The Start - Short Story

"You'll live," he said.
She stood in front of him like a broken doll. She turned and he followed her. He took her to the tram and waited with her until she got on.
  "Look after Bryan," she said, seemingly at a loss for any more words.
  "That might be difficult."
  "Yeah... well...." She paused. "I won't be doing this again."
  "Doing what?"
  "This...  Surprising you… I won't come to Melbourne to visit you again."
  "Oh you come round anytime you want." It's a reflex reaction, this politeness, probably derived from his English ancestry. She could see he would rather pull out his own teeth without anaesthetic.  

She gave him a half sardonic smile and as the tram arrived, he reached out and hugged her. She got on the tram. She could see his face from her seat and it was inscrutable. Her face let her down. She said if her face were a friend she would have deserted it ages ago though I have to admit I used to love the way every emotion would be betrayed by her features. She always was an unwitting master of a truant countenance. At the time, she said, her eyes filled with water. She said she cried all the way home.

That was well over a year ago. They barely communicated since. They barely communicated when they were together but that's another story.

They broke up during their last year of College, she came home a shadow of her former self. She was pale, gaunt and withdrawn. She found herself in a situation and was lost to it. She succumbed to a fatal pleasure that left her in knots later on. Knots she couldn't untangle. Knots she would never release.  

I know this because she has been my best friend since we were sixteen. When she came home from travelling, she sat at my kitchen table and confessed all. She told me about how she sent him an email and met up with him. It was as if she wanted me to replace his hands, his words and make everything better. Of course I couldn't. I didn't even like him. I always thought they were an odd couple. When they were together she would hardly speak about him and if she did, it was always in a light-hearted manner. She never acted like she was IN LOVE with him. How could I know? How could any of us have known?

She sat there, her brown hair falling into her long pale prematurely aging fingers which held her head up.
  "It's not as if the pleasure is worth it... The touching of hands was lovely. Just a small graze of our hands set my body on fire. And kissing... Well, that was amazing too."
I looked around.  "Do you want a cup of tea?"
  "Yeah… okay," she paused and then said, "When we first started going out that's all we used to do. Kiss. It used to go on for hours, at first we were all over the place but after some practice we were a perfect fit." She smiled at some forgotten memory. I brought the tea over.
  "Is it worth going over this…?" I asked.
  "I'm sorry am I boring you?"
  "No, it's just… well, so much time has passed, and he definitely doesn't give you a moment’s thought."
  "Time is an illusion."
  "Bollocks."
  "I know," she smiled again.
The tension is relieved and I started telling her the local gossip she missed while she was away. She sat there and listened but I saw her mind and eyes wander from time to time.
  "It's late. I should go."
  "Yeah, okay." We hugged and she left. Only the transient warmth on her seat and an empty mug a reminder of her presence. I wonder what she left him that night, was it the sound of her cries or the blood from her period on the sheets?

A couple of days later I received a phonecall from the Police. They said she had overdosed on headache pills. The neighbour had gotten worried because they heard no music from her flat and she used to have it on all the time. When they knocked there was no answer except for the cat that howled unnaturally at the door. In the end the landlord opened the door with his master key.

The Police said she definitely knew what she was doing. The flat was immaculate and a pile of letters sat on her kitchen table alongside an empty bottle of painkillers and a note with my contact details on. They gave me her keys. I went home with them snuggled into my winter jacket. I sat at my kitchen table playing with them in my hands. Numbness had crept into me. I opened a bottle of wine from the fridge and poured myself a glass. The dryness hit my throat, constricted my thoughts, I dropped the keys onto my table with a clatter, they broke the unending silence between us. Then there was nothing.

I stood up and collected the pile of envelopes neatly stacked, I flicked through each one and wondered what to do with them. They were all addressed with stamps already bought and pasted on the top right hand corner.

