Non-fiction: The Forgotten People
Published on HivePostify by @jalal0410 · Wed Sep 02 2026
Breaking from my usual routine, that afternoon I chose to take public transport to a café to keep a promise to two close friends—John and Gabriel—whom I hadn't seen in a long time. The afternoon heat was still scorching. Along the way, I watched street vendors preparing to set up their small stalls—vendors who often clashed with public order officers. These small-scale merchants kept peddling their wares to make ends meet, just like the officers—who often acted and spoke harshly while enforcing regulations—were ultimately doing the very same thing: working to survive. Fifteen minutes later, I arrived at the meeting spot. From across the street, Gabriel and John waved and called out my name. As agreed, the three of us were wearing jackets that held memories of our high school days. John and Gabriel were childhood friends of mine, even though we had gone our separate ways after graduating from high school. I walked over to them, greeting them warmly—filled with a sense of longing—and then we embraced. John, Gabriel, and I spent the afternoon reminiscing about our childhood—recalling both the sweet and the bitter moments. We talked about everything; hardly a single memory was left out. That afternoon, the sun slowly set over the city center, yet the hustle and bustle showed no signs of subsiding. People hurried past. A porridge vendor was tidying up his cart and counting his earnings, while nearby, several street-side fried rice vendors were preparing to start their shifts. At a three-way intersection, public transport drivers waved to a group of schoolchildren who had just finished their classes for the day. After wrapping up our meeting with a meal and conversation, I invited John and Gabriel to take a walk and revisit the spots in the city center where we used to hang out during school breaks. "Let's spend the day exploring the places that hold our old memories," I suggested. "What do you think?" Gabriel asked John. "That’s a great idea. Besides, we’ll be parting ways again tomorrow. So, before we head home, let’s make the most of this time to reminisce about those days," John replied enthusiastically. The three of us wandered through the streets—from the main thoroughfare to the narrow paths where we used to play, losing all track of time. We visited the city park, the "Red Field" where kids from the outskirts played with plastic soccer balls, and the small stall selling candied papaya—all to keep our memories alive. Finally, we reached our last stop: the hilltop. We made our way to the summit, a place we used to visit just to unwind from schoolwork and homework. Once there, we sat on a long bamboo bench beneath the shade of a pine tree. Nothing about the place had changed; everything was exactly as it used to be. What had changed, however, was the view before us: the city landscape set against a backdrop of mountains that were no longer green, left barren by illegal logging. From where we sat, the city view was stunning—especially at night, when skyscrapers stood majestically, adorned with the twinkling lights of digital screens forming beautiful star patterns and calligraphy. "Our city really has advanced so much," Gabriel remarked suddenly. "Just look at that!" Gabriel said, pointing toward the city skyline. "That building didn't exist back then, but now the site has become one of the most prestigious apartment complexes—highly sought after by tycoons and government officials," Gabriel continued. "Word has it that a single night's stay there can cost tens of millions," John added. "Ten million?" Gabriel asked, sounding surprised. "Yes. I heard it from a colleague whose uncle is a government official," John replied. "But there are people who have been forgotten," I said quietly. "What do you mean?" John asked. "Our city isn't what it used to be. Look at it now—full of change, with skyscrapers springing up everywhere, especially the luxurious and expensive ones. Yet, behind all that grandeur, there are forgotten people. People whose names we likely don't even know, let alone find recorded in the history of those magnificent buildings," I said, my tone remaining low and flat. "Who are these forgotten people?" Gabriel asked curiously. "The construction workers who toiled until they were drenched in sweat," I answered briefly. "Yes, I agree with you. They are the figures behind the scenes. They played a major role in erecting those luxurious, high-priced buildings that only the ultra-wealthy can enjoy," John remarked. "The same applies to the elected representatives in this country. Their success is inseparable from the role of the people behind them—those who campaigned quietly, day and night, going door-to-door and spreading promises, even though—sadly—many forget those promises once they succeed," said Gabriel, a Social-Political Science student. "Behind that grandeur and success lie people who played a vital role—people who are sometimes forgotten simply because they are ordinary citizens without official titles," John commented. "It is the same for us. The success we enjoy today is thanks to the people behind the scenes—our families, especially our fathers and mothers, who never tire of supporting us and keeping us in their prayers every night." The night grew late. After enjoying our time together, and before heading home, we decided to meet again at the same spot a year later. Finally, John, Gabriel, and I parted ways, returning to our respective homes. That night, I sat alone on a wooden bench. A gentle night breeze stirred my hair, and blades of grass swayed in the wind. I gazed up at the deep, dark sky, which looked romantic adorned with the moon and stars. I opened my small notebook and wrote:
> "In the story of life, there will always be people who go unnoticed despite having made extraordinary contributions. Yet, they will live on in the memories of those who know the truth."
I closed the notebook, stood up, and went inside to rest.
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