Echoes of Salix

Chapter 1

The heat off the walls penetrated my senses and almost blinded my vision as I trudged through the fallen debris. The scent of burning flames stung, and I coughed out black smoke, only to breathe in the endless heavy smog. I mouthed a prayer to root me with the Earth to remember where I was in the darkness and what I was meant to do. The mantra was self-taught; I will get through this, they will never have me, I will get through this. A stifled scream felt painful in my tight chest, and I was slowly losing my grip on reality as the colours of the world became a manic whirl, like the village’s river I frequented to clean my dirty paintbrushes.

When everything melted into a blur, I cocked my left ear and strained to hear any flicker of movement. I stretched out my hands and touched the rain of ashes and warm steel around me — if I couldn’t see my way out, then I would have to feel for my escape. “Fera!”, my name echoed from a distance, and the voice was home. I tripped over what felt like a limp body as I called out for help, but the smoke intensified, and the yelling that was my beacon tuned out. I couldn’t bear the flames' lashing on my burnt skin any longer and fell into the cemented floor's cold embrace. The relief was fleeting as I could feel the fire threatening to close in before the snap of silence.

I gasped loudly as the marbled floors of my bedroom clashed with the warmth of my cheek. My quickened breath blew against the tile and created a faint glow of fog. The dream was still too far to touch. I barely remembered the details, so I waited for the fragments to piece together slowly, but the picture was eerily warped within the frames of my frantic mind. I heard my husband, Dean, groaning as he stood up from his side of the bed and walked across the room to where I had fallen in my sleep; I was a mess of tangled sheets and blankets. “Dean?” I whispered as he placed his arms under my waist and carried me back to bed.

“You fell off the bed, sweetheart. Did you hurt your head?” I shook my head against his hard chest — he smelled of sweat and citrus.

The moonlight shone brightly through the thin curtains and created a halo of light around Dean’s silhouette as he pulled the blanket over me and rubbed my shoulders. I almost chuckled at the sight; it was as if the universe was unified with the thoughts of many within this suffocating city of Dean’s angelic glow. “It was just a bad dream,” Dean hushed, and I masked my dread with a feigned sense of comfort at his gentle touch. This is the nightmare, Dean, but you already know that, right?

I mouthed my thanks and turned away from him as he cuddled next to me. I clenched my teeth in a strained grimace when he wrapped me in his arms and traced his fingers on the soft lower skin of my stomach. The many years spent together in these walls were not enough to quell the sickness pulsating in my throat whenever his hands were on me. I squeezed my eyes shut and counted down from a hundred so I could force slumber and fall back into the haze of that dream. I needed to go back to the roaring inferno, the pain from the stinging smoke, and the sharp glass piercing my boots, so I could hear that voice calling my name again. I needed to go back to him.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Five years ago, green peas and anchovies were a rare delicacy back home, where we hunted and fed on what the dense jungle could offer. But today, I threw crispy fried anchovies and cold peas into fried rice for breakfast because it has been a go-to meal in this household since I fired the maid months ago. I had convinced Dean that I wanted to manage my own house, and the early days without help were either burnt dinners or toasted bread for breakfast.

Dean was patient and encouraged me to enrol in cooking classes for housewives promoted at the Department of Optima, where he worked. Despite refusing at first, I agreed, even if it meant walking back to the forced smiles and fake “Thank yous” from other housewives who could see through each other’s painted masks. As I stirred the rice in the wok, I leaned forward to better hear the news playing on the screen at the back of the kitchen, where a broadcast showed officers from the Department of Optima and firefighters surrounding a massive weeping willow in an abandoned neighbourhood.

“Removal of the weeping willow has been in progress since early this morning and will continue until late afternoon. You may follow the updates on our channel,” a slight smile can be seen twitching on the news anchor’s rouged lips. Decades ago, after the 50-year race war, the weeping willow or Salix tree was seen as a symbol of defiance against the policies on marital enhancement promoted by the Department of Optima.

