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By Larissa M.
Posted on November 1, 2024
Cover Image Title: The Great Salmon Migration
Cover Image by: Christina Yan
Size: 4032 pixels x 3024 pixels
Classification: Photograph
Year: 2024
Blinding streaks of light floated in through the glass, splitting into slivers of dizzying colour, as I stared out the window. Ttttttrrrriiiingggg, the bell shrieked out, signaling the end of the long school day. The noise was carrried over by the restless tsunami of elementary pupils pouring out like an ocean through a narrow dam, out of the big bricked building and into the outstretched hands of their guardians. Hands tucked underneath the straps of my vacant school bag—arms swinging slightly—I walked home. I watched my shadow; her hair danced with pleasure as it enjoyed the romantic spring breeze, and friends waved goodbye as I passed them. My sister dilly-dallied with her own group not too far behind. After a long year, it seemed that the tag of “new girl” had been erased from my forehead. When I got home, Mom was preoccupied. Venomous frown lines snaked through her flushed skin. Our eyes met momentarily, mine inquisitive and hers distant. She then turned around and closed the door to her room. It wasn’t until much later in the week that her grave, hushed voice on the phone became a source of concern. When I was finally told the news, the walls of my life crumbled down, suffocating me beneath the rubble, and her words of reassurance became meaningless dissonance in the background. The next real memory I have is sitting on the faded couches of the lobby inside my new school, illuminated by a buzzing tubelight that bereft the place of life. A tubelight, as I had learned, was what they called a long fluorescent light commonly used in this country. Despite many months having passed since Mom had moved our family back to our home country of Bangladesh for her job, the agonizing time in between—or as I remember it—just a blurry back and forth of resentful cries and discontented sighs. I sat there stubbornly counting all the things I hated about the country that was supposed to be mine: the agonizing heat, blood-sucking mosquitoes, tumultuous traffic, and everyone’s tendency to strip away at your personal boundaries. As Mom talked to the administrators, my line of sight fell on the doorway leading to the greater part of the school, embossed with the school’s acronymed name, ‘RISE’. Below that sat a cold, bolded line barking, ‘Do not go beyond this point’. I smirked at the obvious irony that they all had somehow missed, an ominous threat that likely foreshadowed my coming days, when I heard the administrators say, “...but she will have to take an entrance exam.”
Perfect, I thought, my grin widening. A week after a failed attempt at failing the exam, I sat mindlessly fiddling with the tarp-like material of my new school uniform, trying to seem unbothered by the wasps of whispers that wound around me. Although believing school uniforms were actively taking away some constitutional rights of students, I thought I looked rather nice in the long, navy blue, collared dress. Suddenly the class came to a hush, save for the hurried noise of chairs being pushed back as students rose to show respect at the arrival of our teacher. I swiftly followed but the lag was noticed. My ominous prophecy seemed to blossom in the following days, as navigating the intricacies of school life proved indecipherable; I was walking on broken glass. Lunchtimes were lonely affairs, with classmates more interested in exclusive, idle gossip than engaging in anything meaningful. ‘Gossip’ was another reformed term. “Stop gossiping, turn, and pay attention!” my teacher yelled. My eyes widened. “She’s telling them to stop talking,” the girl beside me chuckled, as she looked up at my alarmed face. The girl, Ameera, explained that the term ‘gossip’ was colloquially used to mean ‘chit-chat’, without the negative undertones that the word carried to me. Soon sharing notes turned into uncontrollable classroom giggles, then into quiet conversations about our lives, struggles, the challenges of being a girl in a conservative, patriarchal society, and the constraining noose of everyday expectations. The meaning behind her foreign words was sounding all too familiar—and I was too soon finding the same struggles in my new life. “I don’t like it here,” I confided one day. “I want to feel like I belong here, this is my country. But I don’t know when I will.” “It’s a beautiful country. Our people fought with nothing for this land, to defend our language and rights, and built this country up from its ashes. Our families are very important to us and we may be traditional, but we still achieve great things” she replied. “You think you’re very different from us, and in some ways you are, but how different can you be? We are just people after all. Maybe once you learn to see our way…” she didn’t finish. It wouldn’t be until a few years later that I would be able to finish the thought myself. It was when I joined my mother and her wide-eyed anthropology students on a fieldwork trip to a remote rural island: Nijhum Dwip, directly translating to ‘Silent Island’. Among the youthful excitement and clamoring pursuits of her students, I was unsure what I was meant to be doing here. Regardless, we followed the daily activities of the marginalized, underprivileged community there, who based their livelihood on the fishing industry. While the students busied themselves with interviews and data collection, I familiarized myself with some of the children who trailed curiously behind