Bird in the Sky

Bird in the Sky

By Catherine Poarch

“Diego was my bird in the sky that was taken from me.”

(Charlesia Alexis, in ‘Stealing A Nation’ by John Pilger)

This is a fictionalised account of true events.

To find out more visit the UK
Chagos Support Association at www.chagossupport.org.uk.
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My name is Samuel.
Where am I from?
I am from islands, lost in the Indian Ocean.

Sometimes the rains swept across us and nobody knew we were there. But mostly, the sun was hot and the sea was turquoise and there was always a bird in the sky.
*

My name is Arlette. I am Samuel’s cousin.
Where are we from?
We are from a little village on a small island in a big ocean.

We lived near each other, with our mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and our Grandma who shooed us like chickens. Our houses were made of wood, with little verandas, and the rooves were thatched with coconut leaves. We grew tomatoes and pumpkins and brinjals in the dry earth and we looked after the animals; chickens and ducks and turkeys and pigs, geese and rabbits and guinea fowl. And there were the dogs, our beautiful dogs, which dived into the water to catch the fish.

*

My name is Pierre. Samuel and Arlette are my cousins.
Samuel is the quietest one. Arlette is the funniest. But I am the one who likes to argue.
Where are we from?

We are from islands where our grandmother’s grandparents were born. And before that, she can’t remember. But there was a time before that. There was a time when the French brought slaves from Africa here to work the plantations and there was a time when the British came here instead. There was a time when the slaves were freed and when people from India came here too. After all those times, the people mixed together and worked the land and did many jobs.

That is where we are from.
*
Now, all together, we will tell you our story.
But you will have to travel over sea and land and years and through a web of lies.

*

We remember one day which made us laugh.
The sun was shining and we wanted to stay at home and play with the dogs and climb the trees. But our Grandma scolded us.
“Get to school!” she said and she shooed us like chickens.
So we walked to school. Walked and ran. The sea was turquoise and the leaves on the tall coconut trees leant with the breeze first this way and then the other.
When we reached the school house, Monsieur Moosa was having one of his crazy ideas. Some of the children were already laughing.
“What is it?” said Arlette because she did not like to be left out of a joke.
“Today,” said Monsieur Moosa, “We are going to bury a time capsule.”

We knew what time was, passing over our heads and wrinkling our grandma’s face. But we had no idea what a time capsule was. So Monsieur Moosa explained. He had a tin box. We were all to write our dreams and wishes on a piece of paper. Then he would bury it deep under the earth. That made us laugh again.
“What are we doing this for?” said Pierre.
“Maybe it will grow into a tree,” said Arlette, with a wicked smile.
“A tin tree,” said her friend.

But Monsieur Moosa stuck to his crazy idea like a bee to a honey comb.
“In ten years time,” he said, “You can dig up the box and see if your dreams and wishes have come true. Maybe you will not want those things any more. But you will have captured one day of your life for ever.”
We liked Monsieur Moosa so we agreed to his crazy idea. We each took a small piece of paper and these are the things we wrote.

“My name is Samuel.
I would like to build a house like my father did. It would be big enough for all my children and all my dogs.”

“My name is Arlette.
I would someday like to be a teacher. I would be very strict but sometimes I would make the children laugh and have crazy ideas.”

“My name is Pierre.
I would like to go on a ship and travel all over the world. Then I would come home and tell everyone my stories.”

Monsieur Moosa put all the pieces of paper in the tin box. Then we went outside. It was very hot and we could hear the chop and thud on the copra some little way away and smell the smoke as they burned the husks. Monsieur Moosa had brought a spade. He dug near the banana trees and we sat and watched the geckos and the spiders and the sweat pouring down Monsieur Moosa’s face and onto his shirt.

We thought, maybe he wished he had not had his crazy idea now.

But at last, he put the box in the hole and we all helped to scrape the earth back over it.
“We might forget where it is,” said Samuel.
But Monsieur Moosa found a big stone and put it on top of the hole. Then he scratched an X on it. Scratched and scratched so that the rain when it swept across us would not wash it away.
“X marks the spot,” he said.
“Somebody might move it,” said one of our friends.
But we knew that none of us would move it. We would come back in ten years time and remember.

When school finished, we did what we always did. We played on the beach and in the trees. We saw the ships in the distance, on their way to Africa and to Asia, and the little boats going to the other islands. We watched the dogs in the shallows, catching fish. We helped our parents. We lay on our backs in the sun and watched a bird in the sky, gliding free.

*

Some time after that, Monsieur Moosa disappeared. He did not really disappear. He was made to go back to Mauritius and we saw him leaving with his suitcase and his little moustache and all his books. But we never saw him on our island again and we no longer had a teacher. Then we heard that the nurses and doctors at the hospital had also been sent away. And even though the sun was still shining, a dark shadow had come over us. It seemed that everyone was leaving. But no one was coming home.
Nobody was coming at all except the American soldiers.

