‘Hasina! What were you thinking?’
Hasina’s breath comes in rough gasps. She is flat on her belly, arms spread in front of her. Every bit of her aches from smashing into the hard-packed dirt floor. Outside, the helicopters continue to clatter past.
‘I said run.’ Aunt Rukiah’s face is furious as she pulls her niece from the ground. ‘Why didn’t you run?’
How can she explain the way the wop wop wop pinned her to the ground when she doesn’t understand it herself? ‘I’m sorry, Aunty.’
Aunt Rukiah’s hands shake as she brushes the dirt from Hasina’s bazu and htamein, cotton top and wraparound skirt. ‘You don’t mess with Sit Tat.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t know what they are capable of.’ Her aunt’s harsh tone sounds closer to tearful now. ‘I know what they are capable of.’
Hasina has heard Rukiah’s stories before. They begin with Sit Tat or Buddhist thugs or crooked police. They end abruptly with her aunt sobbing or ranting.
‘I’m so sorry, maja-fu.’
Aunt Rukiah pauses at the respectful term. The anger melts from her face as she tidies Hasina’s long wavy hair back into a plait. ‘I am glad you are safe. Don’t scare me like that again.’
Aunt Rukiah and Ghadiya fled from the south of Rakhine province during the riots four years ago. Hasina doesn’t really understand what the riots were about, just that the Buddhist Arakanese were angry with her people. All she knows is that when Aunt Rukiah, her maja-fu or father’s sister, and Ghadiya came, it was without possessions. Almost everything they owned had been left behind. They came on foot, despite Ghadiya’s limp, an injury from when she was born. They came without permits. Unlike any other of the groups who live in Rakhine – such as the Arakanese – Rohingya aren’t allowed national registration cards and need special permits to travel. Worst of all, they came without Ghadiya’s father, Rashid.
Hasina’s cousin and aunt rarely speak about what they saw on that terrible journey. Or how they were separated from Uncle Rashid. But Hasina has her suspicions. She shares her bedroom with her cousin and has heard Ghadiya’s nightmares, how her cousin calls out about men pounding at the door, and waves rising. Was it on that dangerous journey that Ghadiya learned about helicopters?
The madrassa is dark after the intensity of the light outside, and Hasina still feels her eyes adjusting. Araf is at the window with the others, watching the helicopters pass. Ghadiya stands alone in the shadows of the room, her amber eyes wide in her round face as she listens to the sounds from the sky. Hasina can see the fingers of her right hand moving, as if she is counting the birds going past. Or maybe she is just willing them to go back over the mountains.
In her grandmother’s stories, those rugged hills, covered with thick, emerald forest full of tigers and elephants, divide Rakhine from the rest of the country, so it feels like a land all of its own. Long ago, this was the kingdom of Arakan, an enchanted land according to her grandmother. Many of the people who live here feel it ought to be a kingdom once again, separate from Myanmar. Some of them, the Arakanese Army, are prepared to fight for this kingdom.
The Rohingya, Hasina’s people, have also lived here for hundreds of years. That is the thing about this country, Hasina thinks; there are so many different types of people – Rohingya, Arakanese, Burmese, Mro, Shan, Kayan, to name just a few.
But these birds are not part of any enchanted tale.
‘Heliwopters,’ shouts Araf. ‘Wop wop wop wop wop.’
Tara turns from the window. ‘Are they going away, Saya?’ she asks, using the respectful term for teacher.
Aunt Rukiah’s face is still pale. ‘I am not sure, Tara.’
‘Saya, will we be able to go home soon?’ asks Rosie.
School was usually over after Dhurh, the second prayers of the day just before lunch. It must be well past Dhurh now, Hasina thinks.
At least the wop wop wop is definitely fading.
‘They’re gone,’ Ghadiya announces to everyone, suddenly pushing away from her dark corner. She limps close to her mother and takes her by the hand. ‘And they won’t be back, Mama.’
