Noang Lish
Pete Sortwell
This ain’t a bad job really, I get to sit on my sleeping bag all day. Except for getting up and flicking a few switches every six hours. They say after I have done six cycles of the crop I’ll have paid my way, then I’ll be taken off to the nearest local authority and dropped off. From there it’s easy street for me, free house, money from the government, more if I say I am a child and disabled. I have a script.
‘Ah yam sik steen noang lish chile, chile.’
Quang, the man who collected me, told me this, says he has done it loads of times. It’s his job. A few of my friends have done this and told me it is a good way to get out of the country and start looking out for the elders that are stuck there. Mother was sad to see me go but Father looked at me like a man when I told him of my decision to go. Quang promised my mother I would be looked after. We shared a joke at how silly the rich country was, just giving money away. I know it is naughty to be doing it, but Quang says there is very little chance of getting caught. Quang said the police here even feed you. I know the English word for police.
There is everything to gain. It will save them taking my sister, too, she does not want to leave and I am scared they will hurt her.
The stuff I have to grow really smells. Makes me feel funny, too. I have put a sheet up over the door of the small room where I rest between turning these huge fans and funny shaped lights on and off. I only get three hours sleep at a time as the four rooms of the place have different rules on when I need to change the settings. It takes about half an hour to do it all then I go and sit back on my sleeping bag and put the sheet up.
The men that picked me up from Mum and Dad’s house were friendly and nice. They brought me cigarettes and chocolate for the journey. The men that picked me up from here were not so nice and one just shouted at me. A Vietnamese man explained my job and the rules. I must not to go out of the place, I must not to write anything down, I must remember the timings of the lighting, and I must practise my script in English. He was not as nice as the men in Vietnam.
The only time people come to the house is at night, every few weeks. I never know when they are coming exactly, but it is after I have bagged up the latest crop. I get jumpy at any noises in the night. Just in case it’s them. They don’t speak to me nicely like Quang said they would.
I get hungry often. The plants here can be eaten, but I always sleep more when I do that. I eat tins of food that the men bring. I don’t like being here, but I need to provide for my family, they are good people.
I think about them a lot.
I was thinking about them today, actually, when there was banging downstairs then lots of men came in screaming. I was so frightened, until I heard the words I understood.
‘Police! Police!’
I only know one thing to say to them.
‘Ah yam sik steen noang lish chile chile.’
© Pete Sortwell 2024