  "We were in his kitchen and he turned to me," she said. "He was drunk and I was sober. I should have stood my ground and filled my glass with water. I should have walked up the stairs and closed the door once I entered the spare room. I should have gotten under the cool covers and closed my eyes. I should have fallen asleep alone." Her face was drawn with pain, these 'should haves' biting into her each time.
  "It's done now. Forget it. He has."
  "Just because he has doesn't mean I can," she said. "What's the point in talking to you? You don't understand."

She was right, I didn't. I moved on from one man to the next. Not getting too close but enough so I could call and settle into some warmth if and when I needed it. I had postponed calling her because I didn't want to hear about him again. This myth she led her life around. In all honesty, it was boring me. This unrequited burnt out obsessive love she harboured.

There was an envelope with his name on it. I fingered the envelope. It was quite fat, almost padded. She had taken extra care to put sellotape on all the vulnerable parts of the envelope. There was no stamp.
  "Oh fuck…" I said to myself as I realised what I had to do, thinking of the enormity of the task that lay ahead of me. The imposed curse she had saddled me with.

………

I arrived early and waited for him. I was standing beside a blind girl at the train station, she was so still, at peace, her arm outstretched holding a money box. Lots of people would stop and give her money. She made no attempt at communication, no noise of approval, she just stood still, a solemn statue amongst the bustle of Melbourne's traffic. I didn't give her any money. I just watched her and wondered about her life, whether she was blind at birth or whether it was a consequence she suffered during the course of her young life and then I wondered what would be better. Maybe I should have given her money; I don't know why I didn't.

Finally he arrived. Well, I say he arrived but it wasn't the he I remembered. When I saw him again I was shocked. It looked like a lifetime had happened to him since I had seen him last. In my head he was still a boy, strawberry blonde hair and faintly oriental eyes. In my head he was still her college boyfriend.

We looked at one another solemnly and he took my bag and led me to a coffee shop. It had started to rain outside so we sat and casually watched the water hit the glass. I pulled out her letter and gave it to him. He took it and played with it in his hands, his name subtly folded in the creases.
  "What happened?" he asked.
  "Maybe I should be asking you that… Sometimes I forget what she said to me, as if I half listened only."
He nodded and opened the envelope. Inside was a silver bracelet, chunky and square, very unlike her. I had never seen her wear this piece of jewellery but then she never wore any jewellery whilst I knew her. Some paper fell out and he sat there and read it. The rain poured and some time passed before he put the letter down. He just sat there completely still. His face did not change. He folded the letter.

  "Can I read it?" I asked. I was desperate. I wanted to know more about her, suddenly, now she wasn't here. I wanted to know, I wanted to hear everything.
  "I guess" he pushed the letter across and our fingers touched lightly. I took the note and started to read. It was his turn to sit and wait.
When I finished he looked at me and said "She was always into hyperbole."
  "She was in love with you."
  "I know."
We sat in silence for a while. Both of us tried to digest her words, the words we didn't want to hear whilst she was alive. I looked up at him. He said "Don't get emotional. Come on, let's get out of here."

We stood and walked up the street and into a pub, he ordered a beer and a white wine and I found a booth for us to sit. He brought the drinks over and we drank in a moody silence.
  "I bet you never thought this would happen," he said.
  "A slight understatement," I replied. Now I had given him the envelope I didn't know what I was doing here. He was not in the mood for a post-mortem and I felt uncomfortable asking him personal questions since he seemed strangely unmoved by what he had read.
  "Was she your best friend?" he asked.
  "Yeah, I mean, yes, she was," I said. Then it suddenly hit me. She wasn't coming back. All the memories I have of her are mine alone. 
  "Were you ever in love with her?" I asked him.
  "At one point… yes I was. But she wrung out every last drop and towards the end I didn't even like her."
  "She just wanted you, no one else in her life came close."
  "She wanted a version of me, not the real me."
  "Really?"
He sighed, "I don't know now. Those words suggest differently. She could never speak clearly in front of me."
  "I can't imagine that," I said.

