People said the sea was a death trap —
yet we climbed in anyway,
hands trembling on a borrowed compass,
hope stitched into a leaking hull.
One mother pressed her baby to her chest,
whispering,
“If the sea takes us,
let it take us together.”
I saw fathers sit at the bow,
pretending courage,
swallowing fear
with every rising wave.
Behind us — a land
that no longer knew our names.
Before us — only water,
and rumors of a shore
that might accept us.
Some nights the moon guided us.
Some nights only the stars showed us the way.
Some boats found Malaysia.
Some found Thailand.
Some drifted to Hong Kong,
where freedom wore a refugee badge
and waited in crowded barracks.
But some —
some boats vanished
into the open blue,
where no one keeps records
and no one lights incense
because no one knows where to pray.
Those are the ones
the sea keeps.
The ones we mention
only in tears.
The ones whose graves
are waves.
Yet from those waves
rose a new people,
a nation in exile,
a generation that carries
both the salt of the ocean
and the fire of survival.
We are here
because they chose the sea.
We live
because they sailed
where the living feared to go.
Mom wants to know, "How many died in the open sea?
How many perished in the heartless jungles?
How many girls and women were savagely raped?
And how many bodies became treats for the fish?