The wrong side of my wall.

If walls could talk, humans would be ashamed.

I am not a wall in a ruined church or castle that can recite heroic tales of King or sacrifices of Queens. I am not a wall of historical importance that prevented incursions and the downfall of empires.

I am JUST a wall, no doubt, like many others. Not even a pretty one. My paint has chipped away, and my bricks bear holes, connecting two unfamiliar worlds—one of money and another yearning for it. My purpose was never to fascinate the eyes, but a functional one. I provide relief to politicians and breed ignorance in people with financial security. My sole purpose was to sweep the slums out of view and out of mind.

The very hands that layered the bricks and cement are the prisoners of poverty that live within my perimeters. I can’t tell you which part of the world I am located in because my knowledge comes from the whispers, cries and sometimes laughter of my people. Yes, I call them my people because my roots may have come from money, but it is their blood and sweat that’s soaked in my bricks. For two decades, I withstood punches from angry fathers that couldn’t afford to buy a single meal for their children, soaked the tears of young children orphaned because their parents worked themselves to death, and bore the weight of mourning widows that lost their pregnant wives and unborn children because the nearest government hospital was 20 km away. I have seen and felt it all.

My tears may be invisible, but my love for them is true. I pen this cry for help through my thoughts, hoping someone would hear me.

Not convinced of my pleas? Then let me tell you the story of Srimath. Srimath was only 3 years old when he came to me. His frail body resting on my bricks, yearning for the support his legs couldn’t give anymore. Slowly, he fell to the ground, his back pressed against me. His cries vibrated through each grain of sand in my structures. In his right hand was a torn-stuffed white dove. He clutched the dove, like his life depended on it. His clothes barely had any substance to them, leaving most of his body bare to the screaming sun. I didn’t know his story, but I looked long and hard for a loved one to scoop him up. Alas, no one came. Another orphaned boy.

Days passed and Srimath didn’t leave my side, not even when the sky cried with thunderous might. The poor boy was soaked and shivered through the night. Oh, how I wished I could wrap him around in my imaginary arms and protect him from the treacherous world. It wasn’t until four nights had passed that he braved away from the little comforts of my wall. It was the growling sounds of his tummy that motivated him. Confused and unaware of what to do, Srimath sat across my wall, staring into the hole-in-a-wall restaurant that has been there longer than me. Doesn’t anyone see this hungry child? I would cry, but no one could hear me. Fleets of people would frequent the place, yet, not a single soul took notice of the fragile child. A desperate Srimath ventured into the restaurant and fell on the feet of a patron, who took pity on him and bought him some food. It became a learned behavior for him, and you would find him splattered across people’s feet whenever his tummy grumbled. Some were kind, while others would push him aside, akin to an inconveniencing insect.

In the life of the poor, the feet you touch may either be a blessing or a curse, and Srimath learned this lesson the hard way. It was the morning of a scorching summer’s day, and Srimath went to perform his usual routine at the restaurant. On this particular day, the tiny restaurant was packed with burly men that had more beard than face. Their heavy-built figures and menacing looks scared Srimath, but the growling in his tummy was deafening. He approached the man sitting closest to the entrance, thinking that he could escape easily if needed. Srimath landed on his feet and cried for food. His actions drew silence across the restaurant before being met with a roar of laughter. Srimath got up, his eyes twinkling, and a smile etched on his lips. The first I had seen since he came to me. He had made the patrons happy, so he prepared himself to be rewarded with an abundance of food.

I watched as one of the men crouch down to whisper something in Srimath’s ears, something that made his eyes widen with fear. He waved his hands to indicate no and pushed the man. The man landed on his behind and the rest of the patrons laughed.

“A child has beaten you, you brute!” his companion teased. This only made the man angrier.

“You are going to pay for that!” he declared as he scooped Srimath by his waist and walked out of the restaurant. The rest of the burly men followed.

Srimath wailed and cried, pleading with the man to let him go, but the man only tightened his grip.

I felt helpless. Passersby wore fear in their eyes as they pretended to not hear the loud cries of Srimath. Soon he disappeared from my sight and away from my perimeters.

For weeks, I mourned Srimath, unsure of his fate, until one day I saw a little boy approach the outskirts of my perimeter, the other side of my wall that I don’t speak about. He was unruly with dirt smeared across his face. It took me awhile, but it was my Srimath. He was scrawny and didn’t have a shirt on. The hand that held the stuffed white dove now held a dented silver plate. He walked with his left hand placed on me, using my structure as a guide for direction. I didn’t understand his actions until he turned towards me. What I saw still haunts me to this day. The horror. His beautiful big brown eyes were missing, replaced by shells of emptiness. Who would do such a thing to a child?

My thoughts were distracted by the soft chatters of other children, some similar in appearance as Srimath while the rest were either girls or older. Each one of them displayed some type of deformity. There were 10 of them in total, lined up against me. A few yards from me, on the side that I don’t talk about, is bustling traffic littered with beaming cars, and in them, men and women with tailored suits. A pole stood erect at the very front, with colour-changing lights that the cars obeyed. My very existence was to keep my people away from the rest of the population, so I didn’t understand why these children were here. Did they unknowingly end up on the wrong side of my wall? How was I going to tell them?

Suddenly the chatters stopped. A man stood behind a tree not too far from the children, and they seemed to be afraid of him. It was the same man that had taken my Srimath away. He had made his presence known without bringing attention to himself. The lights on the pole turned red, and the cars came to a halt. I saw the children run towards the traffic, little Srimath a little aimlessly. An older boy with sight held his hand and guided him towards the cars that were lined up. Srimath would knock on the window until the passenger responded, either with anger or pity. This happened every time the light changed red from morning to dusk. Days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months. Despite the generous offerings of some passengers, Srimath was only getting thinner.

It was a gloomy morning when everything came to a disgusting end. The bucketing rain, foreboded the tragedy that would ensue. Srimath arrived, punctual as usual. His bony ribs were protruding by this point, demanding justice. Srimath seemed a little more anxious than usual, his hands fidgety. Their day started at the first red light during the pre-work hours. I don’t know if it was the deafening rain that prevented him from hearing the other children or his broken spirit that had finally given up, but I witnessed Srimath run even before the red light had appeared. I didn’t value the importance of a split second until that day. Everything ended in a blink of an eye. Srimath was on the ground, bringing the surrounding traffic to a sudden halt. Bright red liquid graced the road, invading the space around Srimath very quickly.

And just like that, Srimath was gone. This child had experienced more pain in his short span of life than most people reading this would have experienced in their lifetime. His fate was sealed the moment he was born within my perimeter. The raindrops that ran down my walls emulated my emotions.

I am penning this on another eerily similar rainy day. Another child, this time a girl, stands on the wrong side of my wall, with the same dented silver plate.

Help.