Welcome to Oceania Applicants and Guests!

Below is the story of a recent party members' acceptance and induction into our grand alliance.
You too can join and become a member of the IngSoc Party. All you must do is register on these forums and complete the membership application. The Ministries of IngSoc shall take you through the rest of the process.

Join IngSoc and never stand alone again!

The flint grey of predawn matches the frost-covered tarmac as you shuffle wearily out of the Department of Re-Education. Everywhere you look, the same dolorous hue; the ground, the sky, even the people around you. Indistinguishable, exhausted figures, you trudge steadily away from the hulking ziggurat of the Department.

Your incarceration in there had lasted... it must have been at least three days, maybe more. A seemingly endless succession of cubic, claustrophobic rooms, staffed by indistinguishable bureaucrats, and questions, questions, questions. The only way you had been able to discern any progress at all was that the stench of fear and desperation had gradually diminished amongst the others in your 'Process Group'.

You watch them now, those dozen or so who were released with you. Clad in the identical grey jumpsuits issued by the Ministry of Plenty, they seem dazed to be alive. Some of those who had answered the questions incorrectly were taken away for more intensive interrogation in the bowels of the Ministry of Truth; those unfortunate few who had demonstrated persistent improper thought had been reassigned to the Ministry of Love. To a man, they had screamed as they were dragged away - a sound of terrible fear, and shame.

Lost in your thoughts, and with the poor light, you slip on the grime-coated ground. But before you can fall, the woman on your left grabs your arm; a moment later, you are pulled upright. You recognize her face, now you see it up close; she was brought into the Ministry for some indiscretion that had been caught by The Party's all-pervasive surveillance. For it was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander when you were in any public place or within range of a telescreen. The smallest thing could give you away. A nervous tic, an unconscious look of anxiety, a habit of muttering to yourself -- anything that carried with it the suggestion of abnormality, of having something to hide. In any case, wearing an improper facial expression, as she had, by looking incredulous when a victory was announced, was itself a punishable offense. There was even a word for it in IngSoc's Newspeak: facecrime, it was called.

As you thank her for steadying you, she both regards you with incomprehension. "How could I have allowed you to fall?" she asks. "We Stand Together In Strength, And None Can Be Allowed To Waver."
She's directly quoting one of the Propaganda Department's slogans, one of the many that were drilled into your Process Group during Re-Education. After you assure her that you'll watch your step more carefully, the woman departs, leaving you to make your way through the city in the slowly receding gloom.

Where are you, anyway? You scan the skyline for landmarks, in an effort to work out at least which city this is. On your way into the region, you weren't allowed to see anything; even the aircraft you'd arrived in had blacked-out windows. Of course, you understood why: 'unprocessed' foreigners could not be allowed to see anything, ANYTHING of Oceania. Even the slightest detail, even the vaguest locations of cities, could be used by the enemy to guide rockets and bombs.
Of course, after passing the tests in the Department of Re-Education, this restriction no longer applies to you. So you scan the skyline, trying to get your bearings. In the distance, there is some sort of tall, apparently helical skyscraper; even from here you can see the massive IngSoc banners that drape down its sides. Dotted around it, of course, are the buildings which even more unmistakably mark this as a city under the control of The Party: the Ministries.

The Ministry of Truth, which looms before you, is an enormous pyramidal structure of glittering white concrete, soaring up, terrace after terrace, 300 meters into the air. The Ministry of Truth contained, it was said, three thousand rooms above ground level, and corresponding ramifications below. Scattered about the city, there were three other buildings of similar appearance and size: the Ministry of Peace, the Ministry of Love, and the Ministry of Plenty. So completely did they dwarf the surrounding architecture that from the roof of that helical tower you could no doubt see all four of them simultaneously. They were the homes of the four bureaucracies between which the entire apparatus of government was divided. Every capital city under IngSoc's power had these four pyramids; they were the implacable physical manifestations of The Party's monolithic control. It was said that the central Ministries in the capital of Oceania were even --

"NUMBER FOUR-ZERO-FOUR-NINE-EIGHT-ONE!" booms a telescreen loudspeaker mounted to an old apartment building on your left, and, with shocked recognition, you realize it's referring to you. "DON'T WASTE TIME! YOU ARE TO PROCEED SPEED-WISE VIA AVENUE EIGHT-K-FOUR-THREE TO AIRSTRIP FIFTY-NINE! YOUR FLIGHT LEAVES IN EIGHTEEN MINUTES AND TWENTY SECONDS!" And with an abrupt whistle of poorly-tuned acoustics, the speakers fall silent again.
This is what you were told during re-education. Not about your flight, but about the telescreens. There is of course no way of knowing whether one is being watched at any given moment. How often, or on what system, the Thought Police plug in on any individual person is unknowable. It's even conceivable that they watch everybody in Oceania, all the time. But at any rate they could plug into the screens around you whenever they want to. Under IngSoc, you have to live - did live, from habit that becomes instinct - in the assumption that every sound one makes is overheard, every movement scrutinized.

And so you move, and move 'speed-wise'. To Avenue 8K43, towards the airstrip where your flight is waiting. As you hurry between the towering concrete edifices which lead to the runways, you can hear the frenzied activity as the workers load up the planes that will accompany you. Embarking are indoctrinational officers, front line Thought Police, Crimestop psychologists; not to mention the Ministerial Architects that will be surveying your capital city before the day is out.

As you board one of the planes, the visage of Big Brother looms over the airport, projected from a giant telescreen. Even over the roar of the jet engines, you hear his voice:
"This is our land. A land of peace and of plenty. A land of harmony and hope. This is our land. Oceania. These are our people. The workers, the strivers, the builders. These are our people. The builders of our world, struggling, fighting, bleeding, dying. On the streets of our cities and on the far-flung battlefields. Fighting against the mutilation of our hopes and dreams. Who are they?"
You grin widely, and it has nothing to do with facecrime. For these people are great and terrible, at once utterly cowed but simultaneously glorious in conviction and power.

They are the future.
And now, they are your brethren.