This story was written and shared as part of the Read Now Write Now workshops which took place during the Look Climate Lab 2022. To find out more about Read Now Write Now, click here.

My son is dead. But wait – a breath?

I slap his cheek, reaction seek.

Pound his cold chest, permit no rest.

Low wail, a whimper, from his twin sister,

She claws his face – fierce, her embrace.

“I’ll love you forever, best ever brother.”

I mouth, “They’re near, don’t let them hear”,

Raging inside for his lost life.

While we’ve escaped the harshest waves,

They lashed him limp, made our hearts sink.

A second, no more, is all we can afford –

Glance back, move on, “I’m sorry, son.”

In the days and weeks following that most painful and unforgiving of crossings, I worked daily to ingratiate myself and my daughter with the community to whom our journey had brought us, a place of refuge. Albeit the outsiders still, we are now tolerated, if not entirely accepted, and no doubt somewhat grudgingly on account of the food shortages, migrants’ place being at the end of the queue.

While, to keep the peace, we remain within the confines of our own patch at the outer edge of the encampment, we have taken to stealing silently into the locals’ food stations after sundown as they sleep, in the hope of finding something edible, anything to keep the hunger at bay for another night. I am up again before sunrise, scouting around the outskirts for any leftovers or even carrion scraps. My milk is waning – doubtless due to the unfamiliar diet now forced upon my body – so my daughter gets the bulk of our rations. Winter has come sooner and harsher this year. My daughter grows. I grow frail, worrying, endlessly, about how she will fare if, when, I am no longer able to care for her.

Her father showed up here recently, but was given short shrift by the locals, who seemed to recognise him. He blamed them – “Nasty, vicious tyrants!” he roared, brandishing his fists and raising himself to his full, towering height, all of which did not exactly endear him to them. I do admire his spirit, though; wasting though his frame may be, he is not afraid to be himself, speak his mind, whatever the consequences. But he is totally devoid of social skills: his bark is as vicious as his bite; a loner, a drifter, with no desire of a place to call home. He has brought their hostility upon himself, but claims it’s just his nature, and he’s not bothered anyway – he could never settle in one place, why should he when the world is there to be explored, belonging to all?

Our daughter still shrinks behind me in her father’s presence, even when, on the odd occasion, his temper is relatively mild. She recalls how dangerous he can be when angered, and was enormously relieved when he said he was departing soon, moving on.

He has not asked about our son; I prefer to think he does not want to upset us, than that he does not care.

Last night, we returned to find our quarters ransacked, and our food for the night gone. And yet, the image of another young family, eating our food, quelled my anger; on days when my daughter has been crying, our rations run out, I would have done the same.

Our sleep was interrupted in the early hours by the piercing, shrill rattle of gunfire, rifling through the air, accompanied by triumphant yells and chants. I clutched my daughter tight and rocked her back to sleep with her favourite lullaby. Come the morning, rumours abound that the community is rid of a dangerous outsider; I give thanks and praise for my daughter’s safety.

It is difficult to keep track of the seasons; the days are becoming ever uncomfortably hot; summer is upon us sooner than expected, yet food seems even scarcer. Too many of us are gathered in this increasingly barren place with the same, hopeless goal of a better life. Fighting is rife, with fatalities a daily occurrence. I must, reluctantly, admit to this unwelcome but inevitable truth – my daughter and I are no longer safe in this place. Bare survival bears no resemblance to living, to life. We will make our escape before dawn. It will be hard for my little one to keep up, but keep up she must, as we’ll need to cover many miles in our search for a new home.

I am awoken by a distant bang-thump-bang-thump-bang-thump drum beat which is gaining ground, closing in on me; it reaches a crescendo as I give in to its demand to tear my lids open. But they are leaden, too weary to make the effort to seek out the source of this disturbance. The plans I’d laid only a few hours ago escape me.

My daughter, dozing at my side, is suddenly bolt upright, while I am drifting off. I am vaguely aware that her arms are tight around me, and she is caressing me, shaking me, slapping and clawing at my face. “Shhh, darling,” I whisper into her ear, “it was only an unpleasant dream.” I cuddle her to me and stroke her cheek, gently wiping her tears away. “Hush, my sweet,” I whisper, nuzzling her throat. “Mum’s here. Mum loves you.” Now she is shouting and pummelling my chest. Yet, I am unconcerned, and so relaxed that I don’t want to open my eyes. One more cuddle, one more dream, then I’ll be ready for our journey.

At some point, I welcome in the light and embrace its energy. The sight before me brings a rush of joyful gratitude to my heart. At last! Here we are, back at home, our own, safe home of old, snug and warm in our own bed, reflecting on the wonders of the day, our tummies full. I smile to myself and hug my babies; come dawn, we will be up and out there, just we three, dancing once again on our very own vibrant sea of ice.

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