Joseph Masilamany
When a commercial airliner, bearing 250 souls,
Falls flaming from the sky,
The world stands still in stunned disbelief,
And grief resounds on high.
News breaks like thunder across the earth,
On every glowing screen;
Governments bow in solemn words
For lives that might have been.
Candles flicker through solemn nights,
Their fragile flames held tight,
As names are read in reverent tones
By the hush of mourning light.
But when a rickety boat, no less burdened,
With Rohingya hearts in flight,
Breaks upon the Andaman’s restless waves
On that night of April
The world but pauses for a fleeting breath,
Then turns and looks away;
A shadow slips through passing lines
A grief too brief to stay.
Briefly noted, swiftly mourned,
Then swallowed by the deep;
Scores lie lost to the merciless sea,
While silent waters keep.
And nearly 250 more remain,
Still missing beneath the foam,
Unclaimed by land, unnamed by time,
With no remembered home.
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And so the ocean keeps its silence,
Even as memory fades ashore —
Oh, why, oh why, Rohingya,
Why is the world cocking a snook at you?
Why, oh why, Rohingya?
Why is your story so strikingly true?
And dripping with déjà vu?
Oh, Rohingya, why does yesterday’s seawater,
In which you almost drowned,
Still tastes the same today –
From the rising Andaman Sea
To the Straits of Malacca?
Oh, Déjà vu, how haunting is your tale!
‘Yes, I have been there before – I’ve seen it all.
I have tasted the waters of the Nicobar too,
And all the tides of the Bay of Bengal.’
Water here, water there, water everywhere,
And all your flimsy boats did sink.
Water here, water there, water everywhere –
But not a drop of hope for the Rohingya to drink.
Oh God, why this scourge – like Your Passion –
Visited upon the Rohingya, blameless and unheard,
Who, unlike the Ancient Mariner, killed no man nor bird,
Who, unlike the Ancient Mariner, cross-bowed not the albatross?
Speak, O Lord, and pierce the silence of indifference.
Oh, Rohingya, why has Rakhine ejected you?
And why Assam and Bangladesh?
Manipur and Nagaland,
Arunachal and Mizoram?
Why have they not given succour?
To this phalanx called the Rohingya,
Nor even asked, like the Gospel lawyer of old:
‘Who is my neighbour?’
Alas, oh alas, alas, Rohingya
Is there no cove or lough,
No pool or pond, no bayou or lagoon,
Beeping like a beacon to receive you?
Or a lighthouse beckoning
‘Come unto me, all you sailors
And I will give you rest?
God weeps where silent oceans roar,
For every child the waves have torn apart;
For though the world rejects the poor,
Rohingya names are carved in His heart
… Alas, their eternal home, their own at last
Joseph Masilamany is a veteran journalist who writes widely on governance, faith, culture and the moral questions shaping public life in Malaysia. His work often explores the relationship between institutions, conscience and the human spirit.
The views expressed in Aliran's media statements and the NGO statements we have endorsed reflect Aliran's official stand. Views and opinions expressed in other pieces published here do not necessarily reflect Aliran's official position.
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