These are the times that try men's souls... ~Thomas Payne
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The great stone walls of the city were massive, imposing, and they blocked out the sun as we passed through the city's gates for the first time. I could feel my heart beating against my chest. This place was going to be safe. Inside these walls, we wouldn't have to worry about the war, or the death, or be afraid ever again. There was no war in Bah Sing Se.
I had come from a small village in what was once a verdant, thriving forest on the banks of a small river. Life had been simple, but it was a good life. We tended our gardens, we sold our wares, people were kind, and neighbours were also friends. But there was a shadow creeping closer to our little hamlet day by day, and it reached its dark fingers into everyone's lives. The young men of the village left first, off to war as brave soldiers, fighting the noble fight. When the young men didn't come home, the older men left. Then came the lists.
The lists were posted every day. They contained names of people we knew, had grown up with, been friends with. There were lists of the dead, of the wounded, and of the missing. Those left behind would scramble to the lists every morning to scan for names they knew, holding their breaths and praying they found none. Someone always did. Eventually people would stop looking, but the lists never stopped coming.
Word came to us daily of one town or another that was seized or razed, and the rumours flew as to which direction the war would turn and which town would be next. In the mornings, we had gray, melancholy skies, and ash wafted on the breeze no matter which direction the wind blew from.
As the winter approached, those few of us left began to flee the town. The air was beginning to crow chill and the golden leaves on the trees were just beginning to fall when I followed the example of so many of my friends and neighbours and I left my beloved hometown. I can't recall how many days I walked or how long I was on the road. There were no landmarks along the way to guide us, and we had to be ever vigilant for Fire Nation soldiers. The slightest rumour of a patrol or guard station set us on a winding, circuitous route in a desperate bid to avoid capture. The journey took us months, and the spirits of winter were not kind.
I couldn't tell you when we arrived at Full Moon Bay. All I remember is the first glimpse of it was as disheartening as it was terrifying. This was no shining refuge. The halls were choked with the malnourished, staggering bodies of thousands of refugees. Everywhere people pressed against each other. They seemed to move without thought or purpose, as nothing more than a writhing mass. The docks were overcrowded, exceeding their capacities by the hundreds. Every few minutes, a ferry would dock and the starving, exhausted crowd would erupt in shouts as the refugees spilled onto its decks, shoving past each other and waving tickets and passports as they desperately tried to reach the safety of the walled city.
After so many months braving the dangers of a war-torn wilderness, I was reluctant to bid farewell to my traveling companions, but we all agreed that we stood a better chance of getting into the city as individuals rather than a group. I wept in silence as I embraced each of them tightly before watching them disappear into the mammoth crowd, sure I would never see any of them again.
All refugees were made to register before they could enter the city. In exchange for my name they issued me a visa with refugee status and assigned me to a room in the refugee quarters of the city's Lower Ring. My name was also placed into the logs of the many workers' programs, though I was informed that it was doubtful that anything would be available. The final seal on my refugee status was the green tape they tied around my wrist, signaling that I was authorized to enter the city. The haggard looking girl behind the window handed me my paperwork, and I was left to my own devices.
It took me nearly a week to actually make it onto a ferry. The harried, fatigued crowd I had seen upon arrival had begun the view the wait as an unending succession of hope and denial, and when a ferry left the dock filled to less than half capacity, the mob had erupted into full-scale riots. The authorities had been called in to quell the disturbances, soldiers and police flooding the already overcrowded docks. People had panicked, jumping into the waters of the bay and setting fire to one of the ferries, all the while throwing great chunks of earth and whatever projectiles they could find at the authorities. By the end of it all, over a hundred people were dead or injured, and the teeming, frantic mob of before was beaten into reluctant submission.
From that point on, the refugees were strictly policed. Groups of no more than one hundred were allowed to enter the city at one time, making a frustrating situation all the more unbearable. By the time I made it onto a ferry and was headed toward the city, the refugees on the docks were on the verge of another round of riots, and I felt a surge of pity for the guards that would have to deal with the new wave of violence.
The ferry ride into the city was like a dream. The refugees on the ferry were all quiet and peaceful, a far cry from the dangerous horde that had been on the dock. No one really spoke or moved, or made a sound except for the occasional sob. When we arrived inside the city we were directed to the processing station, where our paperwork was stamped and we were sorted and led to the monorail. With great anticipation, I stepped foot into the Lower Ring, my new home, and took a deep breath of the spicy, delicious city air.