He looked and touched the envelope, "When we were friends she was vibrant but as soon as we became lovers it was as if she lost her power. She wilted…' Almost as an afterthought he said, 'Yet she could always speak to Bryan as if he were a close friend."
  "Bryan?"
  "He's my best friend. Bryan and her always got on really well."
  "Oh I vaguely remember that name."
  "Really?"
  "Yeah, I think she mentioned him once or twice."
I look at her handwriting on the front of the envelope. Once a teacher at school commented that her handwriting looked like it was trying to hide something underneath the twists and turns of her pen. Her writing always looked neat and tidy but you couldn't read it unless you took a closer inspection, even then it could be difficult sometimes.

  "I don't know why I didn't listen," I said.
  "Don't beat yourself up about it."
  "You're not very forgiving are you?"
  "What does forgiveness have to do with this?" 
  "What a waste."
  "I know," he said.
Then suddenly I was angry at him. "You bastard, she was in love with you and you don't care."
He looked at me, his face was so calm, and quietly he said, "You don't choose who you fall in and out of love with." Then a little louder, "Anyway, why are you getting angry at me? You are the one who said you didn't listen to her."

I wanted to cry but instead I finished my wine and stood up. "I've done what I came here to do. I am leaving now."
Suddenly he said, "Don't go."
  "I have to… I…" I stuttered.
  "Really don't go. I don't want to be alone."
And so I sat down again.
                                                           ………


Both of us cradled a cup of coffee in a café, we had been working in town. She was saving to go away again and I was saving to do my Masters. Not for the first time our paths were diverging but we sat in the warmth, laughing about the Messenger in my office who had taken to dropping in on me whenever he could. He was old and full of wrinkles but obviously thought he had a way with the ladies and I gave her an impression of his slow Australian drawl, and described the force of his breath reaching across the table towards me. She was laughing so hard it pealed in the coffee shop. Some of the customers looked up to see what was going on.
  "It stank!" I cried.
  "Don't tell me anymore! Stop! I am going to piss myself," she clutched her stomach.
  "Well, all I can say is that I am staying sober at the Christmas party this year," I said, trying to keep a straight face before I collapsed into giggles with her.
  "Oh, no more no more…"

On the day she left to go travelling I picked her up very early in the morning. Her neighbours were going to look after the cat and she had paid the rent six months in advance. She asked if we could stop at the beach before we went to the airport. She asked me if I would come in the sea with her but I had tonsillitis and didn't want it to get worse. I watched her from the car park. It was a wild windy day and the sun was just changing the colour of the sky. The whole beach was deserted. She walked to the edge of the ocean and stripped naked. She walked into the sea as if she would never come out. She was as wild as that sea, I could hear her whooping, screaming, crying and I watched her cavort in the waves, body surf to the sand and then plunge into the next depth.  

I had made some Green Tea in a flask and she sat sipping it in the car. Her hair was a salt mine and she brought half the beach onto the floor. She gave me the biggest smile. "You know I am probably making the biggest mistake of my life."
  "Maybe."
  "But you know I have to do it."
  "Yeah I know." 

She had only been back a few days when she came around my flat. She had hardly told me about her travels, she just spoke about seeing him again.

She had said that once they arrived in his house he just sat down in front of the television and ignored her. After that he started to read a book and when she would start a conversation he diverted it to the trivial. She wanted to get to the axis of which their relationship was based but he was happy to stay on the fringes of such a shadowy abyss. She had thoughts that she wanted to share with him yet he ignored her pleas and pretended ignorance. He compelled her to see only his reality, that of an austere environment where his bitterness kept him from understanding.

  "I'm powerless," she said.
  "No you're not."
  "I am in front of him. It's a battle of wills always and I cannot and do not want to fight him. It's easier to let him think he is right and I am wrong."
  "Does that bother you?"
  "It must do because I keep trying to go back and explain. But the more I do that the more set in his ways he becomes. I can't fight a misunderstood memory no matter how much I have changed."
  "Then let it be."
  "Guess I am gonna have too."
  "You'll still live." I said.



