Jasmine146;s eyes

Last week, Jasmine flew away to Spain. More or less, for ever. I waited at the airport for her plane to leave.

Last week, Jasmine flew away to Spain. More or less, for ever. I waited at the airport for her plane to leave. I watched it become a small speck of light in the midnight sky. Finally it disappeared. Then, I drove back home.

8220;How will you remember me if I go away?8221; she often teased me. Invariably I replied, 8220;Your smile!8221; 8220;Liar,8221; she always responded, 8220;you never look at my face, you only look at my eyes!8221;

We met sporadically at a Costa or a Starbucks to exchange notes on how Dubai was treating us. We talked about the trauma of the people of her country. She had a Spanish passport and was able to work in Dubai. But her father and sister were still back home. Her father was 80 and she was desperate to get him to leave. But there were complexities. Passports. Age. Mobility issues. So she would disappear for days, meet them somewhere in Jordan, before scurrying back to Dubai.

When she returned, she would be in agony. 8220;We are refugees,8221; she would tell me, 8220;yet, people have no qualms about charging us high car or hotel rentals.8221; Pain was her companion. Sometimes I found her losing weight. 8220;What8217;s bothering you?8221; I would ask. 8220;Nothing. You wouldn8217;t understand. The situation is very dangerous back home. People go outside their homes to work or shop. But they don8217;t know if they will return.8221; Unshed tears shone in her eyes. Her pain pierced me like a dagger.

She was tormented, as to where she should live. Dubai was becoming expensive. The Americas were not very welcoming. Europe was an option, but to restart a career there was daunting. 8220;You have never visited my country. It was elegant once. We had art, literature. Every fashion brand,8221; she told me. Another time, she observed, 8220;When you read about deaths in my country, they are only figures. For me, they are my friends, uncles, aunts8230;8221; I assured her, perhaps naively, that her country would be peaceful again. Her reply held the wisdom of years of suffering, 8220;Not easily, not soon.8221;

Finally she decided to move on to Spain. We exchanged email IDs, but I knew that we would never meet again. Yes, I did lie to Jasmine. It wasn8217;t her smile I remembered but the perpetual agony in her eyes 8212; the eyes of a girl yearning for her country. I don8217;t go to Starbucks or Costa these days. They remind me of Jasmine8217;s painful eyes. So much.