Joab's Pagiel | Part 2

Living beside them was never quiet. Never neutral.

At night, flames bloomed where grass should have been. Burning crosses were planted into front lawns like threats hammered into the soil. Smoke rose from barns and houses before anyone could grab water. Windows shattered. People were dragged from porches, beaten in the dirt, left bleeding while engines laughed their way back down the road.

They didn’t attack criminals.They didn’t attack fighters.They attacked a pacifist community that had done nothing but exist.

The Amish felt it deeply—even the white Amish. Rage, sharp and unfamiliar, settled into their chests. They stood shoulder to shoulder watching the damage, fists clenched, teeth grinding, unable to strike back.

“This is our community. Stop invading our community. Stop disrespecting God by burning the cross. Stop setting our churches on fire. Stop setting our homes on fire.”

The words were shouted at the attackers—even said afterward, spoken in kitchens and barns, voices shaking with fury that had nowhere else to go.

Azaliah confronted her husband after one of the attacks. She didn’t scream. She didn’t soften it either. She stood across from him, arms folded, eyes steady.

“Yeah, you implemented a preventative measure,” she said, “but it doesn’t even protect us. It doesn’t protect us at all. All it does is protect the next generation of Swiss children. It only protects the white children. It doesn’t protect most of us. The only reason you’re doing this is because you know mixed children will be abused. You don’t want to bring them into the world just to be hunted. But it doesn’t protect the people who already exist. They’re attacking us Swiss regardless. They keep calling us ‘n-word lovers’ and then they attack even the white people all over again.”

She wasn’t wrong.

What frightened the Amish even more was the growing realization that help might never come.

Black families began whispering about the police—about officers who never showed up, about uniforms that hid KKK ties. Complaints went unanswered. Reports disappeared. Patrol cars passed the village and never slowed.

That truth terrified the Amish.

They had no plan for violence. No training. No instinct for it. Their entire way of life depended on not fighting. When danger came, they called the police—many of whom did come due to God's provision because that was the only option they had.

And if the police stopped coming, they were finished.

Without law enforcement, they would already be dead. Everyone knew it. No one said it aloud.

As if the situation weren’t volatile enough, another complication settled into the village.

This was modern times. Genetic modification exists now. And among the minority families, there were children who had been altered so extensively that they were no longer just different—they were distinct. Different physiology. Different markers. Enough that outsiders could label them an entirely separate race.

None of the Amish children were like that.

Only the minority families had them, and when those families fled violence elsewhere, they brought those children into Parmenus with them.

The Amish didn’t reject the kids. They fed them. Sheltered them. Let them work and play like any others. What were the children supposed to do about how they were born?

But the KKK didn’t see children.

They saw blasphemy.

They called the genetic modifications an affront to the Lord. Proof of corruption. Evidence, in their minds, that God was being mocked.

So they attacked those children too.

Not because of what they had done—but because of what they were.

And the fires kept coming.

Despite burning crosses into front lawns and setting churches ablaze, the KKK insisted they were righteous. They called themselves God-fearing. They carried Bibles. They quoted scripture.

The same men who planted flaming, flammable wooden crosses in the dirt to become a blackened cross, missing parts that were burned off by the fire they set upon the symbol of God's grace, would kneel hours later, hands clasped, praying to Jesus Christ.

They burned crosses at night and prayed beneath them by morning.

In heaven, they were judged as lukewarm—but the worst kind of lukewarm. Not confused. Not ignorant. Deliberate. They spoke their plans aloud in prayer, asking God to bless violence, to excuse murder. Again and again, as part of Christ, our Lord's provision, those plans failed. Something always went wrong. Cars broke down. Guns jammed. Targets escaped.

That was how the population stayed near twenty thousand in the Amish town—because something kept interrupting the killing.

To “murk” someone—African American slang—meant to kill, to slaughter, to erase.

And people were still nearly being murked.

Slowly, the numbers began to fall anyway.

Not from mass death—but from fear.

Swiss Amish families started leaving Two years after the violence began, after nights of smoke and sirens and whispered prayers, people packed their wagons and trucks and said goodbye without ceremony.

“This community was amazing. I’ll start my own. I’m leaving,” Said Canaan Slagel.

About two thousand Swiss Amish—white Amish—walked away.

Some left because they were tired. Some because they were scared. Others because they believed separation was the only way to survive.

But not everyone felt safe leaving.

Some Amish believed the protection surrounding the village was spiritual—that angels guarded Parmenus itself, not its people. They feared that if they stepped beyond the boundary of the community, they would be exposed because the protection would stay behind.

One of those torn between staying and leaving was a man named Joab Ramseyer.

Joab was half Black and half Cherokee. His parents had converted to the Amish faith for one reason above all others: peace. The community was quiet. Structured. Safe. That was the promise.

