Her school has over one hundred students, all of whom are Rohingya. The school does not have qualified teachers, and volunteers who take on the role of teachers come and go according to their own schedules. Their classrooms are filled with old furniture. Three small dirty toilets for the entire school are located next to the classes. And the canteen – well, there wasn’t any.
Bibi and I looked for a quiet place to sit and talk – I wanted to know more about her for a documentary on Rohingya children I was working on. With the school’s permission, we found ourselves in a bug-infested meeting room. And despite the absence of fans and a niggling worry that something was crawling up my leg, I managed to focus on the little girl as she told me about her life.
Like many other stories I had heard from refugees, Bibi told me how her home and village were burnt to the ground, forcing them to flee on foot into the jungles. As she spoke, it dawned on me how much I admired the strength and courage of this diminutive girl.
As she told me more, I took in my surroundings, only to find the walls of the room we were in decorated with graphic pictures of assassinated Rohingyas. The pictures showed bloodied bodies and were pretty terrifying, to be honest. I pulled a teacher aside to ask why such pictures were allowed to be hung on the walls.
“To remind us of our past,” he answered matter-of-factly.
I turned to Bibi and asked, “Aren’t you afraid of these pictures?”
She smiled as she shook her head, “No. I am used to seeing my people dying. My relatives were burnt alive. Some were killed. And a man who slept next to me in the boat to Malaysia died in his sleep. I am used to seeing people die.”
Recovering from the shock of her replies, I later found myself on our way to Bibi’s house. It was an incomplete structure at the end of a neighbourhood of single-storey houses. Hers was not painted, but had cement floors and partitions built into the structure to separate the rooms. Five families shared this house – Bibi’s family being one of them.
The moment I stepped inside, I was welcomed by a huge Jalur Gemilang hanging proudly on the wall. Other walls were also decorated with Malaysian flags of smaller sizes. I was awed by their sense of patriotism – something even Malaysians were struggling with these days.
I followed Bibi into their small room where she quickly changed her clothes and led the way to the kitchen where her mother was preparing lunch. Bibi’s mother had cooked a packet of instant noodles – minus egg or vegetables – that she gently poured into a bowl and handed to Bibi. Bibi carefully brought her lunch into the living room, where Husna and Waris, her sister and little brother, were already seated.
Slowly, the three shared their lunch – that one packet of instant noodles, right under the huge Jalur Gemilang. It was a sight I shall never forget.
As I watched them empty the bowl, Bibi’s father stepped into the house. Wearing a big, warm smile, he greeted me and sat with the kids. Curious, I asked him if instant noodles was the children’s staple diet. His smile disappeared as he nodded. Apparently it was everyone’s too.
I later discovered that Bibi’s father worked as an assistant to an electrician for RM900 a month. Having five mouths to feed, a room to rent and a motorcycle to pay for, his wages were never enough.
“Nice flags,” I changed the topic of our conversation the moment I sensed the mood had turned sombre.
“Yes, I bought them at a nearby shop. I really like the flag,” he said, looking warmly at the Jalur Gemilang.
Quickly doing the math in my head to calculate the cost of all the flags of different sizes in the living room, I said, “But why waste money on flags when you can spend it on food and other necessities?”
“We went through so much trouble to get here. In Malaysia, Bibi, Husna and Waris are safe. They can go to school and we can be together.
“Malaysia gave us that. I am very thankful to Allah for that. That is why I have so much respect for your flag – it is a symbol of your great nation and the gift it gave to me and my family.
“Your Malaysia gave us a second chance in life.”
Hearing those words coming from a man who barely had anything save for his family, I found myself tongue-tied. I felt a lump in my throat, and soon my eyes watered-up.
Jalur Gemilang. I will never see it as simply a way to visually distinguish my country from the rest. It is a symbol of hope. And dreams. Of security and peace. And it took a refugee to remind me of it.