for our happiness. I understand your concerns, and I’ve pondered on it myself and not once. Happiness, unfortunately, isn’t the entire picture; something needs to counter-weight it, to balance against it. Happiness has a price and I personally believe we’re very fortunate for the arrangement we have. Sacrificing the happiness of a single individual for the contentment of many. We live a good life and the only price we pay is the knowledge that someone else is paying its cost.”

“As for your son”, the officiant continued, “we should acknowledge that our happiness was bought and earned by someone else and we are grateful for that. And we should leave it with that. We, the citizens of Omelas, made this choice and it may not be a perfect choice but it is a good one. Perhaps by focusing on our good fortune you  and your child may come to terms with the knowledge of the poor child who is sacrificed on your behalf.”

The mother considered the answer for a while but then replied:

“You said we made this choice as a community. That is not correct. I never made this choice and neither did you and the child definitely didn’t. We accepted this choice. In the name of tradition. Tradition can explain past actions, but it cannot justify them and it’s definitely not responsible for future actions. We are.”

The officiant was taken lightly aback from the mother’s reply and after a moment of hesitation answered back:

”Ah, an astute observation, and a fair point. ‘Acceptance’ is indeed a better word. We’ve inherited this tradition, and as individuals, we play a role in its continuation. This tradition has kept Omelas safe and its citizens content for as long as we know and now we’ve become custodians of its legacy, for better or worse. Many who didn’t approve of our customs have left, and our gates were and are always open.”

He paused for a moment and looked at the worried mother as his last statement might have sounded like a suggestion for her to be dismissed, but then continued:

“Of course we can talk about it as long as it will take to find a solution that would put your heart and mind at ease,” and as he saw her nodding in approval he concluded “just as long as we base our discussion on the consensus that the safety of Omelas outweighs the pity we might feel for that single individual.”

The mother frowned at the last statement.

“I’m not sure I agree that life at all costs outweighs what we do with it.” But before he had a chance to reply she continued – “In truth, I simply want my son to know nothing but happiness. I’m guessing any parent would wish that for their child.”

The officiant felt more comfortable with this idea that he heard previously.

“Of course you can simply not tell him. Let his blissful ignorance be his blessings. We can issue a decree forbidding everyone talking about it ever again. How does that sound? Won’t that solve the burden of guilt? Or perhaps it would be better to send the wretched child halfway across the world? Out of sight and out of mind? Should one care about a suffering person they’ll never get to meet or see and only hear about in old-nanny lullabies that are used to scare young children into obedience?”

But the mother wouldn’t hear any of it –

“Ignorance, especially when it’s intentional, does not absolve us from responsibility. Whether an atrocity is committed in the other room or across the world, by our own hands or on our behalf, the fact that we benefit from it makes us responsible. If we choose not to stop even if we can – it makes us complicit, if not guilty.”

They stared at each other for a moment, but then an epiphany dawned on her.

“I had the impression that our predicament is due to an unchangeable tradition. So how can we hide the truth from our children? How can we send the child away from the city as you just suggested? What is the core part of our tradition that we’re trying to protect?”

“You’re quite a stubborn person, my dear,” said the officiant. Partly amused, partly irritated, but mostly hungry as he felt this overly extended meeting was eating away from his lunch break.

“You are right. The idea of distancing the child from our immediate awareness might be a tempting one, but altering such a fundamental aspect may not be as simple as one might have liked. I fear that you are right, my dear, and even the distance won’t wash away our sin. Perhaps you and I should take a step back and find another way to reconcile the desire for a happier life for your son with the city’s complex traditions?”.

He leaned forward as if ready to stand, hoping the subtle hint would be noticeable enough. The mother grew desperate and fearing to be dismissed answered in despair, she cried:

“No, I’m really struggling to reconcile with a tradition that destined us to carry such a burden. Yes, it’s our tradition. Yes, it’s our forefathers’ decisions and yes it has given us a good life in most aspects except for the pity we might feel for this child. I can’t imagine how his mother could stand this. Did he have a mother? For as much as I can tell, he’s always been there and he always looked roughly the same – is he doomed to eternal damnation? Or does someone replace the child with a new one every decade or so? Heavens, I can’t imagine which option would be worse!”

The officiant eased back to his chair, trying to push away the idea of lunch to the back of his mind.