But when the KKK set up nearby, that promise shattered.

It wasn’t that there were “too many Black people.” It was that there were too many minorities for the KKK’s comfort. The presence of Black families, Native Americans, Jews, Romani, and genetically altered children stirred something ugly. Tension festered. Rage fermented.

Eventually, it boiled over.

They stopped circling the town.They stopped watching from a distance.They came in.

And Parmenus—once invisible—became a target.

Joab Ramseyer didn’t want to stay.

At twenty-five, the walls of Parmenus felt tighter every year. He wanted the ordinary things people his age wanted—love, choice, a future that didn’t feel rationed. More than anything, he wanted to marry the woman he loved.

Her name was Pagiel Shetler.

She was Swiss Amish. Pale-skinned, steady-handed, sharp-eyed. Joab thought she was beautiful in a quiet way that didn’t beg for attention. She loved him too. That was never a question. They had grown up together, worked the same fields, shared the same skills. When they stood near each other, people noticed the way their heads leaned towards each other without thinking.

But love wasn’t enough.

Legally, they weren’t allowed to marry.

The law wasn’t written by the American government. It came from the elders—from fear. From blood already spilled. From nights when fires lit the horizon.

The rule was supposed to be temporary. The town leadership promised it would be lifted once the danger passed—once the KKK left the area and it was safe again.

But the danger never passed as Joab had lived in Parmenus since he was seven. The KKK arrived when he was about nine. That meant sixteen years of waiting. Sixteen years of watching friends grow older without pairing off. Sixteen years of being told "Not yet. You can marry her and court her when the KKK goes away." Sixteen years of this garbage.

No one knew how to make the KKK leave.

So the rule stayed.

For sixteen years, minorities were forbidden from marrying into the Swiss population. Swiss families quietly discouraged relationships with minorities. Minority families were warned away from Swiss partners. No threats were made. No punishments announced. The fear itself did the work.

Adiel didn’t dress it up when he explained it:

“You can’t marry into the Swiss people, because when the KKK comes—be honest—they are more likely to kill us all if we are all mixed. Many of our homes have already been destroyed, completely burned down. The only way to keep the town from becoming empty is if a specific group is left behind. The Swiss people must remain purely Swiss so that when the KKK comes, they will say, ‘These are white people—don’t hurt them.’ If everyone dies, there must still be someone left. And if you look white, do not tell them you are mixed. They will kill you. We want as many people left in town after the genocide—if it comes—as possible.”

The words landed heavy every time they were repeated.

Joab heard them and understood them. He knew Adiel wasn’t cruel—just desperate. But understanding didn’t make it easier to live under.

Each year that passed made the choice clearer.

Stay, obey, wait for the KKK to leave and that might never happen.Or leave—and risk everything outside the village walls.

And Pagiel waited too, knowing the law wasn’t about love at all.

It was about who might be allowed to survive.

The minorities began leaving in waves.

Not slowly. Not quietly. Entire families packed what they could carry and vanished overnight. Nearly three thousand people were gone within months. The Romani community shrank until familiar faces stopped appearing at meals. Mexican families loaded trucks before dawn. Native Americans left in groups, some returning to nomadic routes they had abandoned years earlier. The roads leading out of Parmenus stayed busy while the roads into Parmenus fell silent.

The Jews didn’t want to leave.

They wanted to stand their ground. They had survived worse. But the warnings saying, "You'll need to leave," came from people who loved them—Amish friends who spoke in hushed voices, eyes darting toward windows.

They were told the truth: the KKK had started targeting Jewish families directly.

God was stopping the killings—but There were ambushes. Break-ins. Shots fired that missed by inches. Attempts stacked on attempts. Survival no longer felt sustainable.

Then the Muslims were hit.

The Muslim community had never caused trouble. They didn’t interfere with the Amish. They kept to themselves, traded peacefully, prayed quietly. There was no conflict—until the KKK decided there should be one.

They came in mass droves.

Homes were vandalized. People were chased. Some were beaten. Some were killed. Many survived only because angels—God’s protection—intervened. But not everyone was spared.

That was the breaking point.

Nearby Jewish communities formed a united front. Palestinian refugees fled immediately. Refugees from Israel followed as soon as they saw Muslims dying in the streets. Israelis did not want to stay in a place where genocide was testing the waters.

Chinese families arrived, saw the damage, and left within weeks. Then Indians. Japanese. Koreans. Vietnamese. Afghan refugees passed through briefly and disappeared just as fast.

Anyone who recognized the pattern ran.

The Messianic Jews inside the Amish community stayed.

Most of them weren’t recent immigrants. They were descendants of Holocaust survivors—families that had already learned what happens when you wait too long. People from Poland. The Netherlands. Germany. They didn’t wait for permission.

They organized.

