Tags:
Journalism of Courage
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;
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.
