fleeing for a new life

 

The result of talking about refugees in English class in Grade 7 and writing about what the experience might have been like in five minutes:

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The horrifying stench crept its way to my nostrils. Somebody else on boat had probably vomited. I turned away from the dampness of the boat and made my way to the blinding sun. My hands clutched the splintered wood, using it as a guide. I passed families huddled together, women and children crying as the hope of a new life evaporated as the journey continued. The boat rocked back vigorously and I fell backwards. I felt a trickle of blood running down my forehead. Clutching my wound, I stood up carefully before wiping the blood away. It left a stain on my rags.

 

 

I took a few steps before stumbling. The wood on the deck was uneven. I made my way carefully towards the very front of the boat, letting myself bask in the warmth of the sun. I turned around, determined to look for my family, wherever they were. A spray of saltwater glistened on my rags in the sunlight, making the blood stain more noticeable. My eyes searched desperately for my mother and my little sister. The smoke of the engine was rapidly thinning. This could only mean that we were nearly there or the engine was old and failing and we were going to be stranded in the middle of nowhere. I heard my little sister’s cry and I rushed towards her, pushing people out of the way as they fell to the ground, weak from days of traveling without proper food. When I got closer, I saw the cause of her cry.

 

 

 I could feel my own eyes blurring. From now on, it was just going to her and me - it was just going to be me and my little sister. I tried to suffocate the sobs that threatened to come out of my throat. I had to be strong. At least to my little sister, I had to be strong. I had to be her pillar of support. I had to be strong for the both of us now. If it wasn't, no one was going to be strong enough for both of us. My father was not going to support us. He was in another country with three different wives to entertain him. My mother was not going to support us anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

For lying on the floor was my mother. She was beautiful. Her dark skin was illuminated in the sunlight and her beautiful eyes were closed, finally in peace. It was a beautiful sight, and I hated it as well. I hated the sight because it was my mother, beautifully laid on the floor and yet there was also the horrible reminder that she would never wake up.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She was silent, still, completely motionless. She was a statue. She was a beautiful person.

And she was now dead.