They built walls—thick wooden barricades reinforced at weak points. They left controlled exits: one door in, one door out. The KKK tried to burn the walls. They learned quickly that fire drew gunfire.

The wolves didn’t like resistance.

Some Israelis had settled in the area thinking it was peaceful. Jewish leaders recruited them immediately. They joined without hesitation. They had training. Discipline. Weapons.

This part—the recruitment—was organized by Adiel.

He was Amish. That mattered. But he had reached a point where pacifism alone was no longer enough. A pacifist system only works when everyone agrees to it. The KKK never did.

So he stood before the community and said what he never thought he would say:

“You must be pacifistic toward one another. That is required. But you are not required to be pacifistic toward those who attack you physically. You do not have to be pacifistic toward the KKK or neo-Nazis. I am not saying to attack people randomly. Their families and friends may not be racist—be careful. Do not provoke retaliation. But if the KKK comes to this town, understand this: if you are not white, there is a ninety-nine percent chance they will attack you.”

The rules were clear.

Peace within the community was mandatory.Self-defense against outsiders was allowed.

Comanche members were required to join the united front because the tribe had already driven the KKK out of another neighborhood after the KKK started terrorizing the comanche. They knew how to organize resistance.

Adiel specifically selected Israeli men.

“In your country,” he told them, “military service is mandatory from a young age. You have experience. You will be part of the united front.”

Former soldiers. Comanche fighters. Armed Jews. They were pulled together into something that looked nothing like an Amish tradition—and everything like survival.

Jews weren’t technically forced to join.

They volunteered anyway.And they recruited others.

The KKK made themselves easy to identify. White robes. Hoods. Symbols. It removed guesswork. Anyone wearing them was removed from the area—forcefully, but without execution. They were banned. If they resisted, they were escorted out at gunpoint.

The Muslims left in mass numbers.

Most of them didn’t want to stay and fight. They fled instead. Those who remained asked the united front for protection—and received it without hesitation.

The relationship was simple. Mutual respect. No interference. No hostility.

“Okay,” they said. “That’s fine. We’ll help.”

Because by then, neutrality was gone.

And survival required choosing sides.

The KKK grew more aggressive.

Each failed attempt to break into the town only made them angrier. They prowled the outskirts longer. They shouted louder. They tested the defenses at night, probing for weakness, daring the united front to make the first move.

That was what Adiel feared most.

He knew how mobs worked. If the KKK could convince themselves they were “defending” instead of attacking, they would escalate without restraint. He didn’t want bloodshed—especially not bloodshed that could be twisted into justification.

So he laid down a rule that everyone had to follow.

When the lookouts spotted white robes at the tree line, no one advanced. No one chased. No one crossed the boundary.

You didn’t go to them.

You waited.

You braced.

You defended.

If they came forward, they were stopped. If they retreated, they were allowed to retreat. The united front never pursued, never raided, never hunted. The line did not move.

That restraint saved lives.

Again and again, the KKK reached the perimeter and stalled—unable to push through, unable to provoke retaliation. They shouted threats, fired into the air, burned what they could reach from a distance, but they couldn’t break in.

Still, the wall worried Adiel.

Wood burned. Everyone knew it. Every night he imagined flames crawling up the barricades, sparks carried by the wind, fire doing what bullets hadn’t.

So he started asking questions.

Quiet ones.

He went to the wealthier Amish families first. Then to anyone who knew anyone outside the community with resources. Slowly, money was gathered—donations pooled without ceremony. No one called it fundraising. They called it necessity.

Construction workers were hired discreetly. The instructions were simple but precise.

No electricity. No barbed wire. No traps.

Too many children leaned on things without thinking. Too many innocent people could get hurt.

And Adiel said exactly what he meant:

“We don’t need an electric fence. All we need is a smooth wall. A wall that is straight, with no ripples. A wall with nothing to grab, nothing to climb.”

The new wall was poured in concrete.

Flat. Seamless. No handholds. No cracks. No ridges. It rose clean and unforgiving from the ground. You could press your palms against it, scrape your fingers raw—and still go nowhere.

It didn’t shock.

It didn’t cut.

It simply refused entry.

Joab watched it rise with mixed relief and dread.

Being half Cherokee, his mind went elsewhere—to the Apache.

Apaches were fast. Organized. Experienced with defense and pursuit. The united front was already discussing it—whether Apache members should be brought in, whether their skills were needed badly enough to justify drafting them.

Because that was what it had become.

A draft.

No one liked the word, but no one argued with the reality. If you were capable—man or woman—you were pulled into the united front’s security force. Not asked. Assigned.

It wasn’t punishment.

It was survival.

Joab knew the proposal would be taken to Adiel soon. And once it was, the line between community and militia would blur even further.

The wall stood tall and silent.

And everyone understood what it meant:

There would be no more running.

To be continued...