Under the ruling of Dr. Ariffin, the supreme architect behind Optima’s laws and operations, the department became the pride of the city of Harmoni. The department’s promotion of legacy and polygamy became on-brand; however, many criticised its unforgiving administration. Dr. Ariffin was supported by the presiding Prime Minister, Hugo Rahman, so being anti-Optima was illegal and it was on par with terrorism to refuse to conform to the many marital policies they subjected the Harmoni citizens to. As marriages unapproved by Optima crumbled and couples were forced to separate, the Salix tree, which was also known as “the weeping widow” in Malay, became the image for many women who were abused and manipulated under the regime.

“Isn’t that ridiculous?” Dean said as he walked down the stairs with our four-year-old daughter, Samira, in his arms. Her curly locks were in neat plaits that only Dean could’ve braided since he grew up being the only son in a nuclear family of ten daughters and four mothers. He gestured at the news while I placed a bowl of fried rice at the centre of the dining table. “They would waste almost a day just to take down a stupid tree.”

Samira giggled and pinched at his scratchy beard. “You can’t say that, Da!”

I shrugged. “They’re just doing their job. You know, making sure we’re safe.” At times, I wasn’t sure if Dean was being truthful about his disagreement with Optima, or if this was a test to measure my unspoken beliefs. Casual conversations between husbands and wives under Optima were like undetected buried mines, and one word was just an explosion away from the regime-mandated divorce.

Samira screamed when the headlines changed, “Ma, Da, you’re on TV!” The announcement of our fourth wedding anniversary played with fanfare orchestral music alongside a wedding portrait of me in a white kebaya dress that matched Dean’s traditional Baju Melayu with gold embroidery.

“You still look the same now, sweetheart,” Dean mused and I almost blushed but my eyes darkened when he added, “What do you want us to wear to the party?” In two days, we will be celebrating our anniversary at a grand dinner held by Dr. Ariffin at his estate. Our inspiring union will be broadcast not only to the citizens of the capital, Harmoni city, but also within the many regions, reaching as far as the rural villages on the outskirts of our megacity, Pemersatu.

Dr. Ariffin engineered our matrimony after I had been “reformed” by Optima and was deemed “fit” to be presented to its elite officers, as a way to thank them for their service to the nation. As Dr. Ariffin’s most promising and dedicated general, Dean was the first among his comrades to choose his bride, and he’d chosen me from just a single glance when the other young women and I were forced to stand behind a veil of glass as the officers were escorted one by one into the all-white room. It was unsurprising that Dean was allowed “first pick.” Then, in his late twenties, he was considered a “golden bachelor” in an age when marriage was mandatory and this was a great concern to his expansive family — the most worried of them all was his father, Dr. Ariffin.

“Your mother sent over our dinner attire yesterday. They were maroon,” I murmured as I set Samira in her chair. Dean took a few bites of the fried rice as he stood at the side of the table, but promptly sat down when I tsked at him. Dean’s mother, Julia, was Dr. Ariffin’s second wife, and she was a quiet woman whom I’d make small talk with over high tea and awkwardly sit in silence whenever she would just stare at the slow-moving clouds.

“Well, we have to make my mother happy,” Dean said as he fed Samira some rice. I gave a brisk nod. Being Dean’s wife, I never know what to make of his lowered lids whenever he talks about his mother or the way he bites the side of his cheek when he sees his father.

On the screen, Dr. Ariffin gave a brief speech on the symbol of our marriage, his “Pride and the beacon of what Optima’s Marriage Reallocation Programme should strive for.” I turned away from his image as I could feel the heat of the flames from my dream last night breathing down the back of my neck.

Dean noticed, “You know, you really shouldn’t let him bother you so much.”

I couldn’t meet his gaze as I said, “Your father doesn’t scare me.”

For a second, I looked up, and Dean’s light brown eyes were burning on every tic on my face that betrayed my heart, “Really? He sure scares me.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The white tents that were powered by the sun and generated electricity for the whole farmer’s market always reminded me of the billowy sails of the small boats I used to navigate through my village’s swampy rivers. It was ages ago, yet the musky air was still thick in my memory. I held on tightly to Samira’s hand as I negotiated the price of a watermelon with an unyielding fruit seller. It was Dean’s favourite, and I thought it would please him before we threw ourselves under the harsh scrutiny of his family at the anniversary party. I could already see him nervously blinking as his father would go on and on about what latest law he would conjure up to impress his dear friend, the Prime Minister.