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A trip to Pakistan - Blog Post

A family next to our 'rock'

Introduction

This is a description of Pakistan through the eyes of an 18 years old woman during the mid 1990s. What is recounted here are the views and thoughts of myself at that time and I concede now that some of my thoughts and opinions may have changed a little since then, so please do not take this as a balanced or an objective account of a country so complex.

Being a Jersey girl and coming from a small island, I had no idea what would be ahead of me or how I would cope. I went to Pakistan blind but came back six months later painfully aware of life, especially if you are poor, and a woman. When I came home I could not relate my experiences, and after the first five minutes of my conversation people became bored and changed the conversation. I started to notice people hadn’t changed in the way I had. I felt very much alone as I felt most people wished to be kept in ignorance.

Below is only a snippet of what went on but I just wanted to give you a cross-section of all that happened. Even though there were many things wrong with this country at that time, there are so many beautiful aspects as well, for me one may not necessarily outweigh the other but there were many happy times in this nation. I am very glad I went.

…………..

Somehow -15c meant I had to wear animal slippers on a daily basis

The first day we arrived, the plains were enjoying a beautiful crisp spring day, the temperature being about 20c. As we climbed Murree road in Islamabad to the mountainous ranges, the van started to become cool. The usual temperature for our destination at this time of year being -15c; we started to gather our jumpers and coats around us. Intermittently, we would see ice-encrusted shacks that sold some sort of brown liquid in Pepsi bottles with men sitting around in groups, not worried about time, not really talking, just staring, looking at the new white faces in the van passing by, drinking Green Tea and smoking chillums.

The higher we climbed the more sights we sought, men squatting on walls pondering the amazing countryside around them whilst open drains poured forth human excrement on to the plains. Men drove motorbikes with their wife/wives and children balanced precariously side saddle. Huge old Bedford trucks filled with people and men hanging off the sides leaned dangerously into the other lane of oncoming traffic, dazzling in the sunlight and complete contrast against the snow. The gaudy colours shocked the unknown foreigner – reds, yellows, greens, blues – bright and beautiful, a colourful carnival luring passengers into its quarters. Beautiful Arabic letters were written along the sides of the buses quoting the Koran to keep everyone safe within. Up front there were bells, chains and an Indian movie star picture besides a good luck charm hanging off the mirror.

Women dressed head to toe in the most amazing shades – alluring yet off limits – eye contact not made when walking unless of the same sex. Wonderful glimpses of eyes, slight show of hair for most except for the lenient/rich families where a full head of hair would be allowed and preened with pride.

Bright yellow taxis invented a new highway code, careering off in front of everyone, overtaking on blind corners, no seat belts, Indian movie music blasting from inside. Suzukis filled to the brim with people – mostly men, yet there would be women sitting together or next to a male member of their family. Rickety rickshaws rattling along: stopping, starting, how many rupees? “Teekeh? Teekeh? Atcha… Atcha…” (Okay? Okay? Fine… Fine…) The inevitable cow (buffalo, Miss) lolling and walking wherever they pleased.

On the roadside, children smiled, playing with their mother’s dupatta or hiding behind their father’s shalwar kameez, the father smiled benevolently at their child (regardless of sex) and put a protective arm around their shoulder. Men with bad taste in Western clothing (cheap guys, Miss) strutted around together, holding hands. Half built houses, rubble, rubbish, potholes scattered, food stalls pushed out onto the road, selling nuts, pulses, rice… the sights were endless and for the whole time I was there I never tired of them.

After three hours, we reached out destination, an out of season hill side station in the Himalayas called Murree, Pakistan. My home was a boarding school perched on Kashmir Point, and it was closed.

St Denys' High School

My companions and I were green, clean, unsure of what to do and how to do it. The senses were bombarded with strange colours, clothes, smells, sights, noises, language and people with a huge taste for strong and very sweet tea. My unknown friend for the next six months, Sarah, looked as scared as I felt – both thrown in a completely different world with no idea what to expect or to believe – we reacted totally differently to the situation. Sarah blindly accepted everything as if it were normal and I became defensive and demanded to be told what was going on.

