Then the Arakanese man reaches up and turns the dial to another TV channel. Bulldozers run across a farmer’s land. A Burmese voice drones on about rice and the harvest, a few weeks away. The knot of adults relaxes. Some of them drift away. An Arakanese woman turns and smiles kindly at Hasina.
Hasina lets out a long breath of relief before taking Araf’s hand to drag him away.
‘But Hina, why can’t I watch cartoons?’ he whines.
She squeezes his hand tighter and growls, ‘Baba is hungry.’ Instantly she thinks how she sounds just like her mother. Stern. Forbidding. She sighs. ‘You can watch cartoons later. I will take you.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Chapter 7
Hasina steers Araf towards the back of the bazaar, where the Rohingya stalls are. All around her now are the familiar faces. Here is the scent of cumin and cardamom. Voices all around them speak in Rohingya. The men wear white tufih, caps, and the women, numals.
‘Bashy!’ Araf suddenly shouts.
Up ahead is the Brothers & Sons Puppet Stall. Fantastic creatures with papier-mâché faces wearing gorgeous costumes of red, blue, orange and pink hang from strings across a dais, sometimes an impromptu stage. Amir, one of the brothers, sits on this platform, in front of a roller door, sipping his tea while making a warrior king dance. Out front two boys, one small, one big, hunker over a basket that seems to move on its own. Is it a new kind of puppet, Hasina wonders, one without strings?
The small boy looks up. ‘Araf !’ Bashir squeals, several decibels more piercing than even Araf.
‘We saw heliwopters!’ Araf sprints towards his friend.
‘We have kittens!’ Bashir raises both arms in the air over the wobbling basket.
So that is what is in the basket! Hasina laughs out loud as boys and kittens tumble together in a blur of fur and feet, claws and fingers.
Now the bigger boy, Isak, looks up. He catches Hasina’s eye and grins.
And just like that Hasina’s heart beats faster. This time, not with fear. At least, not fear of helicopters or angry stallholders.
Ever since she was a little girl, Isak has been part of her life. When they were allowed to go to the government Basic Education School, his desk was alongside hers. When the school started to charge high fees to Rohingya pupils because they weren’t taing-yin-thar, he stayed while most others left. When school fees rose again and again and again until no Rohingya could afford them, he came to Hasina’s father Ibrahim’s stall for lessons. He was the gangly kid she could outrun and outshoot on the soccer field. Now that gangly kid is tall and broad. Same brown eyes, same dark eyebrows, same crinkly grin, same tight curls beneath his tufih. But one morning, when she saw him standing at the Brothers & Sons Puppet Stall, she realised that he was also beautiful.
‘Aasso-lamu alaikum.’ She greets Amir in the Rohingya language, bowing her head, then turns to Isak. ‘Aasso-lamu alaikum.’ Hasina is thankful that her numal helps hide the blush she feels spreading across her cheeks.
‘Wa alaikum aasso-lam,’ Isak replies, then, ‘Ken ah so? How are you, Hasina?’
Isak and Bashir are two of the three sons from the Brothers & Sons Puppet Stall. Their father, Amir, and their uncle, Sultan, opened the stall as young men. When their children came along, they added Sons to the name. The third son is Jamaal, Sultan’s son.
‘Look at this kitten, Hasina.’
Isak gestures to a tabby with distinctive blue eyes and bends to gently pick her up, cradling the tiny creature in his strong, slender hands. He brings the kitten’s face close to his.
‘She is too clever to get into that ruckus.’ He turns to Hasina and smiles again. ‘Clever like you.’
Hasina’s belly does a little flip. He thinks I’m clever! It is all she can do not to break into a huge smile. Luckily, Isak is too busy meowing at the kitten to notice Hasina is blushing again. The little cat mews back, showing tiny, sharp teeth. Isak laughs and gently lets the kitten loose onto the ground, where she immediately rubs herself against Hasina’s legs.
‘She likes you.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Daamini.’
It means lightning. And Daamini quickly shows why the name suits her. She waves her tail and hunkers down into a hunting position. Slowly, carefully, she advances one paw, then another, before pouncing on a big beetle. The beetle is fast but the kitten faster. She proudly turns to Isak and drops the beetle at his feet.
‘See that? It is exactly how you used to score a goal when we played soccer.’ Isak laughs, then his tone turns serious. ‘You saw the helicopters?’
