9 days to christmas – french hens

Written by: Tan Shi Ying Marissa (23-O1)

Designed by: Lim Sher Min (23-E1)

Homeless

Elsewhere, snow would be falling. There would be crisp, fresh scents of pine. Here, there was no snow or pine, but the streets glistened with the after fall of rain — Christmas had arrived, still.

‘She’s on an article…the homeless piece. Not moving along though.’

Ezeki sighed as she stared up towards the ceiling. She wanted her life to be more, she didn't want it to be summed up like those lousy headlines in the tabloids or news articles — trending: Journalist In Slump Just Broke Up With Boyfriend. Was it bad that she felt relieved when he had asked to end it? When he had told her that six years with her had left him with nothing but a subtle sense of isolation, that every ‘I love you’ had pried open the gulf of unease within him?; The bandage above the festering truth had finally been ripped and she could breathe again. 

She had felt a gulf widening too, but rather than unease, the lulling quiet she thought she had left far behind in her childhood had reappeared. She recalled a time when she would sit at the edge of her windowsill and listen to the first snowfall of winter. The soft sound of snow piling up, ivory sleeves powdering the streets of cobblestone and cement, and she took a moment to rest.

A month had passed since then, but she still had yet to broach the subject of her breakup with her friends. Perhaps with all her years writing articles, she had cultivated a certain sensitivity towards how people took to tragedy. Sad stories often had a peculiar sway over people, and it wasn’t long before she discovered that perfect pieces were ones that could get people pulling tissues out of their boxes; She didn’t want to be another one of those though. What mattered wasn’t the truth; What mattered was a candy-wrapped fragment of it. In this industry, it was the artful packaging of fragments of truth that held true importance — Just enough to draw in readers and endow them with a semblance of intellectual enlightenment about the happenings of the world. 

There was this funny story finding its way around the industry — a travel photographer that had gone to take pictures inside of a certain camp in a certain somewhere or another. He had walked into the first tent and saw a group of people, a young girl, her father, and her little brother. They were sitting around the room on the ground, and the father was braiding the daughter’s hair as they waited. As he had walked in, they all turned to look at who had entered. Upon seeing the stranger, they all warmly smiled and waved. He gave a slight nod as acknowledgement and proceeded to the next room, camera in hand. He saw a group of men gathered around in a circle, chatting and laughing as if they were having the most magnificent, lovely conversation of their lives. He gave them a friendly nod and left the tent. Finally, he entered the third tent. A mother, giving birth to a child. She was dying and the doctors had tried everything to save her, but she was most definitely going to pass, and so would her child with her.

And he took his picture. The truth was, the refugee camp had been filled with people long past their time. They had not had a meal for weeks, and it was simply a miracle they were still alive. Most of their organs had long passed the stage of recovery, and they would eventually die in the days to come, even with an abundance of food now readily available for them at the camp.

It was a marvellous show of human resilience in the face of imminent death and adversity, but rather than capturing a picture of the smiling refugees, still happily greeting a stranger despite their circumstances, he’d taken a picture of the third tent — a scene of tragedy that would no doubt evoke the sympathy of readers around the world. Of course, who would want to see the piece ‘Happy Refugees Laughing In The Face of Adversity’ in contrast to ‘Refugee Mother Dies In Childbirth Along With Child After Fleeing War-Torn Homeland’. Ezeki had long accepted this fact as a part of her job; If it bleeds, it leads.

Stepping into the room, she expected a greeting and some kind of introduction to the place, but instead she found herself alone, wandering through the rows of clattering pans under the hot sears of focused flame, sweetening the room with a delicate scent of pumpkin. She took a small peek into the ovens on her left, as if she were a child sneakily wandering through the hallways past bedtime, afraid to get caught by Mum. ‘Turkey?’ Ezeki wondered as she stared past the foggy glass that separated her from the dead bird sweating olive oil and an earthy scent of rosemary. ‘..Ms Lee? Are you here for the story?’ ‘Oh, me? Yes. Is there anywhere I can help?’ ‘It’s so nice to have you with us today. You can help out with serving the food, but be careful around the shakers..it’s the snow.’

‘Snow? It isn’t snowing here.’ ‘Cocaine, Ms Lee. They’re on cocaine.’

‘Oh.’