Chicken breasts for dinner later were next on my list, and I held back a sigh when I realised that Samira and I would need to walk through the maze of wooden carts, pass the holographic banners where my wedding portrait and Dr. Ariffin’s unflinching stare play on a loop. “Ma, you’re…” Samira pointed a finger glistening with her saliva at a glitching banner, and I mutely shushed her. But even with my bucket hat pulled down over my bangs, I could sense the eyes trailing our shadows and our watchers whispering to the rhythm of our hasty steps.

We were almost at the wintry poultry section of the market when someone tapped my shoulder. The woman was around Dean’s age, and just like the deep-set wrinkles on his forehead, she had creases around her eyes that were defined by her toothy grin when she said, “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to tell you how much you have inspired me every day.” I gave a hollow smile as she held on to my hand and revealed that my story of reinvention and rising from the ashes of my past rebellious self was what fuelled her support for Optima.

The Department of Optima was a tale of perseverance against half-century war conditions that caused the shrinking of Pemersatu’s population; mainly the pure-breeds of each ethnicity, such as the Malays, Chinese, Indians and the indigenous people. The senseless 50-year-old civil war has left a desperate nation in darkness and heightened the paranoia among its diverse people. Hence, Hugo Rahman’s father, Rahman Faqri, who was the Prime Minister when the war ended, recommended that Pemersatu be divided into regions, cities and villages according to each of its residents’ race and religion. This led to infrastructures and city systems within curved walls and connected via gates and bridges, which created the lotus-shaped megacity.

The goal was to avoid the mistakes of our ancestors and promote diversity through each of the races’ individual cultural traditions, even if it meant banning mixed marriages, cross-cultural practices, and merging religious and cultural academia. This woman was referring to the unexpected attack by me and my team of rebel soldiers who stormed Optima, intending to reveal the flaws of its administration, including some questionable marital programmes catered for the elites. She complimented how I became an admirable example to the people after discarding my past dangerous anti-Optima beliefs with my studious reformation.

“This is my sister-wife, Ton. I encouraged my husband to partake in Optima’s Marriage Reallocation Program after I saw the tremendous change you’ve made,” the woman nudged at the young woman behind her, who was wearing a light blue Baju Kurung — a uniform for many Malay women in Harmoni. My heart stopped when Ton looked up at me. It had been five years, but I still remember the way she nervously whistled at the sight of Optima’s stealth aircraft hovering above us as we moved through the night from our remote village into the first exterior wall of Pemersatu.

The scar on her right eyebrow validated my suspicion that Ton was my fellow soldier named Mi, whom I had separated from when the explosion occurred within Optima as we tried to abandon the mission and regroup. Mi was one of the few who raised concerns regarding the tip we received to break into Optima years ago, citing how we do not have enough resources to exit the operation even if we succeed. But I voted that we proceed because the man who was leading us promised that his intel was solid and he knew that I would agree to anything he suggested.

Mi gave me a curt nod, and I could sense the venom in her stare. It must have been enraging to see the person who proudly vowed that we would come home safely be the shiny face of the enemy’s propaganda. I steadied my voice, “It’s nice to meet you, Ton.” With another exchange of small talk and praises, Mi and the woman then moved in the direction we came from, and I hurried Samira to the market’s walls, where I could hide the uncontrollable tears flowing down my cheeks.

“Ma? Are you okay?” Samira pressed a thumb inside her mouth as she does whenever she feels anxious, and I bit down my lip to quieten my sobs.

I wanted to call back to Mi, grab her by the shoulders and shake her as I scream out, “It wasn’t just me! It was him too! He promised that we would come home! I’m just like you!” The dark pit in my heart now reeked of selfishness as I wanted to forget the promises I’ve made to my people and my cause. If we hadn’t continued with the mission, we would be somewhere deep in the Peninsula’s jungles, hopping from one place to the next like nomads from old tales who believed the stars could guide us to the ends of the world. I would be painting in my canvas notebook and using the colours of nature to capture our adventure by smearing dirt from the Earth and crushed leaves on the pages. Instead, I was in a crowded market and wildly hiccuping back my tears as my poor daughter looked on.