Hasina nods. ‘My aunt says they are Sit Tat.’ She keeps her voice low.
‘Jamaal thinks so too.’ Isak lowers his voice further. ‘He says there have been attacks on the border police. That police have been killed.’
The border police are almost as scary as the Sit Tat. They take Muslim men to the station and beat them up. They charge Muslim businesses extra taxes or protection money. It was hard to know when – or if – you could trust them. But attacks? Terrorist attacks, the TV reporter said.
Hasina felt the stone in her belly again.
Isak continued. ‘Jamaal says it is ARSA.’
ARSA. The name she’d heard on the broadcast. ‘What is ARSA?’
‘Arakan Rohingya Salvation Army. Jamaal says they are fighting for the Rohingya.’
Hasina has heard her father and aunt talking about another army – the Arakan Army – who were fighting to make Rakhine a country of its own. But this ARSA, a Rohingya army – this is new to her.
Isak leans in a little closer. ‘Jamaal says that they are looking for men to join them. To become soldiers.’
His eyes take on a distant look. Hasina knows that look well, although she does not understand it. Sit Tat are feared, yet all the boys she knew at school dreamed of becoming a soldier and all the girls dreamed of marrying soldiers.
Is Isak thinking of joining ARSA? The stone in her belly grows heavier.
A yowl from one of the kittens is followed by a yelp from Araf. Isak resumes his gentle self. ‘Are you okay, Araf?’
‘The kitten won’t let me pull her tail.’
Isak frowns gently at Araf. ‘Always better to be kind, Araf.’
‘Time to get lunch to Baba. Come, Araf.’ Hasina turns to Isak. ‘Goodbye.’
‘Allah keep you safe,’ Isak returns.
Safe. That is what she wants for Isak too. All the way to her father’s stall, she thinks about ARSA and the news that they are recruiting young men. Boys, really. Boys like Isak.
Boys who would have no chance against Sit Tat.
Chapter 8
Hasina’s family shop is at the back of the Rohingya section of the bazaar, in a wide corner spot. It was Hasina’s grandfather who opened it, but it is her father who has made a success of the stall. Today, he sits in front of it reading a newspaper.
Hasina feels proud of the shelves lined with expensive plastic-wrapped things. There are individual packets of shampoo, coloured bright pink and yellow and orange. Danish biscuits, tins of sweetened condensed milk, or dut, batteries and matches and tiny scissors and tweezers and a bucket of plastic toy soldiers – Araf’s favourites. There are sachets of Tea Mix – very strong tea powder with the milk and sugar already mixed in, just add water – as well as little green packets of instant coffee and coffee creamer. These things are the wealth of her family and just running her eyes along these rows gives Hasina a warm, safe feeling. But what she loves best about the bazaar is spending time with her father. She enjoys watching how his face changes expression as he reads his newspaper or the way he puts his fingers to his head before he gives an answer or voices an opinion.
‘Baba,’ Araf calls out. Pulling his hand from Hasina’s, he runs to their father, who looks up with a smile.
Like his sister, Aunt Rukiah, Ibrahim’s skin is fair and his eyes are long and tucked in a fold of skin. He dresses like an Arakanese or Myanma
r businessman, in a longyi but with a crisply ironed button-up shirt. When it is chilly, he adds a sports coat.
Ibrahim is a man of learning. Unlike many Rohingya, he has had formal schooling to the tenth standard. His own parents – Hasina’s grandparents – were both university graduates. Among the Rohingya, it is only the old people who have been to university. When a neighbour, a fellow stallholder, or someone from the mosque needs help with a form or a notice, it is to Ibrahim they turn. Men come to the stall not just to buy, but also to ask. Ibrahim helps not only the Rohingya, but also the Arakanese who live and work nearby.
What he asks of himself, he also asks of Hasina. On quiet days, he sets figures in front of her to add or subtract, multiply or divide. Or the newspaper so she can practise reading Myanmar script. He has done this since she was a little girl.
Each time she adds up a column of figures, reads the news aloud, walks through Teknadaung with Araf, she thinks, I am seeing into the world of men. The thought intrigues her, and she dares to wonder why it is that men go to the mosque while women pray at home. Why men do the shopping while women do not.
