By S. Shamala
I wanted to be here, rubbing my face on that clean piece of white paper. I was even honoured for being part of the artistic venture. Slowly, but surely, I moved in her deft fingers, as she choreographed the strokes that formed a mouth, quickly shifting from the nose. You could hear the faint giggling in the background. It was understandable. How could one stand being tickled for so long?
I forgave the paper for being disrespectful. He didn’t understand the weight of this art quest. I was dropped and another one was picked to splash the white canvas for a moment, although I was the most important piece of tool. I knew.
For I was the face of controversy; the source of inexplicable feelings that shaped a plethora of systems. The leftists celebrated me; the pro-apartheids despised me. In India and South Africa, I suffered at the hands of my opposite. It was a wonder.
Who sparked these myriad reactions whenever I was present? They said the media.
But I existed long before the media did. I am ancient. Even back then, some societies rejected me.
I was in her hand for a reason. She held me as if I was something precious. She was in awe of me since the day she had the opportunity to lay her hands on me. I felt gloriously wanted. In fact, I was part of this masterpiece that was to tell something to this world.
How she and her friends clamoured for knowledge and self-esteem.
She feared the sea. The sea once almost devoured her and her family as they ran from their homeland to escape poverty and strife. They found refuge in the Land Below the Wind here. Although they had to play hide and seek with the authorities as they lacked proper papers, a Good Samaritan who ran an alternative learning centre for undocumented children gave them hope.
It was their hideaway, a place to quench their thirst for education. Unlike other children of their age, they rarely received the opportunity to hold me and my fellow friends to express themselves on canvas.
We brought them so much happiness, even if sometimes it was for a short period of time.
Now, she was trying to tell the world through her painting that the children needed a place, too, in the world.
She had dedicated her time and effort to equip the little ones with survival skills and some education so that they would not drown in the cold, hard world, and how they held onto her.
The alphabet and numbers that she taught built them a sanctuary, constructing a world parallel to their reality. She knew they were smart kids, just like how she once used to be. Life had taught them many things.
That was why she strongly believed that they deserved a chance to grow up and make their mark in the world.
But, it was not to be. Suddenly, the drawing was yanked away from her. Sound of footsteps filled their ‘school’. Men were shouting orders and they rounded up everyone, pushing them into a jeep.
“Masuk dalam jip. Masuk, cepat (Get into the jeep. Quick),” they were told.
She dropped me onto the floor as they dragged her away. The partially done black painting was stepped on by ruthless men. The last thing I saw before they broke me into half were tears pouring down her cheeks.
Goodbye, my love.
Image credits: illustration by Guillermo Altre, Jr.