“I understand your struggle. I would like to believe most of Omelas’ citizens, being good-hearted people in nature, have shared it at least at some point in their lifetime. I’m afraid I cannot personally testify to you the mechanics of our tradition except for witnessing that it seems to work and that our lives are carefree for the better part of it. As for your question on perpetual suffering…”. He looked at her, took a deep breath and resumed. “As tragic as it may be, suffering is unavoidable. But here in the city of Omelas, we’ve been fortunate enough to be able focus most of it onto a single individual. We are better off, and it would be ungrateful to argue otherwise.”

The tone of the conversation has become more tense but the mother felt just as aggravated.

“You are right, Officiant. I’m very grateful for my fortunate life thus far. But this gratefulness stops the moment the atrocity continues despite my disapproval. In my years of living in Omelas, few left the city as they couldn’t reconcile with the guilt thrust upon them. But by leaving, they merely washed their hands, saying ‘I won’t be a part of this’. They never once said ‘This shouldn’t be. This must end’.”

He sighed.

“You are right. It is true. All those who left Omelas actively chose to wash away from their part in the city’s atrocity. Indeed most of them have left quietly, keeping their judgements, frustrations and grudges to themselves but a few have voiced their concerns. Some have even cried and shed a tear in front of me, pleading for a remedy for their aching conscience. And I consoled and comforted them. I even pleaded with them not to go. To see the reason for it all. It’s an awful truth we must accept, and unfortunately not everyone has the stomach for it.”

The mother looked up to him.

“You’re an officiant, can’t you do something about it?”

To which he chuckled.

“Oh my dear, I fear that even if my mandate as the city’s officiant is to care for its people, as far as the authority granted to me by its citizens, my duties are mainly to wipe away your tears and announce the beginning of the summer festivals ceremoniously.” He then pointed at the window behind. “This city, our good fortune, is all built on top of traditions, laws and rules that aren’t mine to mend”.

Her quick response lashed at him.

“And all these are built on top of the suffering of one boy. What use is a beautiful home when its foundations are rotten?”

He looked at her quietly, speechless. After a while she asked:

“I always believed we are free people. Free to choose how we live our lives; Free to break from tradition should we choose to; Free to change laws. So how can we change the city’s ordinance? We have no king to appeal to. No people in high power who can be persuaded. But surely there must be a mechanism that can exert our wishes?”

The officiant calmed down a bit as questions about bureaucracies were his bread and butter.

“Indeed, the absence of a central authority or a singular figure to appeal to complicates matters. And without meaning to discourage even further, our tradition is deeply ingrained, so the challenge lies not only in convincing individuals but in reshaping the collective consciousness and identity of the entire city. Such a change should come from the community and not from an alienated executive regardless. While it may feel daunting, conversations are a powerful tool. Engage with your fellow citizens, share your concerns, and listen to theirs. Sometimes, it’s the slow process of changing hearts and minds that can lead to shifts in collective perspectives. It may not happen overnight, it may not even happen in our lifetime and I can assure you it’ll be an uphill struggle, but talking with your compatriots is the only way to shape a new narrative for Omelas.”

He hesitated for a moment, not sure how much he would like to encourage her to seek something he personally opposes.

“As you mentioned, tradition can evolve, and it is the responsibility of each generation to question, reflect, and shape the path ahead. The very fact that you’re grappling with these questions suggests a yearning for a more ethical and compassionate existence. That is an admirable virtue, even if I don’t agree with you on the matter itself.”

The mother was flattered by the comment, but also puzzled at his disagreement.

“Do you still think that tradition is more important than the suffering of this child and our inability to ever be truly happy?”

The officiant was quite reluctant to answer, feeling her chiseling away at his core beliefs. These same beliefs helped him to accept the burdened reality of living in Omelas.

“I wouldn’t dismiss traditions so easily as you. They are important, they make us who we are, for better or for worse. You put the child’s welfare at one end of your scale and this meaningless label of “tradition” on the other, but this is a false comparison. Please remember my dear that it’s not merely “tradition” – it’s the thing that safeguard our lives and the beauty and fortune we have in our city. Are we really willing to risk losing all that? Would an unknown future really be better for your baby compared to what you have now? I’m not sure it’s a decision we’ll be able to take back once we realise it has been a mistake… So my answer would be “No”. The tradition of Omelas, with its complex moral implications, is deeply ingrained in our society. While acknowledging the weight of the child’s suffering, the path to resolution may lie in reassessing and transforming the tradition rather than outright abandoning it.”

