Stay alive another day, I need you

It was the last day of school before the Aidilfitri break and the students couldn't wait to leave. We had spent most of our time together that day singing Raya songs and discussing their "baju raya".

At the end of the day – as I was packing up to leave for my own kampung – news arrived that an accident had occurred and that some students were involved. I rounded up a few fellow teachers and we went to the site, to see if we could help, praying all along that we could.

The main road leading up to the kampung was cordoned off from traffic. As we drew closer to the scene of the accident, we knew at once that it was over – there was nothing we could do.

A child lay motionless on the shoulder of the road. He was covered up in loose sheets of newspapers and passers-by urged the teachers to go forward and identify the student.

I didn't have to look at his face. I couldn't. I had already recognised Amirul's jacket on sight. Someone brought his school bag over to me – it had somehow survived the accident, intact.

It was a mother's – a teacher's – worst nightmare. Helpless, I could only stand there in complete shock, the feeling gone from my hands and feet. All around me was carnage, surreal but all too cruelly real. By then, Amirul's schoolmates had gathered around us and together we waited for the authorities to arrive, waited for the wail of sirens to slice through the silence around us.

Unfair, isn't it? We thump our chests and congratulate ourselves – access to education in this country is second to none, our schools are equipped with broadband Internet, our students eat "As" for breakfast, we are top scorers, trail blazers, future leaders.

We heave burdened sighs and we complain – we can't afford to buy a home two years out of university, we have to lower ourselves for public transport to work, we have to endure the shame of dependency on our parents in spite of ourselves.

Meanwhile, this 13-year-old – like so many others before him – had lost his life in a split second.

Yes, he had been riding a motorcycle without a helmet or a license. Yes, they had somehow managed to pack themselves three to a bike in spite of physics or common sense. Yes, this motorcycle was the only means of transportation his family could afford. Yes, sometimes he had to miss school for want of RM2 to refuel his bike. Yes, his family was robbed of their child with Aidilfitri mere hours away.

Like many of his classmates, Amirul was boisterous, always fizzing with energy like a shaken bottle of carbonated soda. He had memorised the words to the song "Rude" by Magic and often sang along to it while doing his work.

Just this Monday, he had attempted to claim a prize from me – having collected 14 stickers in a performance reward system I had devised. I had told him to wait for 20.

Like many of his classmates, Amirul had a real chance for a future ahead of him. I knew for a fact that their life conditions and struggles will not hinder them from achieving success.

But gathered by the side of the road with Amirul's classmates, we were awash with a sense of deja vu.

Accidents like these have happened before. Accidents like these will happen again.

Students like him have lost life if not limbs. In my three years here, I've spent as much time in hospitals as I have in class. Too many times I've bowed my head, holding back tears, as the Al-Fatihah was recited for yet another student lost.

And then after that, what do we do? We raise our heads, we dry our faces, we tell ourselves that it was God's will, we tell each other to move on.

When the ambulance finally arrived and they started to clean up the scene, the crowd began to disperse. Amirul's older brother had already arrived to claim his school bag from me. As we too were leaving the scene, one of Amirul's classmates asked me why I couldn't stop crying. They had.

When I first started teaching, I was told that these students needed me. No one had told me that I needed them too. I need them to stay alive for just another day in school, another day to discover what the future holds for them.

As I left my last class for the day, I only had one message for my children. Stay away from meriam buluh, stay away from mercun, ride your bikes carefully. I must have said it at least five times... stay alive. Stay alive. I want to see all of you after the school break.

Dear Amirul, I wish I had given you that gift and some duit raya as you had so innocently requested. Al-Fatihah. You will be missed dearly. Semoga ditempatkan dengan orang beriman. – July 17, 2015.

* This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of The Malaysian Insider.