He narrowed his eyes, trying to make sense of the shapes just visible in the small amount of moonlight filtering through the cracks in the boards.
Clearing his throat, he asked, “Does anyone here speak English?” He heard murmured voices, then from somewhere to the right he heard, “I do.”
“My name is John. What is your name?”
“Abdul Latif.”
“Where are you from Abdul?”
“Myanmar.”
“You are Rohingya?”
“Yes, and you? Why are you here?”
“I’m English, and I’m here because I want to stop these guys.”
“The traffickers?”
“Yes.”
John heard Abdul speaking in a language he didn’t understand, perhaps translating.
There were murmurs from the others, then Abdul asked in English, “And Mr. John, how will you do that from inside this hut?”
“Trust me, Abdul, this wasn’t part of the plan.” John shifted his position in an effort to get more comfortable. He reached behind him, his hand brushing against what felt like a leg. It moved out of the way. Reaching past, he felt the wall of the hut, sliding himself back so he could lean against it.
“How many people are in here?”
“Twenty-two. We were twenty-five, but…” Abdul’s voice trailed off, but John understood. The heat and the stench of the hut were overwhelming. He wasn’t surprised people hadn’t survived.
“How long have you been here, Abdul?”
“Three months, some others as long as me, some less.”
“You are all from Myanmar?”
“I am from Bangladesh,” another voice spoke up.
“Me too and my brother,” said another voice.
“Yes, some are from Bangladesh, but most of us are from Myanmar,” explained Abdul.
He heard more voices as the English speakers translated for the other occupants. Outside, a dog barked, followed by a thud and a yelp as a guard threw something at it.
“So, Mr. John, how did you find us?” Abdul continued.
“It’s a long story, Abdul…”
“Hmmm, I don’t think we are going anywhere soon, Mr. John, and we need some entertainment. Please tell us your story.” Murmurs of agreement echoed around the hut, and John nodded in assent.
“Well, it begins, Abdul, like all good stories should, with a beautiful woman…”
There were some chuckles in the darkness as Abdul translated, and John heard movement as the occupants adjusted their positions to better hear his story.
John continued, pausing now and then to allow time for Abdul and the English-speaking Bangladeshis to translate for their countrymen.
John warmed to the task, not leaving out any detail, realizing that for these people, locked in a hut for up to three months, his story would transport them to another world, one far from their current boredom and misery.
After almost ten minutes, John finished, and when the translations had ended, excited voices in Bengali, Burmese, and Urdu vied to make themselves heard, eager to comment or ask questions. John couldn’t understand a word and waited for some form of order to be restored.
“Ngeiyb!” A guard banged on the wall of the hut. “Quiet!”
All conversation ceased as the occupants waited until they heard the guard moving away. Once again, the voices resumed, this time muted, eager for answers but reluctant to invite the wrath of the guards outside.
John answered as patiently and truthfully as he could until there were no more questions, and they all sat in silence, retreating to the worlds they had painted with his words.
After a while, John asked, “Abdul, now it’s your turn. I want to hear your stories. As you said, we aren’t going anywhere fast. Tell me how you all ended up here in this hut with an Englishman for company.”
Abdul started—a vivid story of violence, rape, and murder. How in desperation, driven from his country by hatred and persecution, he had given all his money to a trafficker who had promised to take him and his family to safety by sea. He told of fifteen wretched days on an overcrowded and leaky boat without food until they were dumped in a mangrove swamp on the coast of Thailand. Starving, weak, and afraid, they were found by the police who sold them to yet more traffickers. They were made to walk for ten days through the jungle with barely enough food and water, and many who started the journey with Abdul did not complete it. Abdul’s voice broke, and he choked with emotion as he described his daughter dying in his arms in the jungle, only to be followed two days later by his wife.
John listened, his eyes filled with tears, his heart heavy with sorrow, his head boiling with anger. No-one translated Abdul’s story, they had heard stories like this before.
One of the Bangladeshis, a man called Shakeel, his voice younger than the others told of how he was promised work in Malaysia on a construction site, but by the time he reached this camp, the traffickers refused to take him further until his family paid them more money. He told of how he had been beaten and tortured, hoping he would beg his relatives for more money. He said, with steel in his voice, he would not let his captors get the better of him. He would rather die than let them earn more money from his family.
Many others had similar stories, tales of incredible hardship and deprivation—the loss of loved ones to starvation and disease, wives and daughters sold to brothel owners in Bangkok, and men sold as slaves to the trawler owners of Thailand’s fishing fleet.
It was a while after the stories ended, late in the evening, before John could bring himself to speak again. He started quietly, his voice filled with emotion.
“Your stories have brought me immense sorrow. Of course, nothing like the sorrow you have experienced.” He waited while Abdul and Shakeel translated in Burmese and Bengali before continuing.
