The silent worker

It was the crisps that saved me. 

Grand packets titled in a language not of my hometown. Not of theirs either. Dialect of the invisible worker, designing luxury for the ones that trap them. Ni mang Juan. 

I sit in my car, darkness hangs silent, propped up by artificial sand, ringed by black blood, fuelling the lives of others far away on the other side of the country. 

hand reaches in bag, one on tongue, suck up chilli vinegar then crunch, one after one after one

 Stare out to sea 

stare out to see the faces raged with misplaced hatred at their teacher. 

I am a stranger. 

"Let us be", they cry. 

We don't need English with Allah by our side. And then smile and spit on the floor. 

Throw books at the one who comes to clean it for them. Throw desks at the one who teaches them. 

I swallow, pea acting potato sliding down throat. 

Preconceptions tell me no one can make crisps out of peas, it's an impossibility. But, it is more than any crisp I have ever eaten. And somehow, it heals this beaten teacher, contemplating inclusion in this desperate situation. 

5 minutes of eating, 

breathe and think... 

I

am

lucky.

They, have no choice, that is why they are angry. 

They have no choice that is why they hurt me. 

They have no choice, forced to make miracles for their captors. 

They have no choice, a pea, a potato, a passport.