And so started our time in Pakistan.

Religion infiltrates every pore of life here, to say that you are not of a religion or that you are an atheist would go against all that most Pakistanis represent. There is a very limited concept of somebody not believing. As Sarah and I are non-Muslim everyone automatically assumed we were devout Christian. This is not the case either, however, as this was a Christian school we had to perform morning devotion, go to chapel every Sunday and a prayer meeting once a week.

Yet our duties were nothing compared to the average follower of Islam - a practicing Muslim performs the five pillars of Islam. These are:

1. Profession of faith: ‘There is no God but GOD.’
2. A Muslim should pray at least five times a day, facing the city of Makkah. In Pakistan, most Muslims follow the Azan (a call to prayer) that bellows everywhere from a loudspeaker at prescribed times of the day. Luckily for Sarah and I, the school was situated beside a mosque and the 5am call was always welcome especially if we had been up till 2am marking.
3. A Muslim must give a certain percentage of their wage, called Zakat, to the poor.
4. On the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, Muslims must abstain from food and drink from dawn to sunset. The period is called Ramadan.
5. A Muslim must undertake the pilgrimage to Mecca, this is also called the Haj, at least once during their lifetime (if they have enough money). The Holy book is called the Koran and that contains the words of God (Allah) as they were given to the prophet Mohammed.

Makkah / Mecca is situated in Saudi Arabia and is the holiest city according to Islam, millions travel there every year. Within the mosque in Mecca there is a simple stone structure that has a single door six feet up from the marble floor called the Kabba. Fifty feet high and thirty five feet long, the Kabba is in the centre of the sacred mosque. This is the spot where three millennia ago, Ibrahim, known as Abraham to Jews and Christians, first dedicated a house of worship to a single God. In the Koran, God said that, ‘The first house of God that was built for people is the one in Makkah.’ It is towards this structure that one billion people turn five times each day to bow down and pray.

Sarah and I were bombarded by religion from every angle. In essays we received, even if the question had no relation to the subject whatsoever, the student would always incorporate some quote or view from the Koran. Where Muslims believe Islam had set them free, all I could see were the restrictions that had been imposed, especially for women. Are they blind or am I?

I know there is a difference between culture and religion in every society and that one Islamic country is not necessarily similar to the other but when I think of some of the Islamic countries that come to mind, all I can see is a religion that imposes and restricts the freedom of women; from Purdah to wearing a burqa. Yet some women choose this as part of their identity and see it as empowering... When women are pregnant, there are people who pray for a boy because they will gain respect in this patriarchal society and conveniently not have to pay dowry in the future. If the mother has a baby girl, the mother will be consoled with the thought that next time will be better. If the family does not have the economic means, it has been known for female babies to be killed.

It seems to me that the status of women in Pakistan’s society is a contradiction – it is believed women are revered and this is why they shouldn’t go out alone, or as the case may be, at all. Yet some of the stories I have been told, and from what I have seen in front of my eyes, some of these customs could be described as barbaric and infringe upon basic human rights.

One day I was walking to a class when one of my students came up to me. "I want to say goodbye, Miss." I looked at her and asked her why she was saying goodbye as the term hadn't finished and it confused me because the girls weren't allowed out of school generally during the term. I asked her when she was coming back, she shook her head, "I'm not coming back, Miss, I am getting married." I was shocked, the girl had just come on her period so she was to be sent home and married to her cousin. She was 9 years old. I hugged her and wished her luck. I never saw her again but I think of her often and this moment is the reason why I became a social worker.

Sarah in the distance - Kashmir

These cultural views can also affect the men and their view of women in general, especially white young Western women. Most young men felt it was okay to harass Sarah and I because we had fair skin; we later found out this is mainly due to the perception that all Western women were similar to the low budget American movies that are found in Pakistan, which involve scantily clad Westerners who participate in many endeavours of the sexual kind. I tried to understand that their view of women is limited but it was hard to feel empathy when men were trying to grab or feel me when they thought others weren’t looking. 

