The Inclusion Paradox

Jonas hadn’t spoken to his brother in six months. Their last conversation - if shouting could be called that - ended with a slammed door and Jonas sitting on the kitchen floor wondering how love could curdle into hatred so quickly. He was exhausted: exhausted by arguments, by politics, by the constant clamor of people’s opinions sharp enough to draw blood. So when he saw the poster for UVPI - The Unified Voice for Peace and Inclusion - fluttering at a bus stop, his chest unclenched a little. One Voice. One Heart. One Future.

It sounded less like a slogan and more like a promise.

Orientation day smelled of lavender and fresh paint. Cheerful volunteers in identical pastel T-shirts handed out “Welcome Packs,” which contained a reusable water bottle, a pamphlet entitled Hot To Speak Without Harm, and a sheet boldly titled Prohibited Words: This Week’s Update.

Jonas scanned the list - “crazy,” “guys,” “however.” He frowned. “Excuse me,” he asked one of the volunteers, a woman with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, “why are these words prohibited?”

”Oh, language evolves!” She chirped. “These words carry hidden violence. ‘Crazy’ dismisses people with mental differences. ‘Guys’ erases women and non-binary identities. And ‘however’ - that one suggests disagreement, which can lead to conflict, which can lead to violence.”

Jonas blinked. “So we’re banning….conjunctions now?”

The woman patted his arm sympathetically. “Only the harmful ones. You’ll adjust.”

Then came the circle chant: “Difference is dangerous, unity is peace!” Everyone clapped in perfect rhythm - the Inclusion Clap - so no one felt left behind. Jonas forced a smile and joined in. For the first time in ages, he thought he might be home.

For the first few weeks, Jonas felt lighter than he had in years. The world outside - shouting news anchors, family feuds, online brawls - faded like static once he walked into UVPI’s pale blue meeting hall. Inside, there was order, calm, and a peculiar kind of joy humming through the air like incense.

He especially liked the Affirmation Hour. Each member took turns standing on a small stage and declared something positive about themselves. “I am inclusive,” they would say. “I am a safe space.” The audience responded with synchronized applause - five claps, pause, three claps, pause, two claps. The rhythm was precise, rehearsed, and strangely comforting. Jonas could almost feel his pulse syncing with it.

It was during one of these sessions that he met Harmony. Her real name had been Denise, but she explained - between sips of fair-trade herbal tea - that Denise felt “abrasive” and “untrustworthy.” Harmony, on the other hand, let people know exactly what to expect: kindness, gentleness, and positivity. “A name should never create tension,” she told Jonas with serene confidence.

Jonas laughed, but he liked her immediately. There was something disarming about the way she tilted her head and said, “You can trust me, Jonas. I don’t just speak peace - I am peace.”

Soon, they were inseparable. They practiced Nonviolent Vocabulary together, replacing dangerous words with safer ones: “concern” instead of “worry”, “difference” instead of “argument,” “alignment” instead of “disagreement.” Harmony teased him when he slipped up, but always gently, with a smile. For the first time in ages, Jonas felt not only accepted, but understood.

Jonas and Harmony threw themselves into UVPI life with giddy enthusiasm. Each new ritual seemed, at first, like proof that peace wasn’t just possible but already being built, brick by brick, smile by smile.

There was Mandatory Apology Monday, when every member stood before the group and confessed a personal failing - real or imagined - followed by a ritual chorus of forgiveness. Jonas once apologized for raising his voice to a barista when his latte was cold; Harmony once confessed to thinking “ugh” when her neighbor played polka music too loud. Each time, the audience clapped in perfect rhythm and shouted: “You are forgiven! You are safe!” The relief that washed over Jonas was intoxicating.

Then there was Smile Hour. UVPI believed frowns bred conflict, so every evening members stood in pairs and practiced holding wide, unwavering smiles while repeating affirmations. Jonas’ cheeks ached, but when Harmony grinned at him until her eyes watered, he felt a warmth as though the two of them were disinfecting the world of sorrow.

Even the Peace Patrols thrilled him. Volunteers wandered the hallways gently correcting lapses in tone of vocabulary. Jonas was once caught saying “but” - a banned word suggesting disagreement. He had to drop and do ten “Unity Pushups,” chanting “And yet! And yet! And yet!” with reach repitition. Harmony clapped proudly for him. “You’re growing so much,” she whispered.