The back of the stall is partitioned off by a curtain. In this small space is a plastic table and chairs where Ibrahim sits to do the accounts. Above these is another handsome wall clock which calls out the times for prayer, plugged into an electric outlet. In this little alcove, Ibrahim keeps the book of accounts, a strongbox and a blanket. Hasina sets out the blanket on the floor of the stall for lunch and places the tiffin boxes in the centre.
‘So, my children,’ Ibrahim smiles, lowering himself onto the blanket, ‘what is the news today?’
‘Baba, we saw heliwopters.’
‘Heliwopters? What might those be?’
‘Great big metal birds like nagars!’ Araf shouts. ‘They flew right over our house, Baba. And Hasina got trapped outside. I had to rescue her!’
Hasina’s mouth falls open. ‘How did you rescue me?’
‘I shouted run,’ Araf says triumphantly. Then his face falls. ‘But they came before Dhurh and we missed prayers.’
‘We will make it up at Asr.’ Ibrahim turns to his daughter. ‘And you, Hasina, what do you make of these helicopters?’
Hasina shivers at the memory of those terrifying birds. How they frightened her all over again when she saw them on TV.
‘I think I would be glad not to see them again.’
A look passes between father and daughter as if to say, we will talk about this later. Ibrahim changes the subject. ‘Now, what is this?’
‘This is lunch. And I am hungry,’ answers Araf.
Ibrahim smiles and turns to unstack the three metal containers. ‘What is in here?’ he asks Araf, even though lunch is always the same. ‘Is it … chicken curry?’
Araf erupts into snorts of laughter. Chicken is for special occasions. Like getting married, when an entire, egg-laying chicken is cooked for the bridegroom.
‘Well then, is it soft drink? Cola? Lemonade?’
Araf laughs even harder, and Hasina can’t help but grin. Who has money for drinks in a tin?
‘Let’s see then.’ Ibrahim flips the metal lid from the first tiffin tin, releasing the aroma of garlic, ginger and fish. ‘Ah, your mother’s massor salon.’
‘Yum,’ says Araf. Hasina’s tummy rumbles so loudly she has to put her hands over her belly to suppress the sound.
Ibrahim lifts the next lid.
‘Vegetables!’ Araf smacks his lips. Tasty hori hak, pumpkin leaf, from the garden, cooked with smashed garlic.
‘Well, then this must be … rice?’ Ibrahim flips the last lid, and the floral fragrance of rice fills Hasina’s nostrils. She should wait for her father and brother to eat first, but cannot help the saliva from rising in her mouth.
Ibrahim places a tiffin tin lid in front of Araf and another in front of Hasina. He takes the flat shamish, spoon, from inside the rice tin and scoops rice, vegetables and fish curry onto his own lid. Then, using the fingers of his right hand, he wets the rice with the vegetables and fish gravy before shaping it into a pyramid with his fingers and holding the morsel to his mouth.
‘Bismillah karo hamam rahin. In the name of Allah, gracious and merciful.’ Then he pops the lot into his mouth. ‘Mmmhmm.’ He savours the salty, slurpy, fishy flavour. ‘Eat,’ he says.
Hasina waits for Araf to scoop himself a tiny mound, then it is her turn to use the shamish to scoop up rice, fish curry and vegetables onto her lid. The rice is warm and each grain firm to the touch as she pushes curry, green leaves and rice into a pyramid, rich and spicy and slurpy and delicious. She is just about to slide the whole morsel into her mouth when a familiar gruff voice calls out behind her.
‘Mingalar bar.’
Hasina jumps, startled. A shadow looms over the three of them. She looks up into a wide, bloated face, a false smile showing big yellow teeth.
It is U Ko Yin, the teashop owner.
Chapter 9
Hasina drops her food back onto the lid. She turns to U Ko Yin and drops her head and joined hands towards him, bowing in a shi-kho, Myanmar-style, a polite way to greet older people. Then she pulls away from lunch and tucks herself behind the small curtain across the alcove. If U Ko Yin notices her, he does not say anything. Instead, he greets Araf and Ibrahim.
‘Look at you, Araf – such a big boy. Time for you to go to work! Come and work in my teashop. We could use a boy like you.’
Ibrahim compresses his lips into a tight line but keeps his voice polite. ‘Araf is still a little boy. Too young for work.’