Chapter 2

“Are you okay to go in alone?” Dean asked as he steered the car into his designated parking space at the Department of Optima. This morning, after breakfast, I left Samira at the nursery and asked Dean to drive me for my bi-annual welfare check-up at Optima. I would be expected to answer the same 50 questions that his father had prepared to ascertain the progress that the wives assigned under Optima’s programmes have made. When we were first married, these check-ups were more frequent, but I proved to have made impactful changes throughout my commitment to Dean, including actively promoting the Marriage Reallocation Programme that oversaw over two hundred polygamous marriages in cementing the legacy of Harmoni’s Malay community.

In my fourth year, I could have confidently listed all 50 questions word for word; however, there was still a chill rattling my bones whenever the brutalist structure of the Department of Optima came into view. The horizontal skyscraper stretched laterally around the city and was built into the borders of Harmoni, not only for convenience but also acting as a symbol of Pemersatu’s well-planned divisions. Each city in the different regions boasted traditionalist yet contemporary architecture meant to economise Pemersatu’s land, such as the stacked apartments in Chinese-only cities, the houses built in trees in Malay-Muslim areas and communal longhouses that extended out for miles in Iban districts.

I was confused when Dean offered to walk in with me to the check-up, when he had always been too busy even to remember the appointment’s dates. “It’s fine. I don’t even think they allow the husbands to come into the room with us. Go to work. I’ll probably head back after I’m done,” I kissed the top of his hand and could feel a frown on his lips at my temple. “Are you okay?” I asked.

Dean quickly tried to dispel my worry and said, “Yeah, it’s just that I can’t believe these check-ups are still happening. I’ll ask my father to cut you some slack.” I would have paid a thousand Pemersatu Ringgit to be in that room and watch my husband talk it out with the man known for his steely, cold stare.

I waved goodbye at Dean as he made his way to the executive lifts towards the offices, while I headed into Optima’s lobby, where tiled murals of hibiscus flowers and smiling illustrations of families decorate its walls. “Miss Fera, it is so nice to see you, and even though it’s still early, I just wanted to say happy anniversary!” the receptionist greeted me, and I strained to remember her name since she was undeniably a new face at this desk. Before I could say my thanks, we both jumped at the sound of a struggle coming from the lifts. A couple of Optima officers were holding a man and a woman apart as they tried to reach out to one another.

The grunts of the officers trying to push them away from each other and into separate vans waiting outside were matched by the couple’s haunting pleas for them to stop. The receptionist rolled her eyes at the debacle, “So dramatic!” I asked what had happened, and she replied, “It was pretty big news among the officers this morning. They even made bets on how long they could keep them apart.”

I was told that the man and woman were recently subjected to a mandatory divorce by Optima after they had obtained a concrete medical report that the man was unable to give the woman a child after two years of marriage. Under the Marriage Reallocation Programme, the woman will now be assigned to another man and her former husband will be blacklisted and remain forever single, as he is now deemed useless to Optima’s cause.

“That’s horrible,” I said under my breath, and the receptionist blinked her astonishment.

“But Miss Fera, surely you understand that this would help our people? Don’t you want us to raise many healthy Malay children for the future?”

Blood rushed to my cheeks as I realised that I had accidentally lost my composure. I recalled the campaigns I’d modelled in vacant studios to promote Optima’s messages encouraging marriages between the same ethnicities to optimise their version of a purist legacy. Smiling with lipstick in my teeth and bile lodged in my throat, I could go through being directed on the set as long as I could turn away from my posters with Optima’s slogans that were incessantly displayed in public.

As the screams subsided, realisation was like a fallen brick in an empty room when I saw the consequence of my imbecilic grin that now flashed on the screen behind the receptionist. “Of course, she knows that. She is Optima’s well-loved ambassador. We would not have achieved what we have today if it weren’t for her,” said a frigid voice behind me that chilled my blood.

I turned to face Mulia, one of the few women within Dr. Ariffin’s trusted circle. She was also the general who moulded me from rebel soldier to model wife in under a year through unspeakable means. Mulia’s lips quivered as if trying out a smile, “I hope you are prepared for today’s check-up, Miss Fera. I so look forward to it.”