‘Goodbye, Monu Mush,’ Araf whispers, and slips his hand into Hasina’s.
It may be dangerous to leave the house and walk to the bazaar, but at least the streets of Teknadaung will be familiar, normal. A bit of normal would be good.
When they reach Teknadaung, Hasina finds things here too have changed. The paddy fields around town are still empty of farmers. No Arakanese men sit around talking and spitting betel juice at the ground by the old Portuguese fort. Nobody is in at the International Aid office. Even the police station is quiet. Outside the Basic Education School is a sign: Closed until further notice. The streets are empty of people apart from an Arakanese family packing up a cart to leave. They move like sleepwalkers, dazed, numb. So it is not just Rohingya who have been affected by the violence, Hasina thinks.
The bazaar entrance is also still – no women with vegetables spread out on cloths, no muddle of motorcycles and pushbikes. The bazaar door, however, is open.
Hasina scans for soldiers. The coast is clear. Before they go in, she and Ghadiya take Araf aside. In a lowered voice, she tests him for the hundredth time.
‘What language do we speak?’ Hasina quizzes him.
‘Myanmar language only.’
‘And the hand phone?’ Ghadiya asks.
Araf puts a finger to his lips. ‘Tell no one. And the sign for say nothing is this,’ he whispers, blinking his eyes twice.
Hasina hugs her little brother, then waits for him to run ahead, as he normally does. Instead, he slips his hand into hers.
As they walk towards the shady bazaar, Hasina’s heart starts beating faster. Just inside the entrance, she can see the same food stalls and teashops, vegetable stands and butchers that she has known forever. All of it so familiar, she can’t help but scan for her father, head bent over a newspaper. Life continues. People still have to eat and sleep. People need news, people need each other. For this, Hasina is grateful.
But can Rohingya like her still be part of this community?
One thing has changed. White bags are stacked in an enormous pile at the front of the bazaar, where the TV used to be. They are stamped with English letters that Hasina makes out as A - I - D. What does it mean? There’s also a sign in Burmese script: Cheap Rice.
‘Ah, Hasina! Araf!’ calls a familiar voice.
Hasina startles as U Ko Yin appears beside her. She gives a small nod to Ghadiya, who melts away. Hasina bends her head to U Ko Yin in a respectful shi-kho.
‘No veil today?’ he asks, an unpleasant smirk on his face. ‘Greetings to your father in these … unusual times.’
Hasina feels the stony weight of fear in her belly, and instinct tells her to be very careful here. Does U Ko Yin know something about her father? Is he giving her a message? Should she say that she doesn’t know where he is? Can she lie? She catches Araf’s eye; he blinks twice. Bless him.
‘I have been wondering where your father is.’ U Ko Yin lowers his voice for effect. ‘Has he run away and left you?’
‘He is attending to … family matters.’ It isn’t entirely a lie. But it isn’t entirely true either. She watches for U Ko Yin’s response.
‘I see,’ he grunts, fixing her with a hard stare, and Hasina feels her face heating up. ‘Well, I’m sure your father knows the rules. That a stall cannot stand unattended for long. If you cannot do business, the bazaar will give your stall to someone who can. Those are the rules. I hope he’s back open for business soon.’ U Ko Yin’s voice turns lighter. ‘You know, I do need a place to sell my new line of foreigner foods – rice products, pulpy peanuts, very delicious.’ He gestures to the sacks of rice. ‘Medicines too.’ He shows her a pile of small boxes, full of shiny packets of pills.
He surveys his new venture with pride. Certainly, the bags of rice and peanuts do look very smart, with their red and white packaging and the English letters stamped on them.
‘Perhaps I can sell some of my things on your stall. Perhaps you and I can come to an arrangement?’
‘I will pass on your request to my father,’ she replies.
U Ko Yin grins with his thick lips – a grin that does not reach his eyes.
‘Or maybe, Araf, you would like to start working, a big strong boy like you. I can help you find a job. Your father would be pleased.’
‘A job in the bazaar?’
‘Well, it would be in a bazaar,’ U Ko Yin responds.
‘In your teashop?’ Araf asks, confused.
‘In a teashop.’ U Ko Yin’s grin becomes a loud laugh that makes Hasina shiver. ‘Think it over.’
‘Thank you.’ She turns to go.
U Ko Yin grabs her by the arm then. His palm is clammy, his grip tight. Hasina gasps and her belly turns with revulsion. How dare he touch her! Every fibre of her being screams, Let me go. She forces herself to stay calm.
‘Remember,’ he hisses, ‘come to me when you need help.’
Hasina pulls herself free. She shi-khos again and then, clasping Araf by the hand, hurries away, her belly still churning.
When they are out of sight of U Ko Yin, Ghadiya slips back beside Hasina. ‘Those bags of rice he is selling, I’ve seen that writing before,’ Ghadiya says. ‘They are from countries outside of Myanmar. Australia, Canada, Norway – countries that want to help our people. They are meant to be given to people in need, not sold.’
Our people. The thought of people from outside of Rakhine wanting to help astonishes Hasina. Who might they be? Why would they want to help? It seems unlikely.
‘Why would he be selling them if they should be free?’ Hasina asks Ghadiya.
‘Maybe because he wants one hundred per cent profit.’
‘I might like to work in a teashop,’ says Araf to no one in particular.
‘You would not, Araf,’ Ghadiya retorts sharply.
‘I would be rich!’
‘We don’t need to be rich. We need to be safe. Besides, we have the family stall,’ Hasina says. She pictures those gleaming rows of boxes and tins, feels that nice full feeling. Is it true that the stall could be taken away?
Just then Ghadiya lets out a gasp. ‘Oh no!’ Araf cries.
Up ahead is the Rohingya part of the bazaar. But today, there is no sound of Rohingya being spoken. No people at all. Just destruction. Stalls wrecked. Goods smashed. Hasina’s stomach curls with anxiety. What will they find at their own stall?
Hasina moves quickly now, dragging Araf and Ghadiya behind her. None of them speaks until they are at the back of the bazaar, where their family stall should be.
The position is the only way Hasina recognises their shop; everything else she sees is beyond her comprehension.
The roller door gapes open. The shelves are empty, swept clear of the goods for sale, which lie trampled on the floor. Sachets of shampoo have been slit open. Luxurious Danish biscuits have been tipped out of their tins and stamped to powder. Dut oozes from gashed tins. All of these beautiful, valuable, useful things – ruined. Now, there is nothing for her to count on.
Who could have done such a thing? She thinks of that young soldier outside the bazaar. Is this his work? Why not just steal? Why destroy like this so no one has the benefit of it? Why waste what is good?
For a long time, the three of them pick their way through the mess. They do not speak. What is there to say? Spilling rice on the floor is an offence to Allah. If her mother were here she would remind them that each grain must be picked with the fingers. But this is something worse than spilling.
Hasina feels like she’s moving through mud. So much to cry over, she cannot cry at all. Ghadiya breaks the silence. ‘Remember, we came here to charge the phone.’
Hasina pulls back the curtain to the alcove. What was the point? The electrical outlet was certain to be wrecked too.
Like the stall, the alcove is barely recognisable. One plastic chair remains but the clock is missing, as are the book of accounts and the strongbox with the money Baba was saving.
Ghadiya plugs the charger into the electrical outlet a
nd connects the hand phone. It makes a little beep. ‘I don’t get this. Everything else is destroyed, but not the outlet. See?’
Now it dawns on Hasina. The electrical outlet is part of the bazaar, so has not been wrecked. Only the boxes and packets of goods that belonged to her family have been destroyed. Like all the Rohingya stalls have been destroyed.
Suddenly it clicks. Someone wants to make them leave. Scare them so badly, they give up. And then, when they have given up, take their stall away according to the ‘rules’, like U Ko Yin said.
Hasina feels a spike of rage and shame. Rage because she is sure she does not deserve this humiliation. And shame, because she would like to give up. Because she has let this happen and is powerless to stop it. Asmah says that shame leads to hate, which Hasina now knows to be true, because if she had that frightened soldier before her she does not know what she would be capable of doing. But the flare of rage doesn’t last. In a moment it is gone and she feels emptier than before.
Beyond the curtain, there’s a shout from Araf. She and Ghadiya rush out.
‘Look at what I have found!’ Araf is holding up a plastic toy soldier, perfectly intact. ‘And here’s another. And another …’
‘This isn’t wrecked either,’ Ghadiya says, pulling an intact tin of dut from the wreckage.
Together, they spend the rest of the morning picking up anything that isn’t totally spoiled. Precious biscuits, some broken, some still in their stiff white paper collars. A strip of shampoo sachets that missed being slashed. Cans of coffee that are only dented. Handfuls of lentils that can still be eaten. Little by little, they rescue what they can, returning to the shelves what can be sold and setting aside what can still be used. They half-fill a bag with rice, a tin with broken biscuits, another with lentils. It takes hours but finally, all that is left on the floor are a few sticky puddles.
Most important of all, the hand phone is charged and once more hidden in the tiffin tin.
Hasina bends to pick up the bundles of rubbish. ‘You two stay here,’ she instructs. ‘I will get rid of this.’
As Hasina makes her way through the Rohingya part of the bazaar, it is the same story of pointless, wanton destruction. Empty stalls, the goods trampled. Equipment broken. Livelihoods destroyed. At the rubbish tip, she adds her pile of ruined things to the others. On her way back, she lingers outside the Brothers & Sons Puppet Stall.
Like all the other Muslim stalls, the Brothers & Sons Puppet Stall has been ransacked. Heads, legs, wings, arms are scattered across the floor. Strings knot upon themselves. Shredded costumes lie in pink and orange puddles. The platform where Amir used to sit is smashed. At the back of the shop, the roller door has been wedged half-open, hanging like a broken tooth before the dark storeroom. How long ago it seems that she stood here with Isak, watching Araf and Bashir tumbling with the kittens. How she yearns for that time. She was so happy then, although she hadn’t known it. Happiness. Right now it seems impossible.
A tear spills down Hasina’s cheek. She dashes it away, but another follows. She’s too tired now for rage and shame. All she feels is defeat, a sadness too big for her body. She wills herself not to cry.
Just then, a grey-white streak flashes across the floor to her feet. A pair of deep blue feline eyes stares up at her.
‘Daamini!’ Hasina cries. The cat miaows back. Hasina scoops her up and holds her close, burying her face in soft fur. ‘Daamini, Daamini,’ she murmurs over and over again.
The pretty little cat’s coat is rough in patches. She’s scrawny and one of her ears is gashed and bent. But she is alive.
Isak and Daamini. They were inseparable. Where is Isak now? And the other stallholders in the market? Where are her neighbours? Where are Tara and Rosie and Aman? Where are the children she played with and fought with?
Deep inside herself she guesses at the answer, and the tears come, hot and thick. They sting her face, and she wipes them against Daamini’s fur.
She and Isak. Back on that day with the kittens, she felt like life was just about to unfold for both of them. She felt protected. All this has been taken from them by those men with eyes like demons. By the soldiers in their trucks. By the police who beat the men and women left behind.
She must have let her feelings get the better of her and started to squeeze the poor cat, because all of a sudden Daamini gives a sharp miaow and leaps out of Hasina’s arms.
‘Daamini,’ Hasina pleads. ‘Sorry! Come back. Please!’ But Daamini is already streaking across the platform of the Brothers & Sons Puppet Stall. The little tabby pauses briefly beneath the roller door before dashing into the darkness beyond. Hasina feels a terrible pang of regret. This cat, Isak’s cat, came to her and now she has chased her away.
‘Daamini!’ she calls, crawling across the platform towards the roller door. She bends down to peer inside the dark storeroom. It smells of cotton and glue. ‘Here, puss.’
Not even a miaow or flash of a tail.
Hasina sits back on her haunches. Now that she’s found Daamini, she cannot bear to let her go. But the cat is deep in the storeroom. She will have to go in after her, into the dark.
She bends her head beneath the roller door once more. ‘Here, pussy-kitten,’ she calls.
A faint miaow echoes from beyond the storeroom door. Relief floods Hasina’s heart. ‘Daamini!’
But the cat does not answer this time. With a deep breath, Hasina drops flat and squeezes under the steel door. Light knifes past her into the gloom. Dozens of painted eyes stare back at her, and Hasina shudders. But slowly, as her own eyes become accustomed to the dark, she relaxes. It looks like the soldiers didn’t come in here.
‘Here, puss. Here, Daamini.’
Another faint miaow. She wriggles further until she is all the way into the storeroom. She eases herself up into a crouch. Darkness crowds around her.
‘Where are you, Daamini?’
This time, instead of an answering miaow, a groan splits the darkness – or is it a growl?
Hasina freezes. Her heart pounds so hard it’s the only thing she can hear. All she can think of are Uncle Rashid’s words. You are a Rohingya, you are a target.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could she be so stupid? Days and days hiding in the forest, only to walk into this trap!
Another groan rends the air. But this time, there is something pathetic about that groaning voice. Something that pulls her closer.
She forces herself to take a deep, slow breath in and ignores the hammering in her chest.
‘Mingalar bar?’
Silence.
‘Hello?’ she tries in Arakanese.
Still silence. Now her heart is pounding again. She takes a step deeper in.
‘Aasso-lamu alaikum,’ she calls out softly.
Back comes the reply, softer still. ‘Wa alaikum aasso-lam.’
Each syllable is forced out, drenched in pain. But she knows that this groaning person is also Rohingya. Not only that, the voice … it is familiar.
‘Uncle Amir?’ she calls out. ‘Uncle Sultan? … Isak?’
‘Wa alaikum aasso-lam,’ the voice whispers.
Isak. It is Isak.
Now Hasina’s heart is pounding with excitement. ‘Where are you?’
Another groan comes from the back corner of the room. ‘Who’s there?’ The words are like rubble in his mouth.
‘It is me, Hasina.’
Isak lays hidden behind a box full of old plastic sheeting. He holds his head up into the shaft of light. The boy with the tight curls and dazzling smile is not as she remembers him. His eyes are almost swollen shut, his mouth and nose crusted in blood. His voice trembles with the effort of speaking. ‘Hasina? Be careful. The men, the soldiers, they are out there …’
Hasina kneels next to him. If only she had some water to give him. ‘Isak, the men have gone. Can you sit up?’
With a grunt, he pushes one arm against the cement and raises himself partway off the floor. He pants, then pushes once more. Now at leas
t he is sitting up.
‘I am going to help you to get out of here,’ Hasina tells him. She takes his arm to support him, and they half-crawl, half-walk to the doorway.
Isak flinches as they emerge into daylight. His shirt and longyi, his face and his hair are crusted with blood. His right shoulder droops. He cannot put his full weight on his left side. Blood oozes thickly through his shirt.
Hasina searches through the debris floor for a cloth. She finds one, torn and trampled. This she opens out and wraps around Isak’s shoulders. She looks around. The market is still empty.
‘I am going to take you to our stall.’
‘Daamini,’ he croaks. The blue-eyed tabby appears, quiet as smoke. Hasina scoops her up and the three of them start to move.
Slowly, slowly, step by painful step, Isak limps forward, his body heavy against Hasina’s. He keeps his head down so that if someone passes, they won’t see his injuries. They both know those injuries mark him out as Rohingya.
By the time they reach Hasina’s stall, Isak is clammy and pale. Hasina brings him through the curtain to the alcove behind.
Ghadiya and Araf are waiting for her, their faces full of worry.
‘Where have you been—’ Ghadiya begins, then sees Isak.
‘Isak!’ Araf cries out. ‘What happened?’
‘Water, please.’
Hasina rushes to fill a cup from the bazaar chatty pot. When she returns, Isak is sitting on the remaining plastic chair. He drinks thirstily while Hasina tears a strip from his longyi and wets it. Gently, she cleans the blood from his face, his hands and the gash in his side, while Isak tells his story.
‘Men attacked our house at night. They burnt it down. My father, Uncle Sultan, Bashir, we escaped to the bazaar. Other Rohingya were here too. Others hid in the forest. Many ran away.
‘My father, my uncle, Bashir, we all hid here. For two days, we lived in the stall, behind the roller door. But then soldiers – Sit Tat – came. Their leader ordered the soldiers to round everyone up. Then they took away anyone who looked Rohingya. Anyone with dark skin.’
Hasina: Through My Eyes Page 9