We, The Living Ones
A concrete jungle where the poor are forced to live. An old woman endures her life alone on a cardboard box.
In the bleak life of modern times, under grey skies, electric lights, and over-saturated colour television sets, there is little that is new or strange left to discover—no great wonder to behold. In the cities, we have lost touch with our inner selves, and in the countryside, we find that we cannot escape the madding crowds of strangers who surround us at every hour of daylight. It is not uncommon for those whose lives are spent amid these crowded confines to feel an unquenchable restlessness when their duties permit them to step out onto the open ground or into a lonely place where they can be alone. There are many who have felt this restlessness so deeply as to seek its outlet by committing acts of madness, and it has been known to drive some madmen to attempt to reach that other country from which all else seems hopelessly remote.
Kuala Lumpur, a dunghill city of concrete and neon lights, was once a small port town that had risen like a pimple on the backside of Southeast Asia. It had grown in size rapidly since the late fifties, as people poured in from the countryside to live among the teeming hordes.
A sublime loneliness lay in that part of the world, and the inhabitants were forced to come down to the seashore, to the hills behind the city, and even to the jungles beyond, if they wished to enjoy a moment's peace. Upscale housing developments stood in sharp contrast with the slums of squatters' huts which clustered about the fringes of the city; the filth of the sins of man was everywhere, but at least there was room enough for the squatters to stretch out and sleep in the open air.
In one of those squatter compounds, on a hill overlooking the city, lived a woman called Maimunah. Surviving on the charity of others, she eked out her living selling tissues and scavenger. A tall, thin old woman in tattered clothes, she would sit in a corner of the compound and stare longingly toward the tall apartment blocks of the rich men and women who inhabited the flats nearby.
Her days were spent alone, and in a world full of people but without friends or relatives to share it with, the solitude was too much to bear. She was afraid, though, and so she never left the compound; money was hard to find, and she had no wish to take chances. Her survival was only possible because she was so desperate that she didn't give up. It was a life without hope, and a sense of complete isolation washed over her.
At night, on her cardboard box bed, she prayed to Allah for deliverance, for she knew that her soul would never find peace until it was given over to Him. She prayed that He would give her the strength to endure and the strength to bear the crushing weight of a world without pity. Her faith was strong, and she held tightly to the belief that her prayers would be heard.
In the name of Allah, the most merciful and compassionate, she said softly in her native Malay language, "I ask you to forgive me my transgressions and guide me in the path of righteousness." She fell silent after her last word, waiting for an answer, but none came.
“My Lord, I am but a pitiful servant, unworthy of your love. I have sinned against you, and now I ask for your forgiveness."
Again, nothing answered her, and she continued on with her litany of supplication.
As the night went on, and the drunks began to fall into their slumber around her, the old woman fell into a trancelike state, repeating the same words over and over.
"I am but a pitiful servant, unworthy of your love..."
In her sleep, she spoke the words again and again, sometimes muttering them aloud and at other times just thinking about them silently. She seemed oblivious to all else around her, save those haunting words that she muttered in her dreams.
The next day, the old woman woke up and went about her business: selling tissues outside the market, scavenging through garbage cans behind shop doorways, and begging for food scraps and spare change from passersby.
Another day has passed; another week; another month. Maimunah's life was an endless routine of work, prayer, and sleep. Her prayers did not seem to be getting any nearer an answer, yet she still hoped.
It is hope that keeps us going, she thought as she sat on her cardboard box bed. Even the bleakest of situations can become a little brighter if one believes that some good will eventually come out of it. But alas! How could God answer her prayers when He had let so many evil things happen? Why hadn't He stopped the man who had cut off her hands in the first place? And why had he taken her children away—the precious lives that she had given birth to and raised by herself—only to leave her alone and friendless?
She wept bitterly at these thoughts. "Allah!" she screamed to the empty sky. I am a dumb animal without a voice! What do you care if I live or die? " Her eyes welled up with tears of anger and frustration; her lips trembled with the rage that boiled inside her. The pain of being helpless was more than she could bear.
Another day has passed. Another week. And another month...
