dangling our feet
watching them march past
upright and upstart.
We sat facing backwards
on earthernware cooking pots.
They’d told us to move out
from this house to that one.
We transported up and down
some clothes and some barangs
the people had warned us
just take what you need most,
“They’ll tell you to move out
from that house to this one.”
The bullock cart jostled
through occupied kampungs.
The sentries would stop us
inspecting our papers,
we sat very quiet
not breathing a curl -
watched closely their gun straps
as they checked our parcels.
They’d told us to move out
from this house to that one.
The bullocks were restless
they’d smelt a discomfort
and soon we heard scuffling
some young men were shouting,
their wrists were all bleeding
their eyes were blindfolded.
They’d told them to get out
from that house and this one.
They told us much later
they tortured and whipped them
their spines stretched to strip
them of secrets - they’d spilt.
They shoved them and moved them
from this jail to that one
and always in handcuffs
blindfolded and bleeding.
When later they freed them
they sat in a silence,
seceded and sapped,
moving sad, supine lips.
We sat on a bullock cart
dangling our feet,
but our ears heard the silence
of pain.
(c) Charlene Rajendran 1999
