The Story of Handing Out National IDs in South America (3)

Isabella returned the following evening.

"Your Excellency, I have compiled the proposals for implementing the national registration program in the provinces."

She set three files on the desk, her expression grim and resolute.

"The one on top is the proposal that received majority support?"

"That is correct."

"Let's take a look."

As I opened the file, she began her briefing.

"This is a persuasion strategy through education. We use dormitories as bait to recruit the laborers working on the plantations, thereby weakening the plantation owners' influence."

"Not a bad approach. If the workers rise up as a group, the plantation owners will be terrified."

As a nation develops and society grows more sophisticated, workers' rights grow stronger with it. It was also the method best suited to San Marcos as it currently stood — a country changing at breakneck speed.

"I do have some concerns, though. The power the plantation owners have built up over the years isn't something to take lightly. What if it turns into a violent incident?"

"That is why I personally recommend the second method."

I opened the second file as she explained.

"We would mobilize the National Tax Service to collect the income taxes they have been evading all this time."

"So you'd use taxes as leverage to bring the plantation owners to heel."

"Correct. There will be resistance, but the advantage is that we have a clear justification. If we negotiate with a reasonable sum on the table, I expect the plantation owners will cooperate without much fuss."

"A rational choice. Very much like you, Isabella."

"You flatter me."

That left only the third file. A familiar name caught my eye at the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bottom of the document.

"This one... was written by Director Lucio."

"That is correct."

Given his temperament, it was almost certainly a hardline approach. I opened the file, and sure enough, something extraordinary was written there.

"Collecting rent on illegally occupied land... The resistance is going to be fierce, isn't it?"

"Yes. That is why most of the Senior Presidential Secretaries opposed it. The land belongs to the state, but the crops grown on it belong to the individuals."

"That's true enough."

This kind of problem was common in rural Korea as well. Leave a vacant plot sitting empty, and the neighborhood elders — who seemed to fall ill at the mere sight of unused land — would start planting this and that on it. The trouble was that even in cases of unauthorized occupation, the harvest grown on that land belonged to the person who planted it.

This was no different. They had occupied state land without authorization, that much was true — but nearly all of it had been abandoned, empty ground. They had built plantations on it and generated a steady stream of revenue for the state, so it was hard to simply take a stick to them.

If I push too hard, they might just disappear into the mountains.

My thoughts grew heavier. How could I make everyone happy with the least amount of damage?

There's no way to do this without anyone getting hurt. In that case, I should choose the option that makes the majority happy.

After a moment of that, I made my decision with the feeling of coughing up blood.

"...Excuse me?"

Implement every policy and drain the plantation owners of their power.

If I think about local administration going forward, I can't just leave them as they are.

If you wanted the happiness of the many at the cost of the few, there was no other way. Hit them as fast and as hard as possible, then compensate them separately. That was a hundred times the right call.

"They don't pay taxes, they occupy state land without authorization... We can't just leave that, can we? We need to show that the law and its principles are still alive."

At my words, Isabella's pupils trembled faintly. Then, as if she had arrived at some profound realization, she bowed her head with a look of grim resolve.

"Understood. I will convey Your Excellency's will with absolute certainty."

After leaving Eugene's office, Isabella went down to the underground secret chamber and assembled the Senior Presidential Secretaries.

"His Excellency has..."

She met their gazes — all of them curious which of the three proposals had been chosen — with perfect composure.

"...So the third proposal was selected?"

"No."

Isabella shook her head slightly.

"He has ordered that all three proposals be carried out."

The room swallowed as one.

"Will we be rounding up the plantation owners for execution, or...?"

"No. I believe His Excellency intends to stop at collecting back taxes and overdue rent."

"And if they fail to pay?"

"They will pay with their bodies."

At that uncompromising answer, the Senior Presidential Secretaries began to tremble.

"Steel yourselves, all of you. Failure will not be tolerated."

They nodded with grim eyes. If they wanted His Excellency's blade pointed anywhere but at themselves, they would have to work with everything they had.

A coffee plantation village in southern San Marcos. A truck pulled into the dusty village square.

Vehicles almost never made it this far, so it was more than enough to draw every eye in the village. Then a loudspeaker crackled to life.

"Ahem — mic check. Good day, everyone!"

The villagers gathered one by one, and a Ministry of Education official climbed down from the truck with a friendly smile.

"Alright, everyone, look this way!"

He handed out the flyers he'd brought and began to explain.

"Dormitories have been built ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in Libertad! You can send your children to school now."

"Dormitories...?"

"What's that?"

"Simply put, it's a place that feeds them and houses them. The environment is set up so students can study as much as they want."

The crowd began to murmur.

"How much do we have to pay? We don't have that kind of money..."

"Don't worry! His Excellency has granted his grace — it's completely free! However, it's only available if both the parents and the children have completed national registration!"

"F-free?!"

"Good heavens...!"

At the word free, the villagers' eyes wavered. As if they didn't know. If they didn't educate their children, those kids would live the same lives they had. They'd only been unable to because of the wall called reality. If the state was laying the table like this, that was a different story entirely. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠It was a building where their children could study, and it would take mouths off the family table immediately. There was no reason not to send them.

"H-how do we do the national registration?"

"It's simple. You ride this truck to the nearest branch office and do it there. We'll bring you back as well, so six hours is all it takes."

At a process easier than they'd expected, everyone's faces brightened.