“But it also makes me very angry. I was already determined to try to shut this operation down…” John paused, searching for the words. “But now, listening to you, I am more determined than ever. I will not rest until these men here in this camp and their bosses are brought to justice.” He paused again, looking around the hut at the faint shapes in the darkness, then continued, “What form that justice will take, I don’t know, but I give you my word, I will end it.”
“Inshallah,” replied Shakeel. “God willing.”
There was a moment of silence, then Abdul spoke up.
“With respect Mr. John, we are locked in a hut. Many of these people have not had proper food for months. They are weak, they are sick, they are frightened. Your words are fighting words, but in reality, there is nothing we can do.”
John nodded in the darkness. Abdul was right, but John wasn’t giving up without a fight.
“Abdul my friend. There is always something we can do. Now, tell me more about the camp and the routine.”
71
John lay awake, staring at the faint light of dawn filtering through the cracks in the roof. It had been late once they had finished talking—discussing the camp, the guards, the routine—before exhaustion finally got the better of him, and he fell asleep. But the pain in his head and the stuffy enclosed environment kept waking him, and he only managed a few hours of fitful sleep. There was barely enough room to stretch out, and the floor was hard and full of lumps and stones.
As he lay there, he remembered the stories he had heard the previous night, what everyone had gone through, and once again, he was dismayed by man’s capacity for cruelty. The only thing that kept him from sinking further into despair was the thought of Adriana—the way her eyes sparkled when she was amused, the tiny dimple in her left cheek when she smiled—that kept him going and made him search his mind constantly for a solution, for a way to free themselves. She had told him she loved him, and if he allowed himself to admit it, he had fallen in love with her. There was no way he was going to give her up without a fight.
As the sun made its appearance, for the first time, he was able to make out the interior of the hut and its occupants. Sleepi
ng bodies covered the floor, huddled together, giving each other comfort. A few even slept sitting up, leaning against the walls of the hut, unable to lie down in the confined space.
John pushed himself to a seated position, his skull throbbing with renewed pain as the blood rushed to his head. He stifled a groan and shifted a little, trying to find comfort. He sensed someone watching him, and one of the men leaning against the wall spoke up. John recognized Abdul’s voice from last night.
“Did you get some rest, Mr. John?”
“A little,” John replied. “Not enough.”
Abdul nodded slowly and smiled a little. “I thought I would get used to these conditions, Mr. John, but one can never sleep properly.”
“No.” John squinted in the poor light, trying to get a better look at Abdul. He was thin, but then they all were, and his age wasn’t apparent, the strain of the last few months adding years to his appearance. Thick, matted hair hung down on each side of his head, but even in the faint dawn light, and from across the hut, his eyes shone bright and intelligent.
Abdul studied John, assessing him before speaking again.
“I’ve been thinking, Mr. John. If you have a plan, I will help you. I have nothing left, but I will not give them the satisfaction of dying in here, I would rather die fighting.”
“I will help too,” Shakeel spoke up from the other side of the hut, and John turned to look at the young man sitting up. He must have been strong and fit once—despite the lack of food and exercise, traces of former muscle were still apparent on his frame. “My brothers here will also join us.” He said something in Bengali, and three more men sat up and looked at John. Abdul spoke in Burmese and one by one, three, four, then five men sat up.
“We will all help you, Mr. John. Others here would like to help, but they are not strong, their health is not good, but we are with you, Mr. John.”
John looked around the hut at the men gazing back at him, their faces filled with hope and anticipation. He didn’t have the heart to tell them he still didn’t have a plan, but he sure as hell didn’t want to let them down. They were counting on him.
72
By eight a.m., everyone was awake and sat waiting to be let out of the hut. John crouched by the doorway, looking at the men sitting around him—twenty-two men, driven from their homes by hatred or desperation. Next door, in the other hut, were eighteen women and children. It was up to John to set them free. After that, who knew what would happen, but now, he had to focus on the present. In desperation, he had come up with a rough plan. He wasn’t sure if it would work, but the men assembled were filled with new hope.
Abdul had told John they were usually let out at eight in the morning and counted before being given food. John looked at his watch and frowned, it was already past eight, and when he peered through the gap in the doorframe, he saw no sign of activity from the guard hut. At eight thirty, two of the guards came out of the hut and sat on a bench smoking but made no effort to unlock the huts. Abdul crawled over and peered out.
“Why are they not opening the door?”
“I don’t know.” John turned around to face the inside of the hut again, leaning his back against the door frame. It worried him, but he didn’t want to show it. His plan depended upon them continuing their normal routine. There was nothing he could do but wait.
By nine thirty, when many of the men had given up hope and were lying down again, dozing, a vehicle honked outside the gate. John scrambled to look out through the door frame.
All four guards were outside now, one running to the gate, the other two and Prataporn standing by the Isuzu, watching.
John watched as the gate swung open, and a white Toyota Land Cruiser pulled inside, followed by a pickup truck with Police written on the side.
“Mr. John, what is happening?”
John turned his head to look at Abdul who was peering through a crack on the other side of the door frame.