‘Ah,’ scoffs U Ko Yin, ‘it is never too soon to learn.’
U Ko Yin’s teashop, a few doors down, is called Lucky 7. Most teashops are busy selling good, cheap food and pots of tea. But Lucky 7 is never busy. Hasina has often heard her father say that nobody likes U Ko Yin’s teashop because he is always watching whether customers use too much sugar or don’t order enough. He often comes over to Hasina’s father’s stall to moan about his lack of customers.
‘Helicopters, la,’ he says to Ibrahim, ‘so bad for business. Oh dear, is that your lunch? I wondered what I smelled.’
That is the other thing about U Ko Yin – he has a knack of arriving at lunchtime, even though Buddhists generally eat before noon and Muslims eat much later.
‘Would you like to join us?’ Ibrahim asks politely.
‘Well … perhaps a mouthful, just this once …’
U Ko Yin heaves his longyi-clad bottom onto the very spot on the floor that Hasina has just vacated. His knees creak beneath his weight. He dips his thick fingers directly into the tiffin tins, pinching out a large mouthful of rice, curry and vegetables, which he pushes into his mouth.
‘Of course, my preference is for the pathein rice. Bigger grains, stickier.’ He licks his fingers as he talks. ‘This is good too. Just not what I am used to.’
From behind her curtain, Hasina wishes she had brought her little lid of lunch with her. She hears the grunt as U Ko Yin reaches for more food, then another grunt as he leans back again. It doesn’t sound like he is going anywhere. He starts to complain about business.
‘Ever since that fighting in the south, four years now, la. Nobody goes out, nobody eats noodles, nobody drinks tea. And now, these army helicopters …’
So those were army helicopters, just as Ghadiya said.
‘Of course,’ U Ko Yin continues, ‘things would be better if I had a good location, like this one. You are lucky in business, la.’
U Ko Yin exhales heavily.
‘But Sit Tat, the AA and now this ARSA – Muslim terrorists, acting against their own people. Here I am, a businessman, what do I care for politics? But all this is bad for business. You mark my words, soldiers will come. They will come here, to Teknadaung.’
Is it true? Would soldiers come? Could things really get worse?
When U Ko Yin finally leaves, Araf breathes a big sigh of relief before wandering to the front of the shop to count the toy soldiers and check how many,
if any, of his favourite toys have been sold.
‘Hasina,’ her father calls out. He pulls out a tiffin tin with some lunch in it that he has saved for her. ‘Here you are.’ He places the food in front of her.
‘Baba,’ she asks shyly, as she eats, ‘is it true, what U Ko Yin said about the helicopters? Do they mean war is coming?’
Her father knits his brow. ‘Things are changing in Myanmar. Change is always dangerous. You can go forward but you can also go backward. Sometimes at the same time.’
Hasina recalls how hopeful some of the Rohingya men and women in the bazaar had been just last year, leading up to the election. After fifty years of a military government, people were finally able to vote! Others were sceptical that Aung San Suu Kyi would plead their cause. But then came the terrible blow when no Muslims were allowed to vote.
‘Sit Tat fear weakness; they fear disunity and the break-up of the country. They wish for the old days.’
‘Will the country break up?’
Ibrahim shrugs. ‘Arakan was a kingdom for almost a thousand years before the British came. The Arakanese were ruled by the British for just over a hundred years and by Myanmar for only forty. The Arakanese are independent-minded. They have always wanted their kingdom returned. But now, they are frightened we Rohingya will want our own country too and will take theirs. After all, we have also been here for hundreds of years, no matter what the government claims.’
‘Is that what we want? Our own country?’
‘We simply want the rights of full citizens. Medicine for your grandmother. School for you and Araf.’
‘The woman on the TV talked about ARSA. A Rohingya army.’
‘Hmph.’ Ibrahim makes a disapproving sound.
‘Isak’s cousin Jamaal says they are standing up for our people.’
‘Before ARSA was an army they were a group called Harakah al-Yaqin. They used to go around beating villagers who didn’t say their prayers.’
‘Isak says—’
‘Hasina, Sit Tat fight for a single nation. The Arakanese Army fight for an Arakanese nation. ARSA fight for a Rohingya Muslim nation. But there are other Muslims. Where do they fit in?’
Hasina: Through My Eyes Page 4