Her cousin seems very sure about the helicopters leaving. Hasina watches the way her aunt’s face softens with relief, how she nods to Ghadiya as if they are equals rather than mother and daughter. As if some secret knowledge is passing between them. If Ghadiya says the birds have gone, then as far as Aunt Rukiah is concerned, they have gone.
Hasina knows only too well that the violence four years ago touched every Rohingya family in Rakhine State. Cousins, uncles, grandchildren had to run away and were now scattered across the world. Many boarded leaky boats to Malaysia and Australia, and some have never been heard from again. Maybe they had died when those leaky boats capsized at sea. Others slipped overland across the border into Thailand, hoping they wouldn’t be caught by army patrols or police. Others ended up in the internal displacement camps at Sittwe, Rakhine’s capital. Others, like her aunt and cousin, travelled secretly to family in the north.
Even families like hers, here in the north where the Rohingya are in the majority, have been affected by the conflict her aunt calls the Arakanese War. First, the electricity, water and gas were cut off. Then schools were closed or started charging such high fees to Muslims that even rich families could not afford to send their children any longer.
The violence has touched her family in other ways too. The changes in Hasina’s own mother, Nurzamal, for example. Hasina remembers when she was little how her mother used to laugh, her large dark eyes dancing with light. She even recalls her mother stopping on their way to the family paddy field so that Hasina could practise dribbling her soccer ball on the open area by the Farak River. Now, Nurzamal is obsessed about doing things the right way. First, it was ‘don’t play soccer’. Then it was ‘Hasina, be more modest. There are rules for Rohingya girls’. As if following rules more closely was the only way to keep safe. Even though all around them, it seemed the rules kept changing. And the more they changed, the less her mother seemed to want to hold Hasina or brush her hair or just laugh with her. Lately, Nurzamal has been talking about finding a husband for Hasina, someone to take care of her. To Hasina’s relief, her grandmother Asmah refuses to even consider such a plan, although this makes Hasina sad too – it hurts to see her mother and her grandmother disagree.
Aunt Rukiah lets go of Ghadiya’s hand. She turns to Tara, Aman and Rosie. ‘School is over. It is safe to go home now.’ The three girls hastily gather up their books and head for the door. ‘Just make sure you finish your geometry before tomorrow,’ Aunt Rukiah calls after them.
Hasina follows her friends into the garden. ‘Bye.’ She waves. ‘Goodbye,’ Tara calls back as she dashes through the gate.
Hasina squints up into the blue. The eight helicopters are dots on the opposite horizon now, well past the Farak River that divides Teknadaung in two. She has to listen hard to hear that toca toca toca. She cannot help but wonder where they are heading. She steps further out into the garden for a better view when a sharp voice makes her jump.
‘Hasina! Back inside at once.’ Nurzamal hurries from the kitchen, which is separate from the main house, and across the yard towards the madrassa. Her face is stern.
‘Yes, Mama,’ Hasina replies.
She turns and follows her mother into the madrassa.
‘Mama,’ Araf shouts, hurtling towards Nurzamal, who gathers him into her arms. Hasina’s heart falls. How she would love to be gathered up in her mother’s arms again, to breathe in her scent of kohl and clove and sandalwood.
‘Did you hear the helicopters, Mama?’ Araf asks, squirming in Nurzamal’s arms as he waves his arms like a helicopter and squeals ‘wop, wop, wop’.
‘I did, my love. They came just before Dhurh.’
The azan, call to prayer, for Dhurh used to float across the fields from the mohzeem but the police closed the town mosque a few months ago. The call to prayer now comes from the handsome wall clock Ibrahim, Hasina’s father, brought home for his wife. It hangs just outside their bedroom. The clock’s call would have come while the helicopters were overhead.
‘Did you miss your prayers?’ Nurzamal asks her son.
For a moment, Araf looks like he might cry. He adores his mother and fears disappointing her.
