Why No Goodbye? Read online

  This is what I know

  If I die

  I can meet Pay-pay

  in the after-life

  if there is one.

  Ha Jia told me

  it was hard for you

  across the strait of Malacca

  across the Adaman Sea,

  especially with the little ones,

  that so many of our people

  never made it.

  This is what I know

  it is harder

  for me

  to sleep with sounds

  than silence.

  Sometimes

  just sometimes

  I play with Ha Jia’s children.

  We play hide and seek.

  They work hard, too

  they plant

  dig their soil

  deep into the earth

  till their nails

  are all dirt,

  but they do not carry heavy loads

  on their backs,

  when I play

  I remember

  I am just a boy

  not a man

  carrying a man’s worries

  heavy on my back.

  Nga Lo Chit Mae Thu.*

  *You are driving me crazy!

  I like the letter telling me about songs

  I read it, May-may.

  I like that you sing at the camps

  songs float in the air

  a gentle breeze

  that lifts you far away, you say.

  Where?

  To come back and get me.

  Sometimes I will read a letter—or two

  if I am not too busy

  or tired.

  Sometimes the forest is a monster:

  the gunfire,

  the sound of the tamarinds

  the snakes

  the hungry rats,

  Sometimes it is a song

  sweet

  dream-like,

  teasing me

  to run like the wind.

  I am reading books, May-may.

  There are not many here,

  but I read whatever Ha-Jia finds.

  One day

  he went to the capital

  and found a whole load

  that people threw out

  in the garbage.

  Some people may say they stink

  but I say they smell

  of what I can know

  if I keep them

  close.

  Mama writes me, and I decide to read her letter

  I never taught you to write

  since I never wanted you to dream.

  My dreams were once

  the sun

  the moon

  the seas.

  I forgot I was a girl.

  I forgot I was a Ronhingya.

  I never taught you to read

  since I did not want you

  to discover

  there was more than the little

  I could give to you-

  a world beyond our small place

  where people went to work

  and their words mattered.

  I never taught you to read or write

  since I was afraid

  for you to try to fly;

  I knew there was no fuel in our world

  and your wings,

  which were enormous

  would only come

  crashing down.

  Don’t worry.

  I would not dare to dream.

  Where could it possibly

  take me?

  This is what I know

  dreams are stupid.

  There is a girl

  in the woods

  I see her peeking out through the leaves.

  Her face

  is like a leaf

  big

  beautiful

  bright

  scared of the light.

  Is she a dream?

  Ha Jia told me about mirages,

  maybe that is all she is

  because if I blink my eyes

  she is gone.

  If she is real

  I will take her to the beach.

  One time

  the whole family took a trip;

  we even stayed overnight.

  the sand was so white

  it was opaque

  (I learned this word

  from a book I have been reading

  The Good Earth

  by Pearl S. Buck),

  and the sky

  the sea

  blue

  like the blue could burst

  through clouds,

  beautiful blue

  not sad blue.

  I could not leave the water

  Pay-pay called me merman.

  This memory

  sits still

  and silent

  inside,

  until I am ready

  to give it

  to someone

  special.

  Do you think the author’s

  real name is Pearl?

  Could she

  have made it up?

  The life in China

  was hard

  hard like the water buckets

  I carry on my back

  which scrape my shoulders

  ragged,

  Pearl

  is a fantasy

  of being precious,

  how can you be poor

  and precious?

  How can I read this now?

  It has only been months

  since you left

  the season changed from wet to dry,

  and now it is dry again

  and hot

  the heat is a menace

  a maniac,

  but so can the water be, sometimes.

  I will tell you more about the water

  in my next letter.

  Yes,

  I read another letter you wrote

  about the weather

  how the camps

  have ferocious heat, too,

  how the burka you wear

  is saturated in sweat,

  how Amana cries,

  since I was her favorite brother.

  Do not tell me this.

  It opens up my sorrow

  and makes it bigger.

  I do not need

  sorrow to slice

  through my skin.

  If I were an author

  I would name myself

  Abracadabra,

  so I could make magic

  with words

  and my words would travel

  in the wind

  would make Amana’s tears

  dry off

  take flight.

  This is what I know

  Ha Jia told me

  but I read it

  in a ripped article

  I found in the forest:

  many of our people

  are stranded

  at sea,

  Thailand

  Indonesia

  no one

  wants us

  the way you

  did not want me

  and left.

  This is what I think

  you can’t love

  anyone afterwards—

  can you?

  The article

  goes on to say

  so many migrants died

  in overcrowded

  and unseaworthy boats,

  so I suppose

  I am lucky

  my family is alive.

  The weather

  this past summer

  it rained

  as if that is all

  it could do,

  it rained unkindly

  it rained till I lived with rain

  and water;

  I could fill my bucket

  with tears from the sky

  but I was never dry,

  since I had so many tears inside me.

  Perhaps I always will.

  Once

  the
re was a monsoon

  July or August

  I can’t keep track

  of the months,

  but the rain

  was heartless,

  not even good for the crops

  Ha Jia said,

  but he let

  me stay inside,

  which

  I have done

  a few times,

  but this time

  Lia made soup

  and the greens floated to the top,

  and filled my belly

  with happiness.

  Pagodas,

  precious pagodas

  praying pagodas,

  but what about

  when your prayers

  go unanswered

  praying mantis,

  who attacked me,

  so my welt

  now rises

  like a pagoda

  off my bony arm.