The mother’s frustration grew from the officiant’s answer but she clung desperately on his last comment.

“How would you suggest we should transform the tradition into something less sufferable?”

Losing his patience, the officiant answered what he hoped would help bring the conversation to its end:

“Personally I don’t believe one can proactively choose to change tradition overnight. Traditions do change and evolve but it’s a long tedious process.”

However, looking into her eyes, he added what he hoped sounded impartial:

“Initiating open conversations within the community is a crucial first step. Encouraging a collective reassessment of our values and priorities may lead to a more compassionate approach that addresses the ethical concerns while maintaining the city’s well-being. It’s a challenging process that demands thoughtful reflection, empathy, and a shared commitment to shaping a more humane future for Omelas.”

The mother grew bolder by his answer.

“Yes, you are right. conversations are critical, and I’m starting one with you, right now. If I can’t convince you to lean to a ‘more humane future for Omelas’ as you said, how can I convince anyone else? Let’s imagine that you are the ruler of Omelas. That it’s your voice that counts, that you can make a difference – would you still actively choose to keep tormenting the child? Would you give the same answer if it was my newborn? Or if it was yours?”

The officiant felt annoyed for letting himself be pushed into a corner.

“I would like to think that both you and I would rather have a decision-maker who can be impartial even when they are personally and emotionally affected by their decision. But you are right, we would rather have decision-makers who care about their community as if they were their very own children. So yes, in the hypothetical role of a decision-maker, I would indeed seek a more humane future for Omelas and would try to imagine any child as if they were my own, rather than try to take empathy out of the equation. I would explore avenues to reshape the tradition and find a solution that balances the city’s stability with a profound respect for the dignity and happiness of every individual, including the child.”

The mother was encouraged by this answer and relentlessly pressed further.

“Yes, we need to mitigate between the safety provided by tradition and empathy and the promise for a better future. Help me, Officiant, please. You are smarter and wiser than anyone I know. You keep suggesting we have conversations in order for us to build a better future together, but this is what you and I are doing right now and I’m asking you what future can you offer me that would put my heart at ease. I appreciate your intention to seek a “more humane future” but I’m now asking you – what will be our next steps? What are our plans?”

The officiant sighed in reluctance, accepting the fate of his now cold lunch.

“My initial steps would involve convening a council representing various facets of our society to better understand the problem, its implications and potential alternatives. The council would embark on an open and transparent dialogue with the community, addressing the concerns and ethical considerations surrounding our tradition. The collective effort should prioritise the wellbeing of every individual, including the child, whilst ensuring the safety and stability guaranteed by our traditions through careful gradual steps.” 

The two continued their conversation over days and included more and more people, turning the plan into reality. In the past, Omelas might have looked like a utopia to onlookers, with all of its magic and splendour, but it wasn’t, as its burdened citizens could never be truly happy nor free. On the day the people of Omelas decided to change their way, some of its magic might have faded and its splendor dimmed, but Omelas was indeed one step closer to achieving the prosperous place that is good for all, a true utopia.

In the radiant city of Omelas, where joy and harmony flourished in every corner, a somber truth, invisible to the outside, tainted everything in a dark, sticky soot. For all the city’s good fortune rested upon a single very unfortunate child, locked away in a small dark room somewhere beneath the city streets where the festivals marched, the markets were full of life, and the children roamed carelessly.

Curled in utter darkness, covered in his own excrement, long given up calling for help or pleading for a bargain, he would just whimper to himself quietly, his tears long dried. He may be about ten years old, but his body was stunted at the age of six and sits crumpled like a man of old age. Occasionally, the door would open and a person or two would look at him in disgust. They never talked to him. Sometimes, one of them would look at him with shocked or curious eyes, asking questions about him to the other person, but never asking him. Sometimes they would kick him, questioning his humanity, never considering their own inhumanity.

Not far from there, up above the street in the city hall building, an officiant was receiving members of the public. He welcomed a young mother with her newborn in her arms into his office.

“Ah, good day, my dear! Congratulations on the birth of your child! Quite a joyous occasion, I’m sure. How are you feeling? And how is the babe? How can the municipality assist you in navigating these early days of parenthood? How may I be of service?”

The mother was a bit embarrassed coming to his office, but his warm familiar smile reassured her enough.

