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WELLBEING, FREE LEARNING, PARTNERSHIPS & PUPIL-LED PROJECTS
then disappeared. Only to return with a greasy paper bag, full of falafel, a cold can and the laces. Enough to feed my belly, slake my thirst, and bind my resolve. A kindness given; a memory of a mother; a pulling at my heartstrings. The boat bobs towards shore, the coastline of a city borne with chalk,
A violinist in the sunstruck Stephansplatz was playing Strauss – a waltz you would dance to. My heart wept. I found a bench; sat; lost myself in the sweeping chords. And then I heard my phone buzzing (last charged in the Wien Hauptbahnhof toilets). It was you. You told
me you were safe. You told me to keep the faith. Johann Strauss. And you.
ruins romanticised, historicised, eternalised and more. Will they remember home? (You remember home.) The waters darker than night, you imagine the horrors of falling in, the terror of being forgotten. Closer and closer, Athens crawls into sight. (Oh, what has been seen you wish were unseen?) You see the cracks in the temple, fallen towers, the lights; it reminds you of the night-stealing bombings, of soldiers rushing by, preaching what they think is right. You remember the brick you held of what was left of a home, and believed the crumbling of the world would follow. You pick up a fallen piece of chalk, fallen from the cliffside. (Keep it.) Perhaps the marble of the city will wear down, the rumblings of the city subside. Wearily, wearily, the boat touches sand. A boat containing 300 migrants capsized off the coast of Athens this morning with a growing influx of arrivals from Syria. Calls are growing for Frontex to implement harsher practices to mitigate the crisis.
“I saw another today. At the station.” “Did they ask for money?” “Not from me at least. Good luck to them though. Tough time … raining tonight as well.
Best they find somewhere to stay.” “Yes, I’m sure someone will help.”
You came to me in Paris, from the streets of the suburbs, or the banlieue , as you called it. You shared a face like mine, plastered with invisible scars from journeys afar, and your eyes saw me without that glimmer of distrust which marked the brief glows of passers-by. You seemed kinder, more compassionate to those whose lives had suffered from compassionless people in the past. You made it clear that you were out of place. You too were torn from your home and eventually drifted to this city, with the brilliant Tour Eiffel that towered now in the distance, behind the closing curtains of night. We sat then, and talked for a while – we talked and talked. From South Sudan, you had come, years ago, years ago, and still you remained alone. Your family had never come. You stayed there, you needed to. But Paris had never been your liberation. You laughed, and, seeing my longing eyes set on the centre of the capital, passed me a handful of euros to see me on my way.
The borders seem to have dissolved by now, the trees bounding into Serbia. The woman next to you told you this country was like ours two decades ago. (It seems not so.) You wonder if the world
Je suis là. J’ai un rendez-vous a l’OFPRA. Bisous. Je t’attends. In Notre Dame, I lit a candle. Your robes were as blue as an Aleppo spring sky. Your hands
would do the same to history, the things it did to your family. Killed and left forgotten. (You will remember.) The countries in Europe blend together in beige, the stained glass cathedrals look the same and slowly fade. You barely notice when the train pulls into Germany.
were joined and I knew I was safe. Outside, rain thundered.
When I left, a flock of pigeons fluttered skywards.
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