Tomodachi / Kawan / Friend

Amir was snatched away before my eyes all of a sudden, thrown into the blazing flames right in front of my house by a gang of Japanese soldiers. I watched in horror as his skin burnt black into ashes, not knowing what else to do. I did not know that he was accused of stealing then. I did not know the punishment was so heavy. I did not know we were the ones who decided the weight of punishments. I didn’t know. He was screaming my name, over and over again. It felt like a dream. It wasn’t a dream.

I knew we moved to this land because of Father’s work, but I had never inquired about it. I only knew that Father was respectable because of his work, and that his work was of a noble nature. I had never asked, because I didn’t want to burden him with my silly questions when he was home.

The new neighbourhood we lived in seemed very odd to me, because everyone spoke so many different languages and looked so different from each other, entirely unlike Kyoto. Even the flowers smelled so much stronger here than the sakuras we had back home. I missed Japan dearly then, but Amir showed up one day in front of our new house here in Ipoh with his bright smile, selling fruits. Amir became my friend.

Malaysia is my home now. I had been living here for the past sixty years, but what I saw then will always be etched clearly at the back of my mind, like it was branded with fire. I lost my best friend when I was 9, and life was never quite the same since the incident happened. I want to laugh about it, cry about it, talk about it, but this is all I can do about it: I reminisce. I remember Amir’s young face very well, every curve and every strand of hair. I remember his smile the most. He smiled with all his might; his lips would curl upwards to as far as it could, his eyes would disappear into a thin upwards curve, and his face would just wrinkle up like an old plum. His smile always lifted me up, even on the worst days.

That was the last I ever saw of him. Amir: sweet, young, innocent, fruit-seller boy Amir. I’ve always missed him the most, even though I’ve lost so many friends along the way. You would think at my age, I would have stopped missing people. I would think so too.

“Yuki, we be kawan forever okay?” I remember him saying.

“What does ‘kawan’ mean?” I asked, for I did not know Malay then.

“It means ‘friend’ lah, aiyo,” Amir said, wondering how a child could not even know such a simple word.

It felt like a dream. It wasn’t a dream.