us, shying away like touch-me-not leaves when we’d turn to address them. Instead of attending formal schools, they entered into hard labour—long boating expeditions on damp, odourous, wooden cargo boats accommodated more for fish than people, preparing the fish for sale, and learning to man the ship. That was life. Early cold mornings. Sickening seas. When the unforgiving sun beat down on us like hellfire, making the sand beneath our feet hot coals, the children trailed and sang local songs and shanties with the most mesmerizing mirth and powerful, melodious vocals. I would see them play on the streets with unapologetic boldness, running in and out of homes, venture into daily adventures that would test shrewd wit, and cope with every obstacle with fierce independence. The world they walked was of absolute freedom. One night, after a long day of research, the locals promised us a night expedition into the forest to sightsee deers, and our guides consisted of a middle aged man and his eight year old son. What we hadn’t realized at the beginning was that the path into the forest was not for the faint of heart. The forest was primordial, smelling of dew and bark, the wind was flirty and gentle, and we hummed as we walked. Before long we came across the first mud-filled trough, about ten feet deep, with only a narrow, and precariously unsteady fallen tree substituting for a bridge. Then first came blatant refusal, rage, and some pointless bargaining, until we finally came to an agreement. Mom decided she would head back with my sister and I while the rest of the group continued. What she hadn’t realized was that my sister had carefully crossed the log with the boy, and seizing the opportunity, I had too. She was stuck. It took hours of trekking through the forest and crossing more of these logs, getting even more questionable as we proceeded further before we reached the spot. Alas, no deers. Frustration coursed through me, like the blood in my veins, and I looked to the young boy who had guided us here. No one said anything. The young boy offered me a half smile before pointing towards the sky. I gasped. Ten other heads promptly followed, turning to look up. The sky was dotted with sparkling, dazzling stars, wrapped up in an embrace of the full moon’s light, from one end to the other. It looked like a juvenile painting, with rhinestones dotting the skyscape. Had they been there all along? My eyes had become glassy; I promptly blinked away, and everything became much more clear.
It was a year later that I was finally able to grasp what I was learning. I had moved to the capital, Dhaka, and shoved into the urgent race to IGCSE glory, which quickly became the bane of all of my peers’ existence. Sweat and tears mingled indistinguishably as life consisted of school, tuitions and then homework—a complete fifteen hour schedule. Just like everyone else, I would tell myself. All of my senses were completely culminated by the ceaseless, unrelenting calamity of traffic horns, a slow and sure build up of dread, and a perpetual migraine. I had once again left behind my friends, arriving in this dystopian metropolis, so self-centered and superficial that I focused all my energy into academia, refusing to pay heed to the need for a new social life. Standing outside the class one day, I overheard the snippets of a conversation from inside. “Ma and Baba are leaving for India, my sisters are going too. They haven’t told Ma her diagnosis is terminal yet.” one voice said. I knew him. “You’ll stay with us, Auntie won’t be leaving you alone.” his friend threw his arms around him, and then all I heard was muffled sobs. I walked away from the door. Soon I would hear more talk. Friendship. Loyalty. Love. At some point I realized the chaotic cacophony constantly surrounding me was also made up of moments of absolute silence, just passing looks, smiles, and hugs. The dichotomy between the children of the island and the children of the city ran through my mind; they would be appalled by the other’s lifestyle. My mind tried to rationalize. I remembered the judgement I had passed on the children of the silent island, just like the name of their home, living their own silent existence surrounded by warmth and mystique, like deja vu. Whilst in comedic contradiction, these kids, with their neon lives, experienced their own joy in silence. “Where does that leave me?” I wondered. That night after a strenuous day—deliriously tired—I was sitting by my bedroom window, watching the thrashing monsoon storm rip through the city, and rip away my weariness, and for once my senses were at ease, filled instead with thumping drops on the glass. I wondered about my own life. Lives. They change depending on who sees them, and dissect into a million different threads when they pass through lenses. Where some eyes might glance with pity, I had seen whimsical joy, and where one would see chains, I had seen love. As I hugged my knees close to my chest and smiled into my lap, glass shattered everywhere, and I bled gratefully.
Editor's Note:
The Writer portrays a beautiful journey of self-discovery through a lens of cultural identity and personal growth. They show a feeling many of us have experienced, and one that some of us may be going through right now: disorientation with transition. Drastic change can be hard, and when confronted with both personal expectations and societal norms, it can be even harder. The Writer shows us, however, that interconnectedness is everywhere, and soon after, belonging follows.
[Writing Editor: Paul A. Shannon]
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