cross culture life, teaching, writing
I knew a boy
he dreamed to fly
Staring at stars and counting clouds,
the sky his ocean,
he dreamed to fly
He breathed the air,
filled his lungs with hope
he spread his hands to catch the breeze
he dreamed to fly
I knew a boy
he would not jump
he would not brave the wind
he feared to fail,
And so he did not risk the sky
he dreamed
to fly
Going to a barber in Jhik is so much more than simply getting your hair cut. You step into the one room shop, off the road and instantly you are in a different world. Here, time means nothing; there is no clock, no bells and no people to tell you where you need to be. Nothing calls you elsewhere and within minutes you forget about time altogether.
The birds chirp outside and smells of shaving cream and other toiletries float around the room. The barber continues talking with the others in the room, laughing and exchanging jokes. You feel a part of their world, listening to them talk and argue with each other of politics or local happenings. However, at the same time you are detached. The dialogue goes on without you and there is no need to speak or to carry on a conversation. Sitting in the chair as your hair is being cut, you feel at ease, listening to them, without speaking—simply enjoying the scene around you.
Even the physical act of the hair cutting is relaxing and almost therapeutic. The gentle clicking of the scissors and manipulation of the hair almost lulls you to sleep as you sit back, closing your eyes and simply enjoying the experience. The spray of the water sprinkles your head before being rubbed into your hair, dripping down your head. Even the razor tickles as it is edged along the back of your neck and around the ears.
When all is done, the barber takes out a towel and rigorously ruffles your hair as, for a moment you seem lost amidst the towel. He then follows up with a head massage, rubbing deep into the scalp and with hard but controlled blows. Knocking your head around, he finishes with a hard squeeze of the muscles in the back of your neck to leave you with a tingling sensation. This whole experience leaves you almost senseless; relaxed and dazed.
You manage to lift yourself out of the chair and onto the bench where others await their haircuts and beard-trims before being given a steaming cup of tea. For a few minutes you sit there, drinking the tea, hot and sweet which runs down your throat and stimulates your relaxed and contented brain. Then you pay the charge, shake the barber’s hand, and step back out into the street; back into a world of time, movement, work and business. And like one who wakes up from a good dream, you trod along the road back home, nostalgic with a happy smile spread across your face.
I was drinking tea during our morning break time at school when I heard the news: Osama bin Laden was shot dead in Abottabad the night before. It hit me quite hard, and yet not in a way that I would have expected.
After ten years since the 9/11 attacks in the United States, it seemed ‘about time’ that the US military would finally find Osama bin Laden. But, at the news of his death, I felt as if I had lost a friend. Of course, not a friend in the sense that I knew him; I had know of him, and I felt we had something in common—something we shared.
I had followed his actions and movements in the news over the years, I lived in the same country as he did for some time and I knew people who held the same faith as he did. He was close enough to me, that had I taken a car, it would have been only a few hours before I arrived on his doorstep. He was someone I would have liked to have spoken to—to have had a chance at understanding his mind, what drove him and what he believed. He seemed to me a veteran of the War on Terror, a leader to be revered and feared. Perhaps it was only because of the archaic ideals of honouring one’s enemy that I felt this way. But whatever the reason, I felt I had shared the same earth as he did for some time, and lived under the same blue sky—we seemed to have something in common.
When I heard the news, I wasn’t quite sure how to react. How many people feel remorse over the loss of a hunted terrorist? How many people refrained from cheers and laughter? Perhaps it is a feeling that should be shared by more, or perhaps it was simply the silly feelings of a young idealist. At any rate, I feel sorry to have lost someone with whom I shared this world.
Red the rose,
And red the lips,
Red the painted
Fingertips.
Red the heart
That shed the blood,
Dead for man,
And bled for love.
Red the soul,
And fled the Dark,
Lead the weight,
And red the mark.
Red the Lamb
Who bled for man,
Red the blood
When hope began.
Red
A king is born,
A saviour strong,
To free the world
From suffering long.
They went to see
This mighty Lord,
With glorious throne,
And lethal sword.
Yet they found not,
A ruler great,
But saw instead,
A stable gate.
A stench-filled room,
A manger slight,
A newborn child,
That silent night.
No sword he bore,
No crown of gold,
A baby small,
Against the cold.
A servant’s heart,
The Prince of Peace,
A newborn Lamb
With spotless fleece.
For unto us
A child is born,
A helpless babe,
From heaven torn.