"I-I want to do it!"

"Take me too!"

Just as the villagers began raising their hands one after another—

"Who the hell is causing trouble on someone else's plantation?!"

With that rough shout, a pack of menacing men came swarming in. It was the local plantation owner — the village's power broker — and his enforcers. The villagers, who had been squeezed like rats for so long, backed away with frightened faces.

"Why aren't you working?! Get the hell out of here!"

His presence was razor-sharp. The Ministry of Education official, however, didn't so much as blink.

"Are you interfering with the execution of official duties?"

"Official duties? Don't make me laugh! Hey, get this bastard out of here!"

At the plantation owner's command, the men approached with axes and machetes. They'd expected that much to send him running in fear.

"Haa... I was hoping we could settle this with words."

The official let out a long sigh, then reached into his coat.

BANG—!

He fired a pistol into the air.

"Aaaagh!"

The men who'd been approaching screamed and dropped to the ground. Right in front of their eyes was a pistol barrel, smoke still curling from the muzzle.

"Don't even think I won't shoot. His Excellency has ordered that anyone who disrupts these information sessions be executed on the spot."

The official leveled the gun at them and asked.

"So, what's it going to be? Keep interfering and get a hole in your head? For your information, I'm a former soldier. At this range, I can hit nine out of ten."

That was right. One of San Marcos's infamous old laws: to become a civil servant, you had to be a former soldier, except in special cases. Eugene had abolished that law immediately after taking office, but that didn't change the fact that most civil servants were still former military.

"If you understood that, stop interfering and leave. The second shot comes without warning."

"Eek!"

When the plantation owner's gang fled, the official turned to the villagers with a broad smile, as if nothing had happened.

"Well, the troublemakers are gone, so let me continue. Please come this way."

Meanwhile, at the National Tax Service situation room in Libertad.

"Did the customs data come through?"

"We've got it!"

Ricardo, the Senior Secretary for Finance, and the National Tax Service staff under the Ministry of Finance were moving in a frenzy.

"Good. From now on, we reverse-calculate income tax based on coffee bean export volumes over the past ten years. They're chronic tax evaders anyway, so pad the figures as much as you reasonably can when you draw up the bills."

"Yes, sir!"

About a month later, once the Ministry of Education officials had completed Phase One — the moderate approach — and returned, it was the Ministry of Finance's turn to deploy. Given the circumstances, they were a kind of tax-collection special forces, armed with rifles and wearing body armor.

With the Ministry of Education's cooperation, they visited the homes of plantation owners scattered across the country and shoved tax collection notices in their faces.

"National Tax Service. We're here to collect your unpaid income tax of five hundred and forty thousand dollars for the past five years."

"W-what? Five hundred and forty thousand dollars?"

Naturally, most of the plantation owners dug in their heels.

"I've never made that kind of money in my life! What kind of nonsense is this?! I'm not paying! Go ahead — cut me open!"

"Well... we can't exactly cut you open, so you'll just have to pay with your body."

They had received His Excellency's orders, and they had no mercy.

"Special Administrative Order No. 4. Tax delinquents shall be sentenced to hard labor until full payment is made. If you keep resisting, you'll be going to Tortilla Farm in the Central Basin... What's it going to be? Pay the tax, or work it off at fifteen dollars a day?"

"......"

In the end, the plantation owners had only one choice.

"No matter how I look at it, the calculation seems wrong. If you could just knock a little off..."

"If the calculation doesn't add up, file a formal appeal with the National Tax Service."

They cleaned out every last dollar they'd saved and paid the tax in full. At least they were among San Marcos's wealthy, so none of them got dragged off to Tortilla Farm.

In the end, all they could do was gather together and curse the government.

"This goddamn country! This piece-of-shit president! What the hell have they ever done for us that they can just come steal our money?!"

"We've still got the land. We can start over."

"That's right. Work those slave bastards fourteen hours a day and we'll recover in no time. This time we'll even cut their wages..."

Just as they were spinning their hopeful comeback fantasies—

Knock, knock.

With that polite knock, men in suits entered, accompanied by soldiers.

"Good day. We're from the Ministry of Land."

"The Ministry of Land? Why would you be here..."

The official pulled a thick document from his briefcase and smiled pleasantly.

"We're here regarding the unauthorized occupation of state land."

"...Excuse me?"

"It appears you've been occupying state land without authorization and operating a plantation on it. Since 2001 — that's a full twenty-four years."

"N-no, that was just abandoned land, so..."

"We understand the circumstances, but the law is the law. We'll be retroactively charging twenty-four years of rent on the forty acres of plantation you're currently operating."

"Rent...?"

"Don't worry too much. His merciful Excellency specifically instructed us to set the rent at the lowest possible rate."

"R-really? How much?"

"Fifty dollars per acre per month. Quite affordable, isn't it?"

It was, indeed, a cheap rate. The problem was the size and the duration.

"Forty acres, so that's two thousand dollars a month. Twenty-four thousand a year. Over twenty-four years, the total comes to five hundred and seventy-six thousand dollars."

The Ministry of Land official drove the nail in.

"Ah, are you short on cash? His merciful Excellency has said that if payment is difficult, you may go to Tortilla Farm and work it off with your body. At fifteen dollars a day, you'd only need to work a hundred and five years without a single day off."

"Guh...!"

All across the country, plantation owners foamed at the mouth and collapsed.