Refugees


I had read all about refugees in books. I had known all about them. They were merely deserters who tried all means to keep alive by burdening others, leeching off the goodness of the world. I had despised them. I knew from whence they were conceived. They spawned from the conflicts the ravaged their countries, but they had no courage, no loyalty, no thought for others. They were not able to feel shame, they knew not embarrassment, they knew not about dishonour. I cringed at the very sight of one, I always believed that they were not worth my cast-offs, filthy cowards that they were. Living in protective Singapore, I was blind to their hardships. I was assured that Singapore would never end up like that. After all, how could it be possible? This wealthy, stable country? No, it could never have happened.

But it did.

Five weeks ago, Singapore had been struck by terrorist attacks. The feared organization had planted operatives deep into the government, and soon the country was in chaos. Many people were killed, and technology centers destroyed. The organization, being, after all, Singaporean, was ruthlessly efficient, dicing all their enemies in one fell swoop. It was over in five days.

Five days. That was all it took for the jewel of the south pacific region to degenerate into unstoppable anarchy.

I, with about half the population, fled.

I was unable to swallow my pride in peace. I raged like a storm, I felt disgraced, mortified, humiliated! How could this have happened?

When the fact that I was now one of the peoples I hated the most imprinted itself into my mind, I sunk into a melancholy. Day after day I gazed out to the endless stretch of sea laid bare before me, grazing my fingertips into the water, staring into the distance. I drank little and ate even less, and soon I had become what everyone in our “fleet” called the “Hantu” or the “Ghost”. Despite spending all my time out in the open, my skin had developed a deathly pallor, and my eyes were bloodshot. I hoped that the rafts would sail forever, far from the world, where I would never have to face the shame of being one of them, a refugee.

The more I thought about it, the more my hope grew. Hadn’t Singapore’s relationships with the other countries been rather strained lately? Would they not turn us away? The thought cheered me up, and for the first time in weeks, I ate with gusto.

As I slowly regained the colour in my cheeks, we reached land. I volunteered to guard the boats and the children while the adults scavenged for supplies and ask for refuge. I was so sure we would not be granted refuge that I actually hummed to myself, twiddling a stray piece of tree bark in my hand.

As the adults returned, I got ready to greet their frowns with sad eyes. However, they came back laughing and cheering, and my blood turned to ice in my veins. Everyone else was happy to finally have a home on land, but for me, it was my worst nightmare.

I refused to ever set foot outside the tiny shack my family was given, choosing instead to cower in a corner. I was so afraid, would someone come and sneer at me for being one of the dreaded refugees? Would I be stoned to death, or tortured? I couldnt live with the thoughts, the images, the percieved smirks and degrading glances. I decided, that I would rather be dead than to face such dishonour.

So, now, I'm standing on the edge of a pier. In the distance I can hear my mother calling...no, not my mother. A refugee. One of them. As I flung myself into the ocean, I thought to myself, it was fitting that the last thing I ever heard was a refugee. After all, I was one too.