Late Thursday evening we warmed ourselves around the bonfire that we had built two days prior. It was the third day of the junior class “Outward Bound” field trip to the Czech Republic. A long dark- haired student was setting alone while most everyone else paired themselves in discussions and huddled as new puppies together around the growing flames. I had forgotten that she was a new student to our school and instead thought of her as someone possibly shy and kind.
I started, “So how has this week been for you?” She responded politely, “Good. Pause. Fine.” I followed, “So were you able to connect with any friends?” She reminded me that she was new and that she had made a friend but that she really had another best friend, so she wasn’t really sure how deep that friendship could be.
Then about five minutes of silence passed when I gently looked up to see her fighting some tears.
“I miss my father. And I’m lonely”, she offered.
I was surprised at her sudden openness and leaned closer to hear.
“He is dead. He died last January.” And her crying became clearer. It was becoming our secret amongst the snapping of the flames and voices around us. As gently as I could I asked, “how? And what do you remember about him?” And her story unfolded.
He was 46 years old and died of a heart attack. He was a Muslim Turk who worked in Hungary while their family had lived forever in Turkey. He would work one month in Budapest and then travel back to Turkey while she attended public school in Turkey. This was her first International private school experience and she lived alone with her mother.
I said, “You are going through a lot of changes. Your father must have been a very strong man because I see his strength in you.” With conviction she responded, “Yes he was. And my mother also needs me to be strong because she is really having a hard time.”
That is when we both cried quietly and I felt so sad that she was carrying her mother’s sadness as well.
After a few minutes, I suggested again, “You seem like you have been through so much and yet you seem so open and kind and strong.”
And another surprise came.
“Then last night I was really worried about what the other students might think when we did the blindfolded walk in the woods.”
“Huh, why?” I asked.
She pulled her small hand out from beneath her jacket to show me that four of her fingers were missing.
“I didn’t want anyone to be grossed out by holding my hand. I’m fine with it. It has been this way since birth. But I thought it would be too awful for anyone else to hold.”
New tears.
“Can I hold your hand and see?” I suggested.
She placed her small warm soft hand in mine. I can’t remember the last time I held something so sweet. I explained, “Your hand is so soft. I don’t feel anything other than how soft and gentle it is. I bet in the dark and being blindfolded, no one even knew.”
A huge sigh of relief.
“When we go back can I show you a picture of my Dad? I’ve got one on my cell phone.”
“I’d love to see it.”
Then she began a new topic.
“You know it is hard because I am Muslim and everyone thinks I am a terrorist here at our school.”
With words of silence I tried to offer empathy.
“I’m really only Muslim by my prayers and by the fact that I don’t eat pork.”
“Really?” I questioned. “I knew many Muslims in Zambia but not close enough to know the details of their religious practice. I know there are more Muslims in the world than Christians though, and not many people know that.”
Pride evened out her voice as she concurred, “Would you like me to sing you some Islamic prayers?”
And she sang sweetly so that only I could here while I wished desperately that I had a good enough memory and language intelligence to be able to echo her instantly. Instead I sat quietly listening and hoping that would be good enough. “You have a really nice voice and should audition for the play,” I said. “I couldn’t you know. Pause. Because of my hand. Everyone would see it.” I knew she wouldn’t agree with me but I explained anyway, “You could hide it under your costume and also no one would see it from a distance. And really, it would be ok.” “Maybe next year,” she replied. “No, really, will you read my script on the way home tomorrow on the bus? I think you would be great as one of the singing Maidens. And you now we are presenting ‘The Stories of Scheherazade.” “Yes, I know,” she answered. “ I will read it but I can’t promise you anything.”
About twenty minutes later we walked back to her cabin and she showed me a picture of her father on her cell phone.
I gave her a hug and she swayed gently while she cried. The four other girl roommates grew quiet and tried not to stare. I held her as long as I felt she needed but I could have held her all night.
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