‘We all missed Dhurh,’ Aunt Rukiah explains. ‘The helicopters were so loud. We can make it up later.’
Nurzamal does not reply, and Hasina knows her mother can’t help but feel that Aunt Rukiah and Ghadiya brought bad times with them. Seeing her mother and aunt side by side, Hasina is struck, as she often is, by how different they are – and not just in the way they think. Her mother’s eyes are large and round, her nose straight, with a pronounced bridge; her skin is tea-coloured, with roses in her cheeks, and her lush eyebrows meet in the middle. All of these mark her as a Rohingya. And Rohingya are not wanted in the land once known as Burma, and now known as Myanmar.
Her aunt on the other hand, who is also Rohingya, has a flat nose, and folded eyelids. Like Hasina’s father, Ibrahim, and grandmother Asmah, Aunt Rukiah’s skin is fair. In the bazaar no one would look at Aunt Rukiah twice without her numal, the headscarf that she wears in public as a polite Muslim woman. She could easily pass for Arakanese or even Myanmar.
Nurzamal gently prises Araf from her lap and stands up. ‘Hasina, your father’s lunch is ready. You will take it to him at the bazaar. You are already late.’
‘But I still need to finish my geometry problem …’
Hasina regrets her words almost as soon as they are out of her mouth. Nurzamal would prefer she went to a religious school rather than study maths and history and geography in her aunt’s madrassa. Yet Hasina suspects that her mother would have loved the chance to study herself; would still love the chance to read books and discuss ideas and think about the world.
Nurzamal’s face tightens with anger. ‘We’ve already missed prayers. You want your father to miss lunch as well?’
‘No, Mama.’ Hasina hadn’t meant that.
As the eldest child in the family and without an older brother, Hasina had more responsibilities than other Muslim girls. Rohingya men usually do the shopping and take trips outside the home. If Hasina had an older brother, he would be taking his father’s lunch to him.
‘Can I go to the bazaar too, Mama?’ Araf begs.
Araf loves the bazaar. He loves the family shop, where there are toy soldiers to play with. He loves his friends, the boys from neighbouring stalls. But most of all, Araf loves the television set up at the entranceway. It is the only TV in all of Teknadaung, and sometimes it shows cartoons!
‘Please, Mama, please please pleeeaaazzze!’
Whoa, Hasina thinks. For someone of just six, Araf is as deafening as any helicopter.
Nurzamal smiles; how Hasina loves to see her mother smile. Ever since Araf had fever a few years ago, Nurzamal has paid him extra attention. He is also a funny kid, dark like his mother, but with a knack for making people laugh. Both these things make him precious to Nurzamal. When she replies, her tone is unusually soft. ‘Of course. Someone needs to protect your sister. Hasina, you may take Araf. Now, go quickly to your bedroom and fetch your numal.’
Hasina doesn’t wear a numal indoors, but her mother insisted that she do so outside as soon as she turned thirteen. It is dignified, modest and polite.
‘You get your numal too, Ghadiya,’ Araf commands. ‘I will protect you as well.’
Hasina sees a look pass between her mother and aunt. Although this house was Aunt Rukiah’s home when she was a young girl, both she and Ghadiya are officially ‘foreigners’ to the district – and illegal. Every trip out of the house risks arrest by police, heavy fines, bribes or worse. Ghadiya isn’t allowed to go out much.
‘No, Araf, Ghadiya is staying here,’ Aunt Rukiah says gently.
Ghadiya’s face falls, and Hasina feels sorry for her cousin. Ghadiya might be bossy, she might like to show off, but having to stay home all the time must be pretty boring.
‘Ghadiya, we can finish your geometry,’ Aunt Rukiah soothes. Ghadiya makes a face.
‘Or you can come out and help me in the kitchen,’ Nurzamal offers. Despite everything, she is fond of her niece.
‘Kitchen,’ Ghadiya says happily. Lunch is late and Nurzamal’s kitchen is the best place to be when hungry.