As the shadow grew longer, we began to feel hungrier. The ships had stopped bringing things. There was no oil or salt or sugar. There were no dairy products that we needed to grow.
We said to the grown ups,
“What are you talking about?”
They would say, “Don’t worry.”
Then they would carry on talking and looking worried.
And after that, the sadness came.
*

There was a big meeting, outside the plantation house.
“Why do we have to go?” said Pierre.
“Everyone has to go,” said his father.
We ran together and the dogs ran at our heels, tongues panting, scuffing up the dust, licking our hands and legs. When we got to the meeting, there were so many people that we found our parents and stood close together.

Up on the steps of the plantation House was a white man. He had shorts on and long socks and he wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he began to speak in a big, cracking, English voice.

The Americans are coming, he told us.

Hasn’t he noticed? we thought,
They were here already; armed American soldiers on the edges of the crowd.

But the man on the steps just carried on without really looking at us. His voice went all the way to the people at the back and you could hear every word. Even the geckos on the trees listened. Even the coconut trees bent towards us, as if they could hear.

You will have to leave.

We looked up at our parents and they stared at the man as if he was sick. There were words stuck in their throats that would not come out. Then our grandma suddenly shouted. It was such an angry shout that we knew those words had been working their way up out of her heart for years. Then everyone started to shout.
But the man’s voice could still be heard.
You will have to leave.
You are not wanted here any more.

We looked at each other as if he was crazy.
How could we not be wanted in our own home?

But the sadness had only just begun.

“Fetch your dogs,” the soldiers told us.
“We can take our dogs,” said Samuel.
He looked relieved. But all of the dogs were rounded up and forced into a building. The doors and windows of the building were shut tight and we watched, not understanding, as two jeeps drove up and stopped in front of the building. Pipes were taken from the cars and pulled close, right up as close as they could to the building.
“What are they doing?” said Samuel.

He was already crying although he did not know what would happen. The engines were turned on. Then the men who had turned on the engines went away and left us there. You would almost have thought that they did not want to see. But they must have heard us. So much shouting and crying and the dogs, barking and yelping in fear.

The grown-ups knew before we did. Without the dogs there was no fishing. Without the fishing we could not live there. And there was nothing that they could do because the soldiers stood near us, with their guns.

Samuel had so many tears rolling down his face that he sat in the dust and buried his face in his knees. We sat down with him and put our arms around him and cried too. Everyone was crying or shouting. But the soldiers just waited.

And by then, we all knew.
The pipes had taken gas from the cars.
The gas had been pumped into the building.
And…..slowly, painfully…..the dogs were dieing.
*

There was a ship waiting for us. Still crying and shouting, we were forced onto the ship with only a few clothes to take with us.
“Hurry up,” said the soldiers.
Hurry up leaving your homes, they meant.
Hurry up leaving your homes that have been stolen.

So we left our homes, our beaches and trees. We left the school house. We left the graves of our ancestors. And we left the tin box, buried in the earth.

“They are taking us to the other islands,” somebody told us.
But the ship set sail in the dark and when we woke up the next day, there were no islands near us. We were miles from anywhere, squashed together, hungry and thirsty, in stormy seas, on a rusty, old ship that was too small. When people died they were thrown into the sea as if they were yesterday’s rubbish.

A few days later, the ship stopped sailing and we saw an island much bigger than ours and lots of buildings. One of the grown ups had been there before.
“It’s Mauritius,” he said. “That town is Port Louis.”
“Where Mr. Moosa is from,” said Arlette.
“Have they got new houses for us?” said Pierre.

But there were no houses.
There were no houses, no food, no dogs, no chickens, no anything.
We were left on the quayside with nothing but a handful of clothes.
“Is somebody coming for us?” we kept asking.
But nobody came and our Grandma could not shoo us when there was nowhere to shoo us to. So we started to wander, looking for shelter. We wandered over land and sea and years and through a web of lies. And the people who stole our homes pretended that we had never lived there.

****

My name is Samuel. For almost forty years I have lived in Mauritius. I have lived in slums, with poverty and pollution. I have had to steal food to stay alive. People sing songs to keep themselves hopeful. But I have seen sadness sweep across us and nobody knew we were there.

Where are we from?

On our island, there was a hospital and a school and shops. There was a church made of coral rock. There was our own food and our own songs and our own words and our own games. There were our own houses and our own animals. There was our own life.

And that is where we are from.
*

My name is Arlette. For almost forty years I have lived in Mauritius. I have not become a teacher. I do whatever I can to get enough money to live and feed my children.
“Are you from the islands?” people say when I try to get work.
I pretend I am not. But they know by my accent that I am and I cannot get any other kind of work. So I turn my face to the wall and try to forget.

My grandma took two of her children and four of her grandchildren to England. She was promised that we would follow but we were not allowed. So my grandma goes to the Houses of Commons and tries to shoo the government. Over and over again, she tells them. Over and over again, she begs them, let us go home. And all the while time is passing over their heads and their wrinkles are getting deeper.

Where are we from?

We are from the Chagos Islands.

*

My name is Pierre. I have travelled half way round the world but I can’t go home with my stories. For almost forty years I have been angry at powerful countries that turned our peaceful island into an airbase. And from there, in the name of peace and freedom, they send planes to bomb other countries.

Where are we from?

Our island is Diego Garcia.

We have left our dreams and wishes there.

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