  Part II: The Girl in the Woods

  And on the night

  of the biggest monsoon,

  the littlest boy, Amana’s age,

  he cuddled with me

  and I could pretend

  it was the girl

  I have seen

  in the forest,

  and I could make believe

  I was keeping her safe

  like Zatoup

  felt

  with my arms

  wrapped around him.

  Now it is hot, May-may

  sometimes there is a breeze,

  but mostly it is hot,

  even so

  I see her eyes peeking out

  from behind the bushes,

  this is what I know

  this is

  a good heat.

  Hot

  blazing hot

  mean hot

  sweat is another skin hot

  hot for her

  so hot for her

  my body

  makes more heat.

  This is a letter

  I will not send you, May-may.

  Is it a year

  since you left?

  I can really

  read and write

  which makes me

  a little less lonely,

  but I may not

  write you so often anymore

  there is a girl

  she has come

  out of the woods

  to stare at me,

  she will not say a word,

  but my eyes are stuck.

  This girl

  darts in and out of the leaves

  like shade or shadow

  she has long, dark hair

  and night eyes

  with stars in them

  white specks;

  they are large

  and lonely

  she wants to see me,

  but she can’t look

  into my eyes.

  Shin aaingaliutlo pway lar? *

  *Do you speak English?

  Hi!

  No Answer.

  She slips out of the shadows

  like a thief.

  Shin-ne-meh-beh-lo-k’aw-leh?

  What is your name?

  I say it in English.

  No answer,

  but she hovers over me

  as I fill the buckets

  with water.

  I offer her some,

  but she will not even

  open her mouth.

  She doesn’t even smile.

  May-may

  I cannot write you anymore

  for some time

  I have met a girl.

  This is what I know

  I want her

  to be my friend

  or maybe something more.

  Can’t you talk

  can’t you

  at least smile?

  and suddenly

  it emerges

  a smile

  thin as the moon

  radiant

  white, white, white

  against

  dark, dark skin

  darker than mine

  and dirty.

  She allows me to wash her face off

  with water from the stream.

  Sain bhaalkalell? *

  *Where are you from?

  Where do you sleep at night?

  Do you sleep?

  Where do you live?

  Do you live in the forest like I do?

  Do we speak the same language?

  Do you speak at all?

  Do you understand me?

  Can you answer me?

  Kyasopataal. *

  *Welcome

  Come over

  sit by my side

  watch how I pour the water

  into the pail,

  the grass will tickle

  the inside of your long, brown legs,

  and I can rub them, too.

  But you won’t let me

  near you,

  not near enough

  to smell your sweet breath

  and soothe your sorrow.

  I will need

  Kan-kaung-ba-zay *

  with her.

  *Good luck

  Dear Pay-pay,

  I know you are dead,

  but there is no way

  I am telling this

  to my May-may.

  There is this girl

  who sneaks out of the woods

  to watch me fill the pails

  with water.

  She comes to the streams

  stands and stares,

  but she will not even look at me,

  and at night

  when stars fill the sky

  she sleeps on the same floor as I do—

  the woods,

  but so far, far away.

  Pay-pay,

  My body

  is on fire,

  what do I do with it.

  The water

  does not cool me off

  and she still hasn’t said a word.

  Come

  sleep next to me

  you can sleep

  on the other end of the mat.

  And she does.

  Min-ga-la-ba. *

  Why is she saying

  hello to me

  now?

  * Hello

  In the morning

  we are strangers again.

  Sometimes

  when I am at Ha Jia’s house

  I play a game

  called tag with his children;

  this is what

  she does with me

  darting in and out of the woods.

  Or it is peek-a-boo

  a game

  you played with me

  when I was a baby.

  Do you remember, May-may?

  Do you remember me?

  I don’t even know

  how old I am,

  but however old it is

  she, with the sneaky smile

  is the same age.

  When I read a letter of yours

  like today

  when you tell me about

  how the boys are learning

  to read,

  I pretend

  the letter

  is you,

  so I can rip it into tiny shreds

  and throw it away.

  Dear May-may,

  At night she sleeps next to me

  at the other end

  of the mat.

  I beckon her closer,

  but she barely looks at me

  and doesn’t touch me,

  though when she sleeps

  and the night has a breeze

  her sleep is the wind

  that wills me

  to close my eyes.

  You can talk to me

  I won’t bite you.

  Where are you from?

  Sain bhaalkalell? *

  Why are you here?

  Why do you follow me

  and when I try to talk to you

  run like a rat


  who has been trapped

  for supper?

  You know English

  since you understand

  what I am saying.

  *Where are you from?

  And this is why I said rat

  I hate women

  I am telling you

  I hate girls

  all girls,

  except maybe my sister;

  I might hate her, too

  I do not know

  it’s been almost a year and a half

  since I have seen her.

  Women have left me

  their voices are not true

  like the earth,

  yet when I say this

  suddenly, there is a voice.

  I am not all women

  you tell me;

  I am a girl

  though I have been treated like a woman

  that is why I am here.

  Tell me

  I reach out my hand,

  You can tell me anything.

  What is your name?

  And then she moves closer

  My name is Zahura

  I will talk to you

  as long as you stop cursing about girls

  beneath your breath.

  Did I do that?

  Really?

  Now I will stop

  and listen.

  She tells me

  how she has run away

  from her village