“Good morning, Officiant. The baby is well and I do hope to see you on his naming day two days forth. I am fine myself as well, for the most part. But alas, dreams of Omelas’ cursed child have haunted my sleep as of late and I wake with grievous worries for my own child…”

The officiant furrowed his brows in a look of concern.

 “Oh dear! I can only imagine how disturbing this must be, especially with restless sleep that is a natural part of motherhood, and that it would be even worse to confuse the two children in your dreams. We praise the heavens, of course, it was just a dream. but was that it? Was it just a bad dream? Or have the bad thoughts lingered in your mind? Can I assure you in any way that your child is safe, and this nightmare was nothing but a bad dream fabricated in the mind of a caring mother?”

The mother, encouraged by his willingness to hear her out, explained:

“The question that troubled me as I woke up was: will my son ever be truly happy? Our city of Omelas is truly a city of beauty in all aspects, but it seems we have condensed all that is wrong into a single point, into this single child. And yes, perhaps it’s better than some allusive alternatives, but we haven’t really gotten rid of the sadness. Can we be truly happy whilst having that dark burden weighing on our hearts?

The officiant, serving at his role for more than two decades, was quite familiar with this question.

“Ah, the age-old question of the price we pay for our happiness. I understand your concerns, and I’ve pondered on it myself and not once. Happiness, unfortunately, isn’t the entire picture; something needs to counter-weight it, to balance against it. Happiness has a price and I personally believe we’re very fortunate for the arrangement we have. Sacrificing the happiness of a single individual for the contentment of many. We live a good life and the only price we pay is the knowledge that someone else is paying its cost.”

“As for your son”, the officiant continued, “we should acknowledge that our happiness was bought and earned by someone else and we should be grateful for that. And we should leave it with that.  We, the citizens of Omelas, made this choice and it may not be a perfect choice but it is a good one. Perhaps with focusing on our good fortune you, and your child, can come to terms with the knowledge of the poor child who is sacrificed on your behalf.”

The mother considered the answer for a while but then replied:

“You said we made this choice as a community. That is not correct. I never made this choice and neither did you and the child definitely didn’t. we accepted this choice. in the name of tradition. Tradition can explain past actions, but it cannot justify them and it’s definitely not responsible for future actions. we are.”

The officiant was taken aback lightly from the mother’s reply and after a moment of hesitation answered back:

”Ah, an astute observation, and a fair point. ‘Acceptance’ is indeed a better word. We’ve inherited this tradition, and as individuals, we play a role in its continuation. This tradition has kept Omelas safe and its citizens content for as long as we know and now we’ve become custodians of its legacy, for better or worse. Many who didn’t approve of our customs have left, our gates were and are always open.”

He paused for a moment and looked at the worried mother as his last statement might have sounded like a suggestion for her to be dismissed but then continued:

“Of course we can talk about it as long as it will take to find a solution that would put your heart and mind at ease” and as he saw her nodding in approval he concluded “just as long as we base our discussion on the consensus that the safety of Omelas outweighs the pity we might feel for that single individual.”

The mother frowned at the last statement.

“I’m not sure I agree that life at all costs outweighs what we do with it”. But before he had a chance to reply she continued – “In truth, I simply want my son to know nothing but happiness. I’m guessing any parent would wish that for their child.”

The officiant felt more comfortable with this idea that he heard previously.

“Of course you can simply not tell him. Let his blissful ignorance be his blessings. We can issue a decree forbidding everyone talking about it ever again. How does that sound? Won’t that solve the burden of guilt? Or perhaps it would be better to send the wretched child half-way across the world? out of sight and out of mind? Should one care about a suffering person they’ll never get to meet or see and only hear about in old-nanny lullabies that are used to scare young children into obedience?”

But the mother wouldn’t hear any of it –

“Ignorance, especially when it’s intentional, does not absolve us from responsibility. Whether an atrocity is committed in the other room or across the world, by our own hands or on our behalf, the fact that we benefit from it makes us responsible. If we choose not to stop even if we can – it makes us complicit, if not guilty.”

They stared at each other for a moment but then an epiphany dawned on her.

“I had the impression that our predicament is due to an unchangeable tradition. So how can we hide the truth from our children? How can we  send the child away from the city as you just suggested? What is the core part of our tradition that we’re trying to protect?”