‘Some also pretend to be blind or handicapped to get sympathy from others. Though there are actually those who can’t see or walk. Just don’t be surprised if you see someone in a wheelchair suddenly stand up and stroll comfortably to the other side of the room.’

Ezeki wanted to feel mad. But she was held back by this nagging feeling in her heart, and a thought slowly arose in her mind — who would want to give a random stranger on the street their hard-earned cash, especially if that person didn’t look pitiful enough to warrant their attention.

What’s he doing on the streets? Why doesn’t he try finding a job? 

In a sense, it wasn’t too different from how she made headlines sell. ‘Reminds me of that funny story,’ she thought. Still, she had no time to linger on her thoughts. The task at hand had demanded her immediate attention as the queue for food continued to line the halls. Ezeki was serving mushroom and tomato soup. The warmth of each bowl she had felt vividly, like the crackling comfort of the fireplace amidst a snowstorm, as it passed on from her hands to those in the queue. Hopefully it would be enough to quell the stubborn cold of the streets outside. She had felt, passing bowl after bowl, that their hands were removed from heat. Some were drenched from the rain before, as the once vibrant hues of cloth became muted and clung tightly onto skin, the soaked fabric retaining memories of the downpour, leaving them open to the vulnerability of element and emotion, longing for the warmth of shelter and care.

As the slosh of soup soon became the crash of metal on metal, Ezeki placed the ladle down as she stared into the now empty pots. She was done. The hours of standing and scooping had worn her out, but still she wondered what it must have been like standing in the streets all day, waiting on the charity of others. What it must have felt like. After a bad day at work, or school, in whatever period of her life, Ezeki knew she always had a home to return to. 

She sat at one of the tables near the south end of the hall. Being so busy serving bowls of soup, Ezeki had missed her chance to speak with one of the homeless. There’s…

‘... no hope now.’ She mumbled under her breath. 

Perhaps it was better this way, after all, she was tired and maybe all she needed was to return home for a good night’s rest. She would think about what she had to do come morning.

‘There’s a difference between hope and faith.’ 

Ezeki flinched as she heard the coarse voice of an old man from behind her.

‘I don't hope that people give me money when I’m out on the streets, but I have faith that I will be provided with whatever I need to survive for the next day.’

The man laughed, then coughed, but continued to chuckle lightly after he had cleared his throat. She could hear that he had difficulties breathing in the barely audible wheeze of each breath he took. Was it the smoke of the roads? How many years had he been out there? Why?

She turned to look at him. She wanted to ask him — about his life; About how he ended up where he did; About why he made the choices he did; About his dreams; And his loneliness; And his sorrow. She wanted to know who he was. Not for a catchy tabloid or news headline, but to see, to truly see the person that he was. Ezeki had never felt such an overwhelming sense of curiosity take hold of her. Who was this self she had never known?

She returned again to a time of snow.

‘To appreciate the beauty of a snowflake, it is necessary to stand out in the cold.’ 

She had read it from one of the books that lined her family bookshelves. Where was it from again? Her memory was vague on that point but she still distinctly recalled that after reading it she had run out into the streets in only her pyjamas in the evening to catch a snowflake. How silly she was! A time of innocence she could only recall. Then, she had lived boldly, honestly.

When did she begin to lose hope?

She thought back to the bright flickers of light on the christmas tree, and the presents neatly tucked under in glossy wrapper. Still, she was never curious about what lay hidden beneath the wrapper. 

Her voice echoed in the silent house of bright lights and abundant decoration. Years passed, and she had learnt that crying would not change her fate. Still, she would never forget to look out of the window, expectantly waiting for their return. In the meantime, the snow was her companion and she watched as it gradually changed the cityscape as the minutes turned into hours, and hours turned into decades. “Sorry we missed Christmas again dear..you know how work can be..”

“...”

She asked the old man to continue sharing, and she shared too. When last did she speak of her childhood to someone else? And to a stranger no less! When had she put these barriers up around herself? She found it funny, and yet the words kept pouring out from her.

Who would be willing to sit down and hear their stories? .

.

.

Who would be willing to hear hers?

Ezeki felt a lightness overcome her and she began to cry.

Christmas had arrived not in the falling snow or the scent of pine, but in the shared warmth of a shelter's kitchen, where strangers became companions, and Ezeki discovered that, in giving, she had received more than she could have ever imagined.