He is probably in his early 50s, but even he doesn’t know. He wears hand-me-downs from Good Samaritans that come by. He is well-spoken but nobody seems to give him the benefit of the doubt. His name is Shameem and he is the focus of my tale.
Not long ago, I met this greying chap who seemed to be preoccupied with random chit-chat rather than fluid conversation. If you walk along Extension Street, you will see him tending to his taro patch or cassava plantation. He bathes himself in the creek down at the end of the roundabout. All he asks from the neighbours is a hot cup of tea and a plate of food. I always wondered what stories he had to share with us.
Up until today, when I befriended him. He sat in the corner with his bag of taro leaves and struck up a mini conversation that lasted for over an hour. I was intrigued by him and the depth of his knowledge on the City of Suva, well, way before Suva became a city. He spoke of people and events that I had previously heard about as a little girl growing up and eavesdropping on her Fathers conversation. He mentioned timelines and specific people. This man had everything in chronological form. In that moment, I was flabbergasted at the way people like Shameem were treated.
We alienated the homeless. We made fun of them and their lack of etiquette and manners. We laughed every time a beggar on the streets would sit with a signboard bearing their heart and soul and misery. How could we call ourselves human beings when we act like mindless animals? We care less for the unfortunate because we fear their circumstances. We fear being cut off from all the beauty and riches life has to offer. We fail to see that God made us all in his image, whether beauty queens or street rats, business moguls or beggars. We are connected in ways that we could never imagine. Shameem showed me the intensity of a beating heart.
I asked him questions about his life and his past, regardless of whether he could remember them in detail. Shameem spoke of his family and his friends and how he was cheated off life. He came from a well-off family but he did something that he seemed to regret. He never told me in detail but the gist of the conversation was somewhat sombre. Apparently, he had set his family home alight and that mishap cost him dearly whereby he was imprisoned for some years.
I fear it was during his prison stint that he lost his mind and became a recluse. I can only imagine the horrors he faced and the nightmares that followed. This man was deemed no longer fit for integration into normal society. But then again, define normal. What is normal? Is it when you follow rules and regulations and are forced to stay in line or face alienation as an outcast? Tears welled in my eyes as I looked into the eyes of a stranger and felt his pain.
They say an idle mind is a dangerous thing but this man could not hurt a fly. He would never lay a hand on anyone he met. We try to steer clear of “crazy people” because they are unpredictable. Shameem, on the other hand, was mild-mannered and preferred to spend his time reading the Bible as he curled himself up on a weather-beaten mattress that he called home. He smiles to himself as he has a moment of clarity.
His recital of Bible verses is something to be reckoned with. I feel that the Word was the only hope he had as he counted the days and months and years in a lonely cell. He talks of the Gods as if they were everyday people we met on the streets. He mentioned the Elements every once in a while and how he had received news from the Heavens about evil people. Shameem kept saying that I should be wary of evil beings and how your closest kith and kin could easily turn on you within moments.
We joked and laughed over a cup of tea as he occasionally let me see the lighter side of him. I felt myself wondering what it would be like to see life through his eyes. This so called “nutter” was brandishing a blade in his hands as we spoke but I feared nothing. I knew in my heart that he was incapable of hurting anyone for he had, in some way, come to terms with his prior transgressions and all he could do now was try and live the remainder of his life being carefree.
There was so much pain in this man’s eyes yet I could not pull myself to ask him what it was that ached him so. He smiled continuously as he re-called moments of youth that every one of us had been through. Shameem was a charmer. A knowledgeable old man with a vivid recollection of his past. His favourite pastime was smoking a cigarette while he meditated on thoughts far too complex for someone like me. Things this man had witnessed, God only knows.
I want readers to understand that every time they pass by a homeless person or a beggar, please don’t be too quick to judge them, for they also lived “normal” lives once and they also had families and friends and pasts like us. As I write this, Shameem is happily walking along the street, a full smile on his face and a heart that only God can read.
My only hope is for us to be more giving and thankful for what we receive every day of our lives. Shameem calls the moon and stars his friends, and we have our luxuries. What we fail to see is that people like him can only dream about sleeping on a proper bed and be hugged by someone who really cares and shows true compassion.
I hope we can change the way we look at life.
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