Strange New Land

“Aunt Didi, sing me that song one more time,” says the young boy, resting his chin on his knees.

The small, tired woman laughs softly. “One more time.”

As she sings, the sun begins to set. The woman wraps a shawl around her shoulders and looks gently at the young boy. He is so young, only thirteen, and he looks even younger. It scares her to think that in a week, he will not be there anymore.

“I don’t want to go,” the boy says, abruptly, and sits up. “I don’t want to go to Australia.”

“Nonsense,” says the woman, her face creased with pain. “You’re Chinese. To stay in Malaysia is dangerous- you know that your mother was almost shot for leaving the house. You’ll be safe there.”

“Will the servants come with us?”

The boy’s voice is muffled. The woman ignores the heavy feeling in her heart.

“No,” she says. “It’s just you and your brothers.”

The boy looks at her, terrified. She wishes she could remove the look from his face, but she knows that she can’t. She can’t erase the truth.

“Lean down,” she says, instead. “Lean down and close your eyes.”

There is just one more night, she thinks, and begins to sing.

-

“Here,” says a slightly older boy, “take this map. Then take yourself and Richard to get your passports stamped.”

“Our passports?” says the young boy. “John, you can’t make me do this, I’m only thirteen!”

Please come with me!

“Just follow the map,” John repeats. “And ask. If Kandasami didn’t know where to go, he’d just ask.”

“But he knew,” the boy protests. “And he’s not here! John-“

The older boy ignores him.

“Richard, you know what to do, don’t you?”

The youngest boy nods. “Follow Peter!”

“John-“

“I’ve got school. Take care!”

He is gone. Richard looks expectantly at Peter, who sits down on the step.

Alone.

Just like that.

I have to get Richard and myself there and back.

Alone.

“Peter?”

His younger brother tugs at his sleeve.

Peter looks at his hands.

“What can I do, Richard?” he says, almost angrily. Tears are gathering behind his eyes, but he can’t cry, not in front of his little brother, whom he has promised to help look after.

“I can’t speak English well, I don’t know this strange land! The roads, the shops, it’s all too different! I don’t know where to go, I don’t know what to do! Father said John would be responsible for us!”

Richard is almost crying now. “Peter, you’ve got to help me!”

Help him!

“I told you, Richard, I can’t!”

Peter stands up angrily now. He dashes a hand to his face, and finds, to his mortification that he is crying too.

“Peter, you need to help me!”

A car rushes by. Someone winds the window down.

“Go back to where you came from, you bloody Chong!”

Peter feels something pierce his heart. In that moment, he wants to crumple up and die of shame. Unwanted at home, unwanted in this new country- would there ever be a place where he’d belong?

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Richard glaring at the car.

“One day I’ll make ‘em pay,” Richard mutters. He was always a proud one, Peter thinks. He wishes he could be like that.

He wants to run and get John, make John take him to where he needs to go. He doesn’t want to be responsible. He doesn’t want to be here, he wants to be home, he wants to sit in the kitchen and watch the servants cook mee goreng and gulan melaka. But he knows, even as he hates to admit it, that he will never get anywhere if he just sits on the step.

I can’t do it alone. I don’t want to do it.

You’ve got to. No one else will.

Viciously, he brushes the tears away from his face.

“Come on, Richard,” he says. “Let’s go.”

“But you didn’t know where to go!”

Peter turns and glares at his brother. “Shut up and just follow me,” he says, hoping he sounds more authoritative than he feels. “We’ll get there in the end. We’ve got the map, remember?”

Richard nods, tearfully.

Together, but not too closely, the boys walk towards the bus stop.

-

“One move, Wong, and I’ll slit your throat,” the voice hisses.

Peter closes his eyes. The tiles of the bathroom floor are cold in his back. His breathing is thin and shallow. The knife at his throat is cold and dangerously real.

It is only a boy his own age holding the knife, but that boy looks so much larger and older.

Stay calm. Breathe.

“Don’t even think of screaming,” the voice continues.

Peter wants to laugh hysterically.

Am I that stupid? He thinks.

“You’re such a wimp!”

Please, end this, Peter thinks, please.

He’s only been at this school three months. He knows that he’s hated- he remembers the humiliation of being used as a mop for the urinals, he’s gotten used to seeing blood whenever he wipes his nose- but he’s not used to this. He could die with this.

Die.

He wonders momentarily why Richard and John seem to be coping better. They seem to have friends; they don’t seem to get into these troubles. Or, if they do, they’ve never had a knife held to their throats.

He can hear his heart thudding.

There is a bang at the door.

“Rick, what the bloody hell are you doing?”

There is a whoosh of air.

Suddenly, it’s as if his body breathes again; blood rushes to his head, a loud pounding fills his ears.

Peter’s hand moves to his throat; the knife isn’t there. In the back of his mind, he thinks that he shouldn’t be able to move- it feels so strange. Only a moment ago he thought he might die.

He doesn’t want to move, he doesn’t feel like he can move- but he picks himself off the tiles, and looks at the door.

It’s the boy who comes to him for Maths help sometimes- what’s his name again? Oh yes, Marcello.

Thank you.

“What are you doing, Rick?”

“… Nothing,” Rick lies, but Peter sees him flip the knife shut, and shove it into his pocket.

“That wasn’t bloody nothing, that was a knife,” Marcello retorts.

All of a sudden, Rick looks small in comparison to Marcello- almost as small as he, Peter, is to Rick.

There is a sudden flurry of movement, and Rick stumbles away, clutching his jaw.

No one has ever punched Rick.

Peter gapes.

“You touch him one more time,” says Marcello, jerking his head over at Peter, “you’d better watch out.”

Rick is busy clutching his chin. Marcello takes a step closer.

“You hear me?”

There is a pause-

Then Rick bolts.

An awkward silence settles in the air.

“… Thank you,” Peter says, stumbling slightly over his words.

The boy shrugs. “It’s ok.”

No it’s not. You saved my life.

The boy pauses. For a boy who just punched Rick, his timidness is unexpected. It doesn’t suit his size, Peter thinks.

“Rick’s always like that,” Marcello says, eventually. “Tells me to get lost ‘cause I’m a Wog.”

Peter gingerly rubs his back. There is a small bruise from when Rick flung him to the ground.

“I don’t like it here,” he says, quietly. It is the first time he has voiced what he has been feeling for months. In a way, it’s liberating.

“You’ll get used to it,” says the boy.

Will I?

Peter looks uncertainly at the boy. Marcello.

Marcello grins then, and holds out a hand. “Let’s leave,” he said. “Stupid place to talk, in the toilets. It’s freezing in here.”

Peter lets himself be led out into the corridor.

As they sneak past the kitchens, Peter closes his eyes. He can almost imagine the smell of laksa. He can almost hear Aunt Didi talking with the servants, arguing about which sauce to use.

“C’mon, Wong!”

Peter shakes himself awake, and follows Marcello.

For the first time, he doesn’t feel quite so scared.

-----

A/N: I dedicate this story to my father, who had to deal with much racism when he first migrated to Australia. Thanks to anyone who has read this far, and I hope you found something about this you liked. God bless!