We were seven, in the hundreds
Perhaps closer to thousands
But none will ever know
For our numbers have turned into food
For the fish in the sea and
The minds of reporters reaching for headlines
We have become breaking news.

 This is not the news that follows through
From the headlines that never were
Of the stories of our frustrations, our struggles
Not the stories of the big break…down that brought us here
The breaks in the system, in our hearts, in our hopes
In the looks of disappointment from parents and siblings
We were meant to succeed, to provide, to cater for
Pay forward what we never benefited from
But these stories don’t make it to the news
Because the images of our floating dreams always sell faster.

 This is the story of drowning dreams
Crafted from young skulls looking for a lifeline
Of dreams that will be suffocated by life jackets
With punch holes mirroring the gaps in society’s fabric
Whose threads should hold us together
But have been stringed into the loop that will draw our last breaths
Leaving an empty vessel, where hopes for success used to reside.

 They tell us to stay back, to try our hands at something…anything
They tell us we can make it here if we work harder
They tell us we are foolish, pursuing dreams across an ocean
Where the sounds of desperate screams haunt us
And they come from our brothers, our sisters, our children
Their ghosts coming up for single breaths in a pool of loss
Of lives, of money, of hopes, of dreams
They tell us we don’t deserve to walk off this stage that way
But they hardly listen to our stories, to what we have to say. 

So people hardly understand the reasons that push us
That dreams of being dinner for sea creatures haunt us even as we plot
Save up our pennies and track out our route to the promised land
That we look at photos of those who have made it across
And are convinced the odds will be in our favour
That we cross with hope of surviving, not capsizing
Bound by our unity in vision, our comfort in fear, our prayers when the sun sets
Nobody listens to our stories of trying, failing, trying once more and failing yet again
The frustrations of failure and the desperation from dismissals of our plight
These are the oars with which we row our boats.

When the headlines hit again, with stories of failed rescue efforts
Remember this is not a decision born from a place of privilege and comfort
For many of us, the chances at trial and error have run out
And we took the way with brighter promises through a tunnel littered with lost souls
You will scream and write us long eulogies, but we will be gone
You will sympathise with our families, but they can never heal from the loss
You will heap blame on us, while stifling the loud calls to action
For the many who can be saved from reaching the peak that pushes one on this path
And within a few days, you’ll move on with your lives… waiting for a new set of breaking news.

As we take our last breath of oxygen, the light in our eyes dimming, water filling our lungs
Our brains registering the loss in this battle and the uncertainty of what lies ahead
We remind you to stop cursing the fruits, to take hold of the roots
For when these are decayed, even the branches wouldn’t hold
And then, we wouldn’t even hope for dug-out canoes to take us across to our graves
We hoped and perished, lost the battle to our frustrations
But for many more, hope still lives and their fate still unknown
Listen to our voices this one time and maybe, just maybe
We can throw our dreams a lifeline
And cancel this sentence to death by drowning.

Jama Jack April 2015