“You’re quite a stubborn person, my dear” said the officiant. Partly amused, partly irritated, but mostly hungry as he felt this overly extended meeting was eating away from his lunch break.

“You are right. The idea of distancing the child from our immediate awareness might be a tempting one, but altering such a fundamental aspect may not be as simple as one might have liked. I fear that you are right, my dear, and even the distance won’t wash away our sin. Perhaps you and I should take a step back and find another way to reconcile the desire for a happier life for your son with the city’s complex traditions?”.

He leaned forward as if ready to stand, hoping the subtle hint would be noticeable enough. The mother grew desperate and fearing to be dismissed answered in despair, she cried:

“No, I’m really struggling to reconcile with a tradition that destined us to carry such a burden. Yes, it’s our tradition. Yes, it’s forefathers’ decisions and yes it has given us a good life in most aspects except for the pity we might feel for this child. I can’t imagine how his mother could stand this. Has he had a mother? for as much as I can tell, he’s always been there and he always looked roughly the same – is he doomed to eternal damnation? or does someone replace the child with a new one every decade or so? Heavens, I can’t imagine which option would be worse!”

The officiant eased back to his chair, trying to push away the idea of lunch to the back of his mind.

“I understand your struggle. I would like to believe most of Omelas’ citizens, being good-hearted people in nature, have shared it at least at some point in their lifetime. I’m afraid I cannot personally testify to you for the mechanics of our tradition except for witnessing that it seems to work and that our lives are care-free for the better part of it. As for your question on perpetual suffering,…”. He looked at her, took a deep breath and resumed. “As tragic as it may be, suffering is unavoidable. But here in the city of Omelas, we’ve been fortunate enough to be able focus most of it onto a single individual. We are better off, and it would be ungrateful to argue otherwise.”

The tone of the conversation has become more tense but the mother felt just as aggravated.

“You are right, Officiant. I’m very grateful for my fortunate life thus far. But this gratefulness stops the moment the atrocity continues despite my disapproval. In my years of living in Omelas, few left the city as they couldn’t reconcile with the guilt thrust upon them. But by leaving, they merely washed their hands, saying ‘I won’t be a part of this’. They never once said ‘This shouldn’t be. This must end’.”

He sighed.

“You are right. It is true. All those who left Omelas actively chose to wash away from their part in the city’s atrocity. Indeed most of them have left quietly, keeping their judgements, frustrations and grudges to themselves but a few have voiced their concerns. Some have even cried and shed a tear in front of me, pleading for a remedy to their aching conscience. And I consoled and comforted them. I even pleaded with them not to go. To see the reason for it all. It’s an awful truth we must accept, and unfortunately not everyone has the stomach for it.”

The mother looked up to him.

“You’re an officiant, can’t you do something about it?”

To which he chuckled.

“Oh my dear, I fear that even if my mandate as the city’s officiant is to care for its people, as far as the authority granted to me by its citizens, my duties are mainly to wipe away your tears and announce the beginning of the summer festivals ceremoniously.” He then pointed at the window behind. “This city, our good fortune, is all built on top of traditions, laws and rules that aren’t mine to mend”.

Her quick response lashed at him.

” And all these are built on top of the suffering of one boy. What use is a beautiful home when its foundations are rotten?”

He looked at her quietly, speechless. After a while she asked:

“I always believed we are free people. Free to choose how we live our lives; Free to break from tradition should we choose to; Free to change laws. So how can we change the city’s ordinance? We have no king to appeal to. No people in high-power who must be persuaded. But surely there must be a mechanism that can exert our wishes?”

The officiant calmed down a bit as questions about bureaucracies were his bread and butter.

“Indeed, the absence of a central authority or a singular figure to appeal to complicates matters. And not meaning to discourage even further, our tradition is deeply ingrained, so the challenge lies not only in convincing individuals but in reshaping the collective consciousness and identity of the entire city. Such a change should come from the community and not from an alienated executive regardless. While it may feel daunting, conversations are a powerful tool. Engage with your fellow citizens, share your concerns, and listen to theirs. Sometimes, it’s the slow process of changing hearts and minds that can lead to shifts in collective perspectives. It may not happen overnight, it may not even happen in our lifetime and I can assure you it’ll be an uphill struggle, but talking with your compatriots is the only way to shape a new narrative for Omelas.”

He hesitated for a moment, not sure how much he would like to encourage her to seek something he personally opposes.

