People said they were the lucky ones.
Beams of warm sunlight reflected off their shiny brown skin, self-moisturized by the humidity. Their lungs were strong and clean from decades of living by the sea, breathing in air that was rid of the pollutants weighing down the rest of the world. Their arms were gently toned from a lifetime of repetitive but moderate labor, their nutritional intake fueled by the fish and vegetables that nature so kindly offered them. They basked in the beauty of life, seemingly unburdened by the ruined world outside their borders.
People said they were the lucky ones, but I knew better. I knew of the ruling panchayat and their cruel ways. Of the nine-year-old girl who had died during childbirth and the sixteen-year-old boy who was stoned for dressing like a girl. Of the old woman who had spent a lifetime waiting for a husband who had abandoned her when she was twelve. Of the middle-aged man who was so very curious about the world outside their so-called haven, but was forbidden from crossing the boundaries.
People said they were the lucky ones, but the glossy exterior was a farce. Their world was as battered as the one surrounding them.