“I don't know, Abdul. I don’t know.”
He looked back as the rear door of the Toyota opened, and a familiar figure clad in a tailored linen suit climbed out.
“Shit.”
“Who is he?”
“Hassan Rahman. The bastard who put all of you here.”
73
“What do we do, Mr. John?”
John sighed and looked away from the door frame. He stared down at the floor, considering his options.
He glanced up at Abdul who was watching him expectantly. Turning his head, even more, he looked at all the faces staring back at him, waiting for his instructions. He chewed on his lower lip, then turned back to look through the crack again.
He counted. With Hassan was a driver, and in the police pickup were two cops. Prataporn and his men made four more. Eight men in total. The police would be armed, and although Abdul insisted he had never seen Prataporn’s men with weapons, John was sure at least Prataporn was armed with John’s Glock.
They were twenty-three men, including John, most weak and unwell. He could count on perhaps eight who were sufficiently strong enough. John made an unhappy face—he didn’t like the odds. Composing himself, he turned around and faced the hut.
“I count eight men. I’d guess three of them are armed.” John paused as Abdul and Shakeel translated for him. “The odds of us succeeding have now halved.”
John waited for the translation to finish and for the weight of his words to sink in. He looked around the hut, making eye contact with each of the men.
“If we go ahead, some of us may die.” John glanced at Abdul and Shakeel. “I am prepared to take that risk for myself. I would rather fight with the chance of getting out than stay in here to rot.” He turned back to the other men. “Risking your life is a decision only you can make.” John fell silent as his words were translated.
There was silence for a while, then from the back of the hut, a faint voice spoke up, a voice he hadn’t heard before. John strained to see who it was, watching as an elderly man pushed himself up off the floor. He spoke for a while, his voice faint and weak, all eyes on him, and when he stopped, Abdul nodded, then turned to John and translated.
“Uncle said we have been driven from our land, our houses burned, our women assaulted and raped. Many of us have lost our loved ones. Most of us have nothing to go back to.” Abdul paused, searching for the correct words in English. “Uncle said the only thing we have left is our self-respect, and we have forgotten that, lying in this hut like animals.”
John turned to look at the old man and nodded his understanding. Abdul continued as, in the background, Shakeel translated for the Bangladeshis.
“Only Allah… ahhh, God knows when it is our time to die, and if it is today, it is his will. Uncle said, if he will die, he would rather it be out there fighting than rotting here in the darkness. At least he will die with self-respect.”
John blinked away his tears and smiled at the old man. He crawled toward him, the men making space to let him through, and clasped the man’s frail, bony hand.
“Abdul, please tell Uncle I would consider it an honor to have him by my side.”
The old man nodded and smiled, his mouth opening in a toothless grin. From around the hut, other men spoke up, in Burmese, Bengali, and English.
“We are all with you, Mr. John,” said Abdul.
John stood and looked around the hut and smiled.
“Whatever happens here today, I want you all to know it has been my honor to spend time with you.”
He moved back toward the doorway, hands reaching up to touch him, patting his legs in reassurance as he moved through the men seated on the floor. He squatted down beside the door again, winked at Abdul, then peered out through the gap. The men were gathered around the vehicles as Hassan shouted and waved his hands in the air.
“We will stick with the original plan. That fat bastard Hassan won’t get involved, so we only have seven men to worry about.” He turned to Abdul. “Just be careful of the two cops and Prataporn. They will have guns.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. John. Today, we get out of here, Inshallah.”
John nodded, “Inshallah,” and looked back through the gap.
“Okay, they are coming. Everyone get ready.”
74
Hassan removed his handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped the sweat from his neck and forehead. He was tired and angry. It had been a long night, organizing a private plane to fly him down to the nearest airport at Hat Yai, followed by a two-hour drive into the jungle. He had a pounding headache and needed strong coffee and some painkillers. All because of that fucking Englishman sticking his nose into Hassan’s business. But thanks to Prataporn, his luck was changing. Catching him here of all places. It would be so much easier to deal with the meddling motherfucker in the jungle. No-one would ever find his body.
“Get them outside,” he barked at Prataporn who issued instructions to his men. Two men walked toward the huts, one peeling off to the women’s hut, one heading to the men’s. They banged on the doors and shouted before unlocking the padlocks securing the doors. They shouted again, and Hassan watched as people slowly exited from each hut. The men pushed and shoved them into lines in front of each hut, the women and children on one side, the men on the other.
Hassan looked them over and shook his head in disgust. A sorry bunch of specimens. He had already sold off most of the younger women, but he wouldn’t be getting much money for these leftover ones, most of them too weak and old to do anything. He was wasting money feeding them and paying his men to watch over them.
He looked over at the men. They weren’t much better. He had sent the best specimens off to the fishing fleets, but there were still a few who looked like they could work—after he had finished extorting more money from their families. He narrowed his eyes. Someone was missing.
A New Beginning Page 18