The groups creativity knew no bounds. They developed The Inclusion Dance - choreographed routines with no solo moves, since solo moves were considered exclusionary. They eliminated uneven applause, since louder clapping excluded quieter clappers. Even the snack table was regulated: every cookie had to be the same size, so no one felt left out by a larger chocolate chip.

At first, Jonas thought it was silly. Then he realized: this was what safety looked like. No sharp edges. No raised voices. No slammed doors. Just harmony - his new friend’s name embodied it - and the quiet certainty that humanity had finally found a formula for peace.

He went to bed each night humming UPVI’s slogan like a prayer: One voice. One Heart. One Future.

But cracks began to appear.

Silent Thursdays forbade words entirely, requiring communication via Approved Gestures. Jonas struggled with the thirty-minute cookie allocation debate, pantomiming shapes and sizes while Harmony danced her hands gracefully, eyes twinkling. Words create division, she reminded him. This way, no one can misunderstand.

Then came the Neutral Face Directive: smiling too much, they explained, pressured others; frowning was dangerous. Members were to practice Peaceful Neutrality, a soft, serene, unwavering expression somewhere between meditation and a wax figure. Jonas tried. Every tune he caught his reflection, blank-eyed and slack-jawed, he felt less peaceful and more dead.

The escalation was relentless. Hugging was banned - too intimate. Shaking hands, too competitive. Laughter was regulated.: chuckles only, no guffaw. Harmony adapted effortlessly, laughing in delicate sighs, her Peaceful Neutrality unbroken. Jonas, though, felt hollow.

He watched Reflection Circles, where members were criticized for clapping too enthusiastically, smiling with “undertones of smugness,” or even subtle posture misalignments. Carl wept and apologized for the most absurd offenses. Harmony’s serene face didn’t falter. “Necessary correction,” she whispered to Jonas later. “Carl’s energy would have harmed the group.”

Jonas nodded, trying to convince himself it was fine, that this was progress. But doubt gnawed.

The breaking point came during The Celebration of Alignment: banning pronouns.

”Pronouns create division,” a leader explained. “They separate you from me. They imply difference, which is the seed of hate. From now on, everyone is One.”

The crowd clapped in flawless unison: One, One, One.

Jonas’ hand rose. “Isn’t this… too much?Don’t we need differences to never stand each other? Isn’t peace about holding space for that?”

The room went silent.

A leader stepped down from the podium, smiling. “Jonas, you sound misaligned. Difference creates misunderstanding. Misunderstanding creates harm. Surely you don’t want to harm us. Isn’t improvement good?

Gasps rippled. “He said grow.”

“Reflection Circle,” the leader declared. 

Jonas was placed in the center. Harmony didn’t look at him.

One by one, the members stepped forward:

“Jonas questions rules - unsafe.”

”Jonas clapped off-rhythm - hostile energy.”

”Jonas smirks when corrected. Violent.”

He laughed nervously. “Okay. Funny. You got me.”

No one laughed. Harmony stood at last. Her Peaceful Neutrality cracked into something pained, but her voice was steady. “Jonas resists inclusion. Jonas resists One. Jonas is… dangerous.”

Jonas felt the air leave his lungs. “Harmony, you don’t believe that!”

She whispered,” I am peace.”

Smiling Peace Patrol volunteers escorted him out. “Exclusion protects inclusion,” one explained kindly.

Outside, the night air was sharp, alive. Jonas turned back once. Pastel banners glowed in the lamplight. Inside, the circle clapped on without him, Harmony’s face frozen in perfect serenity.

He almost laughed, almost cried, he muttered: “Peace through exclusion. Who knew?”

Jonas walked alone for a long time, thinking of UVPI. It’s intentions had been good, its rituals comforting, its promise intoxicating. And yet, each rule - reach absurd, meticulous rule - had built invisible walls around the very people it claimed to protect. Inclusion had become exclusion. Safety had become fear. Harmony had been both his friend and his jailer.

Finally, Jonas pulled out his phone and stared at his brother’s name. He pressed call, fingers trembling. The line rang, and then he heard the familiar, infuriating, human voice on the other end.

”Hello?”

Jonas smiled, wide and imperfect. “Hey, let’s argue.”

And for the first time in months, he felt alive.

Ⓒ September 2025. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.