My name is Dewi and I am twelve years
old. I live in a little village 120km north of Dumai, in the Riau province of
Sumatra. Well, I used to anyway. Until the haze came.
Everything was fine before that. I was
living with my father, my grandma and my 6 year old brother Nolan in our little
house at the edge of the forest. My father works in a palm oil plantation on
the other side of the village, but he barely has any time for us at all
anymore. Ever since Ma died when she gave birth to Nolan, he’s been working day
and night to pay for our food and school fees.
The only memento I have of Ma is a photo
we took when I was a baby in the hospital. She looked so happy then. I wonder
if she would still be able to smile like that today.
My grandma took Ma’s place in raising us
and I tried as best I could to help with the housework and tending the
vegetable patch and gathering firewood between my studies. I’ve tried to
convince father to let me drop out of school so that I can help grandma, but he
wouldn’t hear of it.
“You’ve got to keep going to school,
Dewi. You need to study and get a good job so that you’ll be able to lead a
better life than this.”
So I continued to study hard and get
good marks, so that one day, he won’t have to work as hard anymore for my sake.
But now it’s over. The fires that are
used to raze the rainforest have spread and are coming too close to our
village. We are getting relocated. And our village will be destroyed. Now we
are on our way to Dumai, where we will be temporarily housed. No matter how
many times I recall it, today’s events won’t settle.
It
is noon, school ended early, because the haze became so bad our masks did
little to guard against it. I go home wearing two of them so I won’t breathe in
too much of the toxic smoke while walking along the forest. Before, I would
stray off the paths and watch the birds building their nests as they always did
at this time of year. My favourite were a pair of white doves, which I fed with
crumbs occasionally. Now, I barely open my eyes enough to see the road in front
of me.
When
I open the door, I stop in my tracks. Grandma is hurrying around, packing bags
and unpacking others. Stuffing them with clothes and food and the little things
of worth we have. Nolan is standing in the centre of the room, looking confused
and about to cry, before a fit of coughing racks his tiny frame. I hurry over
and adjust his mask, patting his back to ease the coughing.
“Where
are we going grandma?” I ask. She answers without stopping her frantic
bustling.
“To
the city dear. We have to leave this village. The fires have come too close.
It’s too dangerous for us here.”
I
stand there, lost. I want to curl up and cry like my little brother, but
instead I ask.
“Where
father? Isn’t he coming as well?”
My
grandmother’s mouth thins to a hard line and there is pain in the depths of her
kind eyes.
“He
won’t be coming with us. He has to stay here to help the others control the
fire. Come now Dewi, help me pack. We will leave soon.”
The memory fades as I’m drawn from my
thoughts by another of Nolan’s coughing fits. I watch as my grandmother hushes
him and strokes his hair and my heart clenches with anxiety. He has asthma, our doctor had told us when
we went to the hospital to find the cause for my brother’s illness. He will have to take antihistamines. The
climate and air quality are ok here, so you just have to watch out that he
doesn’t get a lung infection. At his age, that could be fatal.
With the onset of the haze, my brother’s
condition has been deteriorating. He becomes sick often and is weak and frail.
But we were happy. Before the haze came,
even though we are quite poor, we could laugh. My brother and I didn’t have to
work like other children and we had someone to take care of us. When we were
young, we were content.
I look back down the dirt path at our
little hut. Behind it, smoke rises from the forest, signalling the fires
arrival. I swallow, choking back tears. ‘Stop it! I’m not a little girl
anymore!’
But I can’t stop seeing the image of my
past going up in flames. My mother’s grave in our backyard covered in soot. All
my precious memories, consumed by the hungry fire. Then I realize that I forgot
it. The picture. The only picture I still possess of my mother and me as a
baby. It’s still in the house. I will lose it.
I start to cry. My vision is blurry from
the tears as I watch the smoke swallow our house. I see our vegetable patch
disappear under it, covered as if by a blanket.
In the end, all I can still make out is
my red dress, hanging on the washing line, its long sleeves flapping.
Father gave that to me for my last
birthday. He’d even taken time to go to the city during his shift and used part
of his monthly pay check to pay for it.
And now it will burn. Just like my
forest. Just like home.
As I turn around to leave, I see a flock
of birds flying low over the land, their silhouettes outlined against the
orange sky and I’m almost sure that there are two small white doves among them.
The sunset is setting the trees on the horizon on fire. Or maybe they really
are burning.
I watch the flock as it disappears to
the south. The same direction we’re headed. As I stare at the glowing reddish
ball, shrouded in grey smoke, wearing it like a cloak, I start to think.
I
wonder… Would this have happened if the government had stepped in? Would we
have had to leave our homes if the fires were more controlled? Would my
childhood still be there if the rest of the world had stepped in? Do they even
know? Do they even care?
By: Mara Perras and Angelina Spietz
