Bird-Watching

On the mornings I wake up early enough, there's a large tree outside my window by which I can sit, drink tea, and yes, bird watch. Bird watching is not really a favorite past time of mine. But here, it’s such a rarity, that I find myself riveted whenever I see a bird that isn't a crow. In my tree their are those with bright green feathers and orange beaks that look as if they belong in the Amazon, smaller ones with jet black coloring offset by a streak of white or red, tiny brown puff balls with loud twittering voices, yellow ones, blue ones, an amazing menagerie. The crows are still there too-- darting in and out of the trees, picking on the smaller birds, and fighting amongst themselves. But for a few brief moments at the start of each day, they no longer seem to dominate the sky.

There are fourteen students in my new class (which focuses on reading comprehension and writing skills) and it’s a diverse group. Women from Cambodia, Sri Lanka, Pakistan and of course Bangladesh. In the last couple of weeks we read Letter from Birmingham Jail and an excerpt from Tim O'Brien's The Things They Carried. Listening to the girls debate the merits of passive resistance and compare the Civil Rights Movement to struggles in their own countries gave me goosebumps. Next week we're starting To Kill a Mockingbird and I can barely contain my inner literature nerd. This class has rapidly become my favorite part of each week.

And then there's Maya*, a Nepali student I had in my TA class last term. She's bright and extraordinarily thoughtful. She reminds me a lot of my former Namibian student, Jeneth. Both seem to have an overdeveloped sense of empathy, an innate kindness and instead of being suspicious about the constant onslaught of things that are new and different, they are open and curious.

Every Thursday afternoon Maya and I meet to discuss a book we're reading. But more often than not the conversation devolves into stories from her old life in Nepal, how she's been altered by school, how difficult it is to go back, and how wonderful but overwhelming her changing sense of the world is. She asked me whether I had ever felt shaken by all this new and contradicting knowledge. She asked me how I had figured it all out. Initially I laughed, but as I began to reply I had to work very hard to hide my sadness. I had seen that look she had on her face, that need for someone "older and wiser" to tell her that the years ahead will be easier, that the answers are forthcoming with age, that the uncertainty she feels will dissipate with the passing decades. I'm pretty sure I looked at my teachers like that. I'm pretty sure I still do.

Education matters. Obviously I believe in its power and in the overall good that learning offers. But I've realized, at least here, it's just not that simple. Sometimes I marvel at what we've done, setting this course into motion for these girls. We tell them the world is theirs if they want it, if they study and try. The University broadens their lives, just like college did for most of us. The difference is none of us had to return home to the mountains of Afghanistan or a rural village in Bangladesh. None of us had to exist as a bright green bird amongst an army of crows. That takes a kind of sustained courage I'll never know.

In the evening the tree outