#We Want To Do The Talking

Promised Freedom

I had boarded the boat 13 months ago. On a particularly stormy night, my dad had led me by the hand to a promised freedom. My name is Abdul Gafar. Identity was a large reason why I had to leave. Life before the boat, I only seem to remember is parts of. Childhood is often associated with a growth of a person. Their transformation from a child into an adult is assumed to be full of happiness and good memories, to shape what type of person you become. My childhood isn't as glorified as that is. From the broken memories, a large part of what I remember is the crisis. Burning villages and violence were common themes that dominated my memories. Despite all of that, we had originally remained. My dad had a simple saying, don't stand out, don't get in trouble. Doing anything drastic would get you on the bad side of somebody, and in such a violent country, that would get them hurt.

My dad and I had gone to the nearby NGO camp, to collect some resources for the week. I was holding my dad's hand as we entered the village. I saw the villagers look at us, and turn away and go back into their homes. One of my dad's friends ran out and stopped us. He whispered something in my dad's ears. I saw as his eyes widened, he let go of my hand and dropped the groceries. He ran towards our house, I tried going after him, but his friend had grasped my hand and held me back. I struggled to get out of his hold, all my struggling going to vain. His eyes were fixed on what was ahead. Something eventually changed, and he let go of my hand. I ran towards my dad. I took the final turn towards my home, and at the sight that welcomed me, I froze. My dad was on the floor bawling his eyes out. I had never seen him do so before. Other villagers crowded around him, and others seemed to carry stuff outside of the house. I ran towards my father and knelt down before him. I looked into the house and saw blood splattered across the wall. I could see small rays of light penetrating the house, from the bullet holes that had been formed. In the corner of the door, I saw a hand, it was my mothers. The white skin tone that I was used to seeing, was covered in red. Before I even knew it, tears had begun to roll. My dad, seeing me cry, threw his arms around me in an attempt to comfort me. From what the other villagers had said, some members of the Army had come to collect taxes, and things took a turn for the worse. We couldn't live in the house anymore, and as devastating as it may be, the only option was to burn the house with the body inside.

That night, we packed our essentials, if the army hadn't gotten what they wanted the last time, they would be back to visit again. "Quickly, Quickly, move faster!" Screamed the two bearded men, as they hoarded the hordes of people towards the boats.

The boats were large, inflatable and orange. One of the boats had already left by the time they got to the front of their line.

We sat in the centre of the boat, as the others were getting loaded in. A few of the kids started to wail, their cries ringing through the now silent beach. 

Nothing could have prepared me for that feeling of being out onto the water. The constant waves and water hitting them meant many had vomited already. Both inside and outside the boat. Over the last few days, we could see the occasional boat in the distance, but I knew, that not all could have survived. Despite the elderly and children on board, surprisingly, we managed to still have the same number of people as we started.

2 days since they had left at the camp. Nearly everyone on the boat was delirious, hungry and tired. My dad and I were both dozing when they heard the powerful hum of the engine close to them. They awoke, to find a large, cast-iron behemoth above them. Within minutes, rope ladders came over the side of the ship. I was hurried on first but my dad was amongst some of the last of lot to get on the boat. Through all the commotion and joyous singing and screaming, my dad and I looked at each other in the eye and laughed. 

The feeling of a promised freedom felt within reach. The world I had left behind, the world I was glad to leave behind, was one that I would never go back to. 

We arrived in Thailand a few days later, the weather was warm, and the reception even warmer. The individuals from the boat put us up in a small shack. It was a one-bedroom, with an adjoining hall but "beggars can't be choosers". My dad, was often not home, as he was trying desperately to find someone who could help us with the asylum. The guy who had been recommended was swamped with requests and it may take a while, another individual, however, offered to help us. 

3 days later, I awoke to hear my father screaming. I got out of the bedsheets on the floor that served as my bed and peeked around the corner where both rooms met. He was talking on the phone. He was speaking in very broken English, struggling to put a phrase together. The people at the NGO had taught us how to read and write in English, but my dad never really bothered to pay attention, a decision that was causing him much distress now. He was holding pieces of paper in his hand and waving them in the air. A paper fell loose, and as I picked it up, I saw scribbles all over the page. From what I could put together, gaining asylum was going to be much more difficult than previously imagined. It turns out, that there weren't enough documents to prove that I was an individual, my identity could not be justified. 

It has been a year since then. The courts have been flooded with cases, but today I needed to prove that I was a refugee, and if so, while it still may be ways away, I could finally gain asylum.

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