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Homeless: The Untold Story of a Mother's Struggle in Crazy Rich Singapore describes the story of author Liyana Dhamirah, whose life was turned upside down after her parents announced their divorce on her twelfth birthday.

The book details the numerous obstacles she had to face, including having to move out of her comfortable family home, having to adapt to a vastly different lifestyle, and momentarily losing her motivation to study. Liyana then found herself heavily pregnant at the age of 22, without a place of her own. 

In 2009, during Hari Raya, she was forced to live in a tent in Sembawang Park with her husband, unsure of what the future would bring.

Homeless: The Untold Story of a Mother's Struggle in Crazy Rich Singapore is published by Epigram Books and you can get a copy here.

We have reproduced an excerpt from the book, detailing her initial experiences at Sembawang Park.

By Liyana Dhamirah

The taxi stopped at the roundabout of Sembawang Park, where the sun was already toasting the grains of sand on the beach.

It was a Sunday, in September 2009, and the shores burned auburn. Families were enjoying the breeze cooled by the waves as the sea sparkled under the morning heat.

Fazli proceeded to unload our things as I took out my last S$10 note to pay the S$7 fare, my heart laden with sorrow. I gripped the change with dear life.

Heads turned as Fazli and I dragged our odd-looking bags to a bench near the toilets. My face burned scarlet with anger and humiliation. I couldn’t believe what had happened.

A tent at Sembawang Park became our new home

It was only 10am but there were already several families relaxing, their children playing in the sand.

Consider yourself lucky, I kept telling myself. It could be worse. I sat on the bench and rested in the breeze as Fazli stomped around in search of a good spot to pitch our new home—a tent.

“You need any help, bro?”

I turned towards the voice and saw a man approach Fazli. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties and was well groomed, maybe even overdressed for a Sunday by the beach.

He wore a pair of shiny black dress shoes, dark grey trousers and a chequered polo shirt.

Fazli and the man shook hands and started chatting. From where I was sitting, I only managed to gather that the man was giving advice about the best area to pitch a tent. As they spoke, I gazed in the direction they were pointing.

The ground there had more dirt than grass and showed signs it had previously been occupied. I could still spot metal hooks left in the earth and patches of yellowing grass in the open area.

I looked back to see the men taking items from the tent bag, and then turned my attention away and stared at the ocean. I placed my hand on my lower abdomen.

My mind drifted, my breathing relaxed. I thought of peaceful times. But more than anything, I thought of birth.

I thought of the wonder of life that now grew in my womb. I thought of celebrating life, regardless of how joyous or painful it was.

I thought of birthdays and how my life had changed after my twelfth and how it will change again in my twenty-second year, after the birth of my next child.

The park was a ghost town at night

I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“TADAAA!” Fazli exclaimed, hands raised joyfully.

His outstretched arms directed my attention towards a blue dome tent, successfully pitched, door flaps billowing in the wind. I gave my husband a smile, clapped my hands gleefully and hugged him.

“Not bad!” I commended and together, we made our way into our new home.

As we settled in, the sun hung higher—it was noon. The tent did not afford much space for two people and their bags, but we managed to lie down. Fazli was beat from pitching up the tent, and I was drained from the shock.

In the presence of the good weather that day—sunny yet breezy—we took a nap to catch up on lost sleep. And possibly to recharge for the unknown path that lay ahead.

When I finally stirred, the moon was out and the air was cold. I unzipped the tent and was greeted by the night. I stretched my arms and began searching for my slippers.

As I stepped out of the tent carefully, I took note of how different the park looked in the dark. Where I once saw and heard children giggling and screaming in the playground, there was now a ghost town under the moonlight.

I could hear the waves crashing onto the beach, reassurance that I was indeed still in the place I arrived at earlier in the day, that I wasn’t alone.

I saw other families beyond the trees and a mosaic of tents too. It was a quarter past seven.

I was hungry, but to my knowledge, we had only S$4 altogether

I suddenly felt uneasy and returned to the tent to wake my snoring husband up. I heard my stomach grumble and realised that we had not eaten the whole day.

We had slept through the entire afternoon. I vaguely remembered taking a sip of ice lemon tea Fazli had bought from a nearby vending machine. My gut growled again.

I wasn’t the only one hungry; the life growing inside me wanted to be fed as well.

“I’m hungry,” I blurted out as soon as Fazli opened his eyes. He sat up and touched my cheeks—a touch that surprised me.

To my knowledge, we had only S$4 altogether. How we were going to survive here was a mystery. I started to panic and tears welled up in my eyes.

Fazli was sympathetic and said, “Don’t worry. We will be fine. Apart from this tent, I borrowed S$50 from Mok, too. We can use it for food till payday comes. I topped up our EZ-Link for a month so we don’t have to worry about transport at least.”

His words were exactly what needed to hear. I found myself calmer and feeling slightly more secure.

“I’ll run to the nearby coffee shop and grab some food,” Fazli added. “You stay here and take care of yourself and the things, okay? Relax, all will be fine.”

After picking up his glasses, mobile phone and wallet, he ran off in search of food.

“Be careful,” I called out.

He nodded. “You too.”

I didn't want to disturb others during Hari Raya

I stood at the tent and watched Fazli walk till he disappeared. I then looked around to find a space for a makeshift dinner. Upon spotting a few options, I retreated into the tent.

I thought of my mother and decided to check my phone for any missed calls or messages. I found none but wasn’t entirely surprised. A day before, I had dropped off my kids in JB and told Mum I wouldn’t be staying for Hari Raya.

She was understanding. When I told her over the phone that we had been kicked out of Mimah’s house, my mother only said, “Don’t worry. I’m sure you will figure this out soon. Your kids are with me, safe and sound.”

I continued fidgeting with my phone and was tempted to call Tinta to confide in her, but as soon as I heard the first ring, I hung up. It was Hari Raya. She would be busy now visiting people.

What were you thinking—disturbing others?

Note: Eventually, after receiving support from strangers-turned-friends who helped her write letters and navigate bureaucracy, Liyana managed to secure a flat at Havelock Road, and then later on, at Lengkok Bahru. She even went on to start her own business. Today, she is a successful entrepreneur.

You can read more of her story here:

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Top image via NParks.