Samira Surfs

Cox’s Bazar, Bangladesh

January 2012

Inside Our House

Our house, made of bamboo

chopped by Baba’s bare hands,

sits on a hill with other houses

just like ours.

The roof is crinkly blue plastic,

noisy in the wind,

hot in the afternoon sun.

Rain drips through its holes,

making dirt puddles

on the ground.

Inside, we have a single room

for the four of us.

Mama and Baba’s sleeping mat

covers one corner.

Close by, Mama’s silver pot

and Baba’s old spit cup,

stained red from his betel leaf.

Khaled stores a cricket bat

in his corner.

Next to it, on the floor, is

my brother’s blue notebook.

He tucked it in the waistband

of his longyi

and brought it all the way from

Burma.

What’s mine is a stool that holds

my special blanket,

Nani’s gift to baby me.

It’s torn and frayed,

but when I brush it against my skin

on cool winter nights,

me and Nani are together again,

cheek to cheek.

My stomach twists

when I think about

what little

made it here with us.

But things don’t make a home.

Family does,

even those still in Burma.

Nani and Nana do,

even though they are gone.

Eggs

Our eggs go plop-plop into water,

bubble and mist as they simmer

in Mama’s silver pot.

When they’re ready,

she spoons them out

and sets them in my bucket.

Our livelihood lies between

these brittle white shells.

My job is to sell

as many hard-boiled eggs as I can

to beachgoers

in Cox’s Bazar.

Each oval brings

money to my palm

and food

to the bellies

in my family.

Salt

Last night, Baba said,

“If you sell all your eggs, Samira,

we can buy extra salt to keep.”

He was squatting on the floor,

wrapping coconut, fennel, and nuts in betel leaf.

It’s his favorite treat.

A spiral of joy rose in my belly.

Salt crystals transform Mama’s dahl.

Beneath my crossed legs,

the prickly straw mat

suddenly felt smooth.

A bucket of eggs

turns into bundles of taka

turns into pinches of salt

turns into mouthfuls of joy.

I send out a wish

to sell all my eggs.

Come extra hungry to the beach, tourists!

Scoot Low

Every morning,

a narrow milky stream

of drip-drop pouring cha

tumbles from high

to greet me.

This is how Mama pours it.

Moments with her at dawn

bathe our day in sweetness.

Baba is the first to leave.

Shrimping is early work.

Next, Khaled,

to clean dishes and tables

for the café at Seaview Hotel.

Mama kisses me on the cheek.

“Stay safe, Samira,” she says.

I’m the last to go.

Low, low I scoot,

zigzagging 

down our sneaky steep hill.

My walk is filled with

sky, wrapped in pearly indigo

air, crisp and still,

and birds chirping

every morning.

Knowing

I step past the woods

to meet a wide stretch

of golden-gray sand.

The beach goes beyond where I can see.

Khaled says it’s the longest in the world!

Café doors creak open.

Outside, whining

packs of stray dogs

beg for food,

waiting for scraps

that miss the rubbish.

Fishermen throw out nets

for their daily catch.

The sea, sparkly in the morning sun,

breaks in little waves near the shore.

My eyes follow their slow, gentle peeling.

My ears tune in the gentle roar

of water tumbling on sand.

It sounds like water lapping at a boat,

like the one we boarded to cross the river

when we left Burma,

just me, Khaled, Mama, and Baba,

and Nani and Nana.

The others stayed behind:

Hasina Auntie, Jamal Uncle,

my cousin Shoba,

and my best friend, Sahara.

It’s been three months

since the river tossed our boat,

our chests sinking, stomachs plummeting.

Water can be dangerous

and beautiful at the same time.

For now, I stay as far away

as I can.