Language
My strongest memory of being a child was feeling helpless at not having a language, or not enough of it. It’s still something that makes me anxious. It’s not just me; every time I see a child, stuck in a situation they are not particularly enjoying, my focus automatically goes to their language, the absence of language.
I often see their faces turning red to blue to purple to pale again as they struggle to find words to describe what they are feeling until, eventually, they give up. They always give up. And by then they are glassy eyed and looking directly at me with hope and hopelessness in equal parts. I say “glassy” because language has been very central. I would have said “teary eyed” had they not said glassy when they did, forever adding this word to my vocabulary – a word I find so annoying that it surprises me every time I use it. My surprise always turns into a smile, which if you know me, is rare. What an ass!
My mom now tells me I am lucky to have six kids at once. I always pretend to be annoyed and tell her these are not my kids. When she’s not around, I hear myself saying, My kids, my babies. To them I say, “Kitna pyara bacha hai mera!”
These kids, although always following the pattern I just described, still teach me so much about language, with their limited, very limited, vocabulary.
I see Zirrum sitting at her desk, staring at an empty wall. All the kids are outside, she still sits there alone. “Teacher,” she sings like they always do, they can never pronounce the word like it is supposed to be. I am starting to think it is supposed be pronounced the way they pronounce it, singing this single disyllabic word, like a song, like a poem.
“Yes Zirrum?”
“I am thinking my life wouldn’t be like this if I didn’t have this family. I celebrated my birthday all day long today and when I go home, they will celebrate with me again.”
I look at my little girl, her floor length princess costume, her little crown and pearl necklace – I tear up; my baby has said something my twenty-something friends might not be able to articulate.
I practice counting with Ayra before the others arrive – she started coming early to school to be able to sit at her favorite desk. Usually she is quiet, only nodding when I explain something or make corrections. She walks up to me today and smiles. “Yes Ayra?” She does not know the early morning extra class has ended and it’s officially the first lesson and everyone has arrived. “Can I keep counting my color pencils? It’s fun.” I look around and everyone is taking out their English workbooks. “Okay,” I say hesitantly. She hops back to her seat, excited. I have never been more reassured about my teaching. Never expected it to be Math, I giggle to myself.
I don’t like lying; my high school head teacher’s last note in my journal reads, “You are the MOST honest person I have met in my entire life.” But lying is a big part of this job. I often tell my kids that they are old enough, responsible enough, to be doing this, to be doing that, while I whisper to myself, I am so sorry. All of them fall for it. But one day my autistic child, my dear Abdullah looks at me. He’s frustrated, and he says, “Teacher I am grown up but I am not an adult.” I am so proud of you Abdullah! I am so incredibly proud of you!
I see Ayesha sitting at her desk, drawing a doll or a house or something else. Ebad walks in and she says innocently, “Hey Anaya came in to drink water from your bottle!” Ebad doesn’t say anything. He looks at Ayesha then looks at his bottle and stomps out. “I guess I wasn’t supposed to say that,” Ayesha says to nobody. I look up from my laptop and laugh. Ayesha laughs too.
Ayesha takes out a gift for Zirrum from her bag, then takes out another then another. I see Zirrum jump with joy, her face turning red, she is completely overwhelmed. She jumps to take Ayesha in a hug, squeezing her tightly as she says, now out of her breath, “I am so sorry I couldn’t hold it in anymore.”
We sit outside while I teach my students about the weather and they write down their observations about the rain, about the sun, about everything around them. Hareem, usually the quietest in my class, gets up to speak. “I am having so much fun!” After a couple more sentences, she says, “Teacher.” She pauses. “Thank you.” In moments like these Ayesha says, “I love you!” Not confidently, never confidently. She does it while looking away, avoiding eye contact, the words barely audible. However she’s said it, she’s said it nonetheless. She reminds me how important it is for us to say, no matter how scared and embarrassed we might be feeling.
Abdullah gets up with his bag and starts to walk towards the door. I catch him, hold him by the shoulders and ask if he is okay.
“I wanna leave the school. This is the worst school. I have no friends!”
“I am your friend,” I tell him.
“No!” he answers, the ‘no’ wavering in his voice. “I don’t wanna be friends with teachers; when they leave, they treat me even worse.”
Ebad, who looks like a little bully on a usual day, leads a birthday dance with Abdullah on his birthday, adding, “Teacher, can we do something special for Abdullah today? I think we should be friends with him.”
I stare at him, speechless.
On the topic of siblings, Zirrum walks up to me and tells me, “My brother died because he cried a little late.”
I freeze. It is important to cry. It is essential. To cry just when you need to, not even a little late. He hasn’t cried, it hits me.
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– Amama Bashir is an aspiring Kashmiri writer. She has majored in literature and is working towards earning a doctorate in English literature. As she puts it, her thoughts, observations, and emotions make more sense on paper and over the years she has tried to perfect the art of thinking on paper. Her work has been published in various literary magazines. She is currently compiling her parents’ experiences as muhajirs in writing.
– Fatima Shah is a Karachi-based visual artist and printmaker. She holds a BFA in Printmaking from the National College of Arts, Lahore. Her artwork focuses on drawings in both digital and traditional mediums, as well as print. She was a part of the ‘Rework Reuse Reconsider,’ a collaborative printmaking project between Morley College, London and NCA, Lahore which was exhibited at the Zahoor-Ul-Akhlaq Gallery. Her work has also been featured in group shows including ‘Yahan Se Aagay’ at Artnext Gallery and ‘Recent II’ at Tagh’eer in Lahore. In March 2024, she co-curated a pop-up art event, ‘Ladies First,’ at Kayal engaging Karachi’s local community. Fatima is also part of the creative team at the Citizens Archive of Pakistan.
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