I often thought to myself - why was I in one of the world’s most corrupt countries in the world, sharing the same room with a girl I have no idea about in a place termed third world where communication was limited, illness an everyday occurrence and wearing shorts and t-shirt on a summer’s day an impossibility?

One of our many views

One night Sarah was ill so I had to go to the dining room alone. I had made friends with two of the teachers yet they had both left for the weekend due to other commitments within the school. The other teachers hardly even looked at me so conversation that night was out of the question. Left to my thoughts whilst eating dahl, I turned to the window which presented a wonderful picture of Murree at dusk; trees, mountains… all around. At that particular time, a flash of panic and inspiration hit me, panic because I thought I might never get home as the mountains might never let me go. Inspiration because the view was, indeed, truly beautiful. On clear days, from Kashmir Point you could see the snow-capped Himalayas as far as the eye could see, inviting yet perilous, beautiful yet demanding. I could see what mountaineers found so inspiring about mountains – the challenge is there – what could possibly be more fulfilling than to climb to the top of a mountain and survive? Maybe, on a smaller scale, that is what I felt when I looked at the Murree hills or at my trip to Pakistan as a whole – I was conquering a piece of my own life and 7,500 feet at the same time.

When I was staring at the view, not for the first time did I wish I was an artist. The colours visible surpassed anything I had seen on the plains, an amazing sunset filled with flaming oranges and reds before turning into violent shades of purple and soothing blues. The mountains looked unreal, as if the world were too small to fit them in - it continually amazed me how they comforted but suffocated at the same time. I knew it was only a bus ride out of there but I still felt a slight sense of alarm that I would be teaching Senior Cambridge and eating dahl for the rest of my life. 

Cycling in Lahore

  

A week before this, we experienced an earthquake while eating dinner. There we were, all teachers, matrons and secretary together eating the usual dahl when the whole dining room shook for about five/ten seconds. The girls started screaming (for any dramatic event usually accompanied a lot of noise from the girls) and Shaista Begum, a friend of mine, started praying to God. Christine, a fellow teacher possessed with an unusual temperament , started to prophecise the end of the world. Maybe because of the shock, excitement or just because we couldn’t understand what good praying or prophesying would do, Sarah and I wanted to laugh. Sarah and I have been together three months at this point, practically twenty four hours a day, and we began to start sensing the other’s emotions and thoughts. We looked at each other, tried to conceal any emotion and politely excused ourselves. Once free of the confines of the serious dining room, to the amusement of the pupils and servants, we ran out onto the forecourt and crumpled with laughter, not really understanding the full potential of the quake or the horror it may have caused; it became a release for us and our emotions. 

Sarah working...

The next day, while teaching class 8, a day girl with a solemn face told me a story and she swore this was true. Apparently, a few days before the earthquake a baby was born with a moustache and it spoke straight after birth. The baby predicted the earthquake, floods and famine and the end of the world on 2^nd/3^rd June. The student looked so scared and the other girls seemed so determined to believe, I just smiled and told them that this couldn’t possibly be true, the end of the world could not happen when the date was so close to my birthday. I went into the staffroom and there was a grown woman, a teacher, Mrs Naeem, telling the same story with all the teachers captivated. The fate of the baby? It died mysteriously two hours later. 

The girl's bathrooms

Sarah getting to grips with our bath

The usual working day for Sarah and I would be school from 8.30am until 2.00pm. This would start with an assembly where all the girls would sing the national anthem. I taught the subjects English, English literature, Music and PE to girls ranging from ages four to eighteen.

