Crossing the Farak River by Michelle Aung Thin

Author:Michelle Aung Thin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Annick Press
Published: 2020-01-16T20:15:27+00:00

Chapter 18

You are Rohingya. You are a target.

Her uncle’s words wake Hasina early the next morning. She lets the others sleep on. She has thinking to do.

They may be targets, but they still have to eat and drink. And now, they must also make sure the hand phone is charged.

For this they will need to go to the family’s stall at the bazaar. Mama always charged the phone at the stall, Ghadiya explained the night before. Hasina shivers—the last time she was there she came face to face with a Sit Tat soldier. Were they right in assuming that no trucks meant no more soldiers? If they are wrong, they could be walking into a trap of their own making.

On the other hand, there is an outside chance that the bazaar will have reopened and they will hear news of their family. A mist of hope films her eyes.

When the others wake, they all set off for the bazaar—they must stick together. They hide the phone and charger in a dented tiffin tin so they look to all the world like three children bringing lunch to their father. The last thing Hasina and Ghadiya do is leave their numals on Rukiah’s dressing table. Today, they will pass for Arakanese to strangers. As for those who know them? Their neighbors at the bazaar? Farmers in the paddy fields? People they’ve been passing in the street all of their lives? We will just have to hope they don’t turn us in, Hasina thinks.

The morning is still cool as they walk along Third Mile Street. All over again, Hasina feels the painful shock of seeing a place once so familiar now so profoundly changed. They stop as they pass Monu Mush’s horns.

“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 farther 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 bicycles. 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.

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