“As you mentioned, Tradition can evolve, and it is the responsibility of each generation to question, reflect, and shape the path ahead. The very fact that you’re grappling with these questions suggests a yearning for a more ethical and compassionate existence. That is an admirable virtue, even if I don’t agree with you on the matter itself.”

The mother was flattered by the comment, but also puzzled at his disagreement.

“Following our conversation do you still think that tradition is more important than the suffering of this child and our inability to ever be truly happy?”

The officiant was quite reluctant to answer, feeling her chiseling away at his core beliefs. These same beliefs helped him to accept the burdened reality of living in Omelas.

“I wouldn’t dismiss traditions so easily as you. They are important, they make us who we are, for better or for worse. You put the child’s welfare at one end of your scale and this meaningless label of “tradition” on the other, but this is a false comparison. Please remember my dear that it’s not merely “tradition” – it’s the thing that safeguard our lives and the beauty and fortune we have in our city. Are we really willing to risk losing all that? Would an unknown future really be better for your baby compared to what you have now? I’m not sure it’s a decision we’ll be able to take back once we realize it has been a mistake… So my answer would be “No”. The tradition of Omelas, with its complex moral implications, is deeply ingrained in our society. While acknowledging the weight of the child’s suffering, the path to resolution may lie in reassessing and transforming the tradition rather than outright abandoning it.”

The mother’s frustration grew from the officiant’s answer but she clung desperately on his last comment.

“How would you suggest we should transform the tradition into something less sufferable?”

Losing his patience, the officiant answered what he hoped would help bring the conversation to its end:

“Personally I don’t believe one can proactively choose to change tradition overnight. Traditions do change and evolve but it’s a long tedious process.”

However, looking into her eyes, he added what he hoped sounded impartial:

“Initiating open conversations within the community is a crucial first step. Encouraging a collective reassessment of our values and priorities may lead to a more compassionate approach that addresses the ethical concerns while maintaining the city’s well-being. It’s a challenging process that demands thoughtful reflection, empathy, and a shared commitment to shaping a more humane future for Omelas.”

The mother grew bolder by his answer.

“Yes, you are right. conversations are critical, and I’m starting one with you, right now. If I can’t convince you to lean to a ‘more humane future for Omelas’ as you said, how can I convince anyone else? Let’s imagine that you are the ruler of Omelas. That it’s your voice that counts, that you can make a difference – would you still actively choose to keep tormenting the child? would you give the same answer if it was my newborn? or if it was yours?”

The officiant felt annoyed for letting himself be pushed into a corner.

“I would like to think that both you and I would rather have a decision-maker who can be impartial even when they are personally and emotionally affected by their decision. But you are right, we would rather have decision-makers who care about their community as if they were their very own children. So yes, in the hypothetical role of a decision-maker, I would indeed seek a more humane future for Omelas and would try to imagine any child as if they were my own, rather than try to take empathy out of the equation. I would explore avenues to reshape the tradition and find a solution that balances the city’s stability with a profound respect for the dignity and happiness of every individual, including the child.”

The mother was encouraged by this answer and relentlessly pressed further.

“Yes, we need to mitigate between the safety provided by tradition and empathy and the promise for a better future. Help me, Officiant, please. You are smarter and wiser than anyone I know. You keep suggesting we have conversations in order for us to build a better future together, but this is what you and I are doing right now and I’m asking you what future can you offer me that would put my heart at ease. I appreciate your intention to seek a “more humane future” but I’m now asking you – what will be our next steps? what’s our plans?”

The officiant sighed in reluctance, accepting the fate of his now cold lunch.

“My initial steps would involve convening a council representing various facets of our society to better understand the problem, its implications and potential alternatives. The council would embark on an open and transparent dialogue with the community, addressing the concerns and ethical considerations surrounding our tradition. The collective effort should prioritize the wellbeing of every individual, including the child, whilst ensuring the safety and stability guaranteed by our traditions through careful gradual steps.” 

The two continued their conversation over days and included more and more people, turning the plan into reality. In the past, Omelas might have looked like an Utopia to the onlookers, with all of its magic and splendor, but it wasn’t, as its burdened citizens could never be truly happy nor free. On the day the people of Omelas decided to change their way some of its magic might have faded and its splendor dimmed, but Omelas was indeed one step closer to achieving the prosperous place that is good for all, a true utopia.