Class 11, the last class, had to be prepared for their Senior Cambridge exams. English was the main aspect of this paper and if the pupil failed this subject, they would automatically fail all their subjects. The pressure to get these girls though this exam was immense, if they passed they could gain a few more years of ‘freedom’ at a college, if they failed they would head straight for their appointed husband and begin their own families. Having no knowledge of the books I would be teaching, I came unprepared for this task and I wanted to go home when I realized I would be teaching ‘The Warden’ by Anthony Trollope.

After lunch, I would usually have extra classes with Class 11, usually dealing with the English language paper and how to pass. The standard of spoken English for most of the girls was very good but their written English was amusing at best. Here I was, a student masquerading as a teacher, feigning intelligence and pretending to be knowledgeable in all subjects when it felt so apparent that I was a fake. They thought I was so strict when I believed I couldn’t be more lenient. Apparently my marking standards were really high yet I kept trying to make excuses for their mistakes. Nearly every day I would have to go into the classroom and try to make them understand the importance of reading or why cheating would not get them to colleges, it felt unmistakably strange because I was echoing those teachers that so recently taught me.

I had problems with my conscience whilst teaching; Sarah and I would debate all the time, never really coming to a full conclusion. Here we were, teaching girls on how to pass an exam for a few years of freedom. What was the point of giving knowledge to most of these girls who may never use their education but would be aware of the oppressiveness that exists in their lives and country? Would they be happier being blissfully ignorant? Should I show them a freedom they could never obtain? Is my life necessarily better that they should try to emulate it? If they tried to gain their personal freedom, this could be at the cost to their family and society could lose respect for them and suffer, would freedom be worth this?

Later on we would have tea, and Sarah and I would put off marking by writing letters or talking or listening to music. It seems so simplistic now but although we would get lonely occasionally, homesick – nearly always, we were never bored. There was no pub to go to at night for alcohol is illegal without a permit. There were no other friends we could see and no other amusement other than our own ideas. One of our favourite pastimes would be looking at the food in my photos, wondering what it would be like to taste anything other than rice and dahl. I would give lectures to Sarah about music and she would tell me all about her life and family. We read many books, talked about many subjects and recounted the day’s details.

Fun times :)

Every night I would check my sleeping bag and cover for tarantulas. It was always the same, I’d get comfortable, put my Walkman on and try to sleep. Inevitably, five minutes later, I would be sure that a spider had crawled up my leg or across my bed so I’d be up again, checking the covers, emptying my sleeping bag, making sure the sheets were clean and pillows clear. After I would put my Walkman on and think about home, food, and the love I had left there

I would often sit on my window and stare out towards the view, green hills sloping towards the playground where Sarah insisted I joined her jogging sometimes, watching the swings sway in the breeze. In awe of the mountains, I began to understand why I was doing this or why I was here. I HAD to come here. Some yearning inside of me had made it essential to come. Sarah and I would sit on our rock, talk about our lives, ourselves and tried to find our purpose. I grew serious and thoughtful; I had to be if I wanted to gain any kind of dignity the mountains commanded. The Himalayas… a place Westerners talk about in hallowed terms – bypassing all the shit that surrounded them – majestic, glorious… are there any words that describe them fully? Yet, there were times when I would lose hope, cry at all that could not be done and feel helpless against a whole system of humanity that seemingly defied any hope of progress.

On that rock, all we stood for was not important, nor were we in terms of the world at large. I knew this before I left my inconspicuous rock I called home, yet I wanted to make a difference. Bob Marley’s lyrics used to reverberate around our room and I would understand, ‘Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, none but ourselves can free our minds.’ This journey was taken to free my mind as well as the girls I taught. I tell people, ‘I went to Pakistan to teach English for six months,’ yet in reality it was, ‘I went to Pakistan so I could be taught what life really means.’ I’m not ashamed to say my innocence ended in Pakistan, I went there as a visitor, I tried to become something else but in reality I am all that I ever could be. I found a country that embodied every contradiction; it contained heaven and hell in their fullest sense.

All class 11 passed their English exams.

Rest in peace, Sarah – may we share another adventure together soon. I love and miss you xxx



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Leah and Sarah - best buddies