The Poem
In a squatter village
in Mak Mandin sits my home on stilts
- a little, plank house.
I wander along the narrow, muddy lanes
of my village,
all alone,
in a world of my own.
I am an only child;
my father left us before I entered this world
- sometimes I wonder what he was like.
I hardly see my mother;
she cycles away before sun rises,
going to the towel factory where she works.
She toils until the sky darkens;
then she returns, listless, too tired to talk to me.
She works hard, but still we don't have enough money.
The factory people
won't pay her more because she can't read or write.
My house has no tap;
the water we drink flows through
a hose from my neighbour's house for half an hour a day.
The mid-afternoon sun blazes
onto our metal roof;
I feel the searing heat; it is unbearable.
Then it rains;
the clogged drains spew out ugly brown water.
The flood waters rise,
gushing into my house.
I see the snakes outside;
I'm afraid - God,
why have you forgotten me?
I don't understand why we should suffer,
why we must feel hungry
in a land of plenty; in the big city of Kuala Lumpur,
everyone is proud
of the Twin Towers which touch the clouds.
But I am not;
I am sullen and sad.
When I grow up I want to be a lawyer,
to find proper houses for the people of my village;
but I'm only twelve now,
no one understands me
I read the scriptures searching for meaning
in the silence of my soul.
My God, my God,
lift me from despair
save us
from this wretchedness
I cry to you
all alone
in a world of my own.
by Anil Netto, Malaysia