ALMOST ATLANTIS: SUNKEN HOMES

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In the end of 2021 and the start of 2022, Malaysia faced one of its worst ever floods. 54 were dead, 2 were missing, 71 000 were displaced and a staggering 125 000 were affected. There were landslides, stranded motorists, power stations and water plant shutdowns, and more. The most damaged areas were Selangor and Pahang, especially Shah Alam and Hulu Langat. Many citizens were angered by the delayed and poor response of the government as well as the lack of discussion regarding the disaster prior to its occurrence. We hope that this essay will help give you an idea of one of the many struggles faced by those affected.

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We had conquered the nests of the pigeons that frequented our rooftop for their painting sessions. Reluctantly, I settled into their art exhibition, “Splattered Remains.” A cacophony of clings and clangs sounded from below me as the neighbour followed behind, emerging from the tight window opening of the IKEA store we recently set up on the second floor. Except, this looked more like an abandoned IKEA store with disorderly heaps of furniture: couches, appliances like televisions and microwaves, pots and pans, mattresses, tables, and chairs. I watched as the toddler tensed up in the neighbour’s arms, his eyes widening at the sight two floors below him, probably imagining he had become a seagull in Finding Nemo. Below us was a dark and dirty ocean of litter that once loitered around the sun-baked streets. The towering trees now wavered in the muddy waters, desperately trying to stand their ground as their soil was swept away with the rapid waters. Signboards that once stood on each street had decided to go snorkeling with the cars. The monstrous, relentless rains were feeding the starving waters. They grew and grew past the windows of the first floor, higher and higher, looming towards us.

Grunts came from next door as Abu, a middle-aged man, lifted his frail, skinny mother onto his bent back. Struggling, he climbed shakily up onto the roof to safety. Across the street, the once unperturbed baby Angeline was evidently in distress, her unceasing shrill cries piercing through the air. On the contrary, the Chan family’s children were unbothered, their boisterous laughter booming as they played and ran around on their roof with a drained mother chasing behind, yelling for them to stop. In the distance, those living higher up on the hill heave-hoed as they strived to salvage their furniture from being inundated by the rising water levels.

The blood-sucking mosquitos had begun emerging from their newfound breeding grounds below us for their feast of the day as the scorching Sun bid goodbye. I sighed in relief. My throat was parched and swallowing felt like sandpaper scraping against my throat. The power had gone out for days and all water had been contaminated. The mornings were full of us shouting to garner the attention of volunteers that brought in food supplies on boats. Not having showered for days, my clothes clung onto my skin, sticky and sweaty from the hot, humid air. The last glimmer of hope had left me earlier when a honking boat passed by, only to be another one carrying food supplies. Inside, I was seething with fury. We were not warned beforehand. Necessary measures weren’t taken that could’ve prevented this loss. The inaction from public workers was obvious. We have waited; for days.

Another boat horn reverberated across the streets, and I kept my head down. It was not until I heard the neighbours’ voices, filled with hope, as they consumed their last breath to yell for help, that I glanced up. There it was, the long awaited shining beacon of light that made its way towards us in the distance. It was a foreigner. He was driving a rescue boat.