The same people keep getting the flats

I saw the list again today. The same names, the same families. People who already got their Hiyaa flats, people living comfortably while claiming they need government housing. Meanwhile, my cousin has been on the waiting list for eight years. Eight years of hoping, eight years of watching others jump the queue. They call it a system, but we all know it's not about need. It's about who you know, which party you support, which relative works where. The applications look legitimate on paper, but we see the reality in our neighborhoods. The same people who got flats in the last scheme are somehow eligible again. Their children get priority, their cousins, their political allies. What hurts most isn't just the unfairness—it's watching dreams get crushed. Young couples saving for years, only to see the list grow longer while the same familiar names reappear. People working two jobs, praying for that one break, while others collect subsidized housing like trophies. We talk about it in tea shops, in ferry queues, in the market. The anger simmers beneath our polite conversations. Everyone knows someone who's been waiting forever. Everyone knows someone who got multiple flats through connections. We're not asking for special treatment—just fairness. Just a system that actually helps those who need it most. Sometimes I wonder if they realize what they're doing. Do they understand how it feels to watch your future get handed to someone who already has three? Do they care that their corruption isn't just numbers on paper—it's shattered hopes, delayed marriages, families living in overcrowded spaces? Yet life goes on. The sea still laps at the harbor walls. The ferries still run. We still smile and greet each other. But beneath the surface, the resentment grows. We're not just tired of waiting—we're tired of watching the same game play out again and again, while ordinary people pay the price.