Leena Shahab
Karachi, Pakistan
2020, Senior, Creative Writing

Legend says every person is connected to an element.

Before a baby opens its eyes, its soul grasps at one of the four forces of nature revolving in small pulsing orbs, and threads of pure energy weave their way into the child’s veins all the way to the heart.

I began to see the ocean when I was nine years old.

It was barely noticeable at first. The truth is, I had more pressing issues to focus on. We were in a Flood Zone, which meant the government had organised evacuation programmes and had moved residents to safer regions before disaster struck. I was one of the evacuees. I did not want to leave my hometown, but I had no other choice. My grandmother had clasped the air-mask round my mouth firmly, giving me a kiss on the cheek.

“No need to worry, Anya,” she had soothed, though her grey eyes seemed tired and fraught with anxiety.

That was when I started to see the sliver of glowing blue for the first time. An outline of a baby turtle perched on my grandmother’s shoulder had flapped its little flippers, its wide eyes gazing at me with fascination. I had blinked and it vanished.

They had felt like hallucinations. I tried to ignore them at the start, but after a while it became impossible to turn a blind eye.

They were everywhere.

Coral reefs sprouted from the hot barren lands our evacuee trains crossed. Schools of ghostly fish swam by my dusty compartment window. Starfish stuck to the sides of my jeans as I sat down on my seat.

As a child, I recognized my ocean world from my grandmother’s old picture books. The few marine habitats that existed in my time were quartered off in restricted government reserves inaccessible to the public, so the things that I was beginning to see were nothing like anything I had physically witnessed before. My grandmother would often wistfully recall those times when people like me could go to the beach and see crabs snapping at the foam-encrusted rocks, or limpets in small pools when the tides were low, or tiny fish as they soared up from the waves. “People take things for granted until what they consider their right becomes a luxury” was what she always told me.

I spent most of my teenage years in a city a little way off from my hometown. On my way to school, I would pass by Fernsehen Square. Every inch of its towering skyscrapers would be plastered with screens full of gloomy reporters and crashing waves, and bold letters would warn viewers of impending disaster.

Another patch of land would be claimed by the rising tides.

And another.

The number of casualties would keep rolling higher, too.

The government’s efforts would not be enough; when it came to the forces of nature, nothing would ever be enough.

There would be a clawing sense of desperation in my throat. I would clench my fists tightly and grit my teeth while watching outlines of stingrays float by my face, or giant sharks swimming lazily off in the horizon. I began to believe I was stuck in a nightmarish limbo; one in which the throttled phantoms of the sea Humanity had choked to death had returned for revenge. I would do my best to keep my eyes fixed firmly to the ground to avoid looking at them, because I did not want to stare into the sad eyes of the creatures Humanity had selfishly murdered and feel my conscience drip with guilt.

Bottlenose dolphins would nudge their luminescent snouts against my neck, crooning softly. I would push them away.

Otters would paddle their way across the pavement, whiskers twitching as they played among the glowing reeds lining the traffic signal.

I would push them away.

Eels would dive behind bus stops and glide across the sides of buildings, curling up at my feet. I would push them away.

“Why won’t you just leave me alone?” I would shout at them.

But they would not listen.

As a child, I did not understand them. As an adolescent, I understood them even less. There was a local bookshop near where I lived; I visited it several times during my teenage years. Once, I came across a novel discussing the concept of the interconnectedness of Humanity and the natural world. A puffin poked its beak into my shoulder as I read, and I found myself absentmindedly scratching the underside of its throat. I stopped.

The puffin made an impatient noise. I continued hesitantly.

The day I brought home that book, my life became different. I no longer shooed away the penguins that waddled in my apartment. I no longer swatted clownfish away from my clothes or shouted at the jellyfish swimming outside in the star-less sky. They became more like company. More like friends.

When I stepped into Fernsehen Square after that, I saw less alarmed broadcasters and depressing news. I saw less reports of casualties and death.

Instead, I saw people advocating change.

I saw countries ban the use of fossil fuels and reduce their greenhouse gas emissions. I saw people give birth to inventions tapping into solar power, and wind energy, and hydro-electricity. I saw children thrust up colorful posters and slogans promoting awareness regarding Earth’s plight.

And, when I glanced upwards, I witnessed a blue whale soar over my head for the first time. My eyes widened.

Understanding dawned upon me.

The phantoms of marine life I witnessed were not murdered ghosts out for revenge, nor were they the lingering forces of doubt and despair. They were the culmination of thoughts, prayers and voices of society as the world combated climate change and transformed Humanity’s mistakes into a force of good. They were representatives of the sea calling out to me to join the wave of activists sacrificing their lives for the Earth. They were the amalgamation of me, and my grandmother, and my friends, and everyone I ever talked to or saw.

They were hope.

The ocean inside my heart let off a warm glow.

It was still breathing. Which meant I still had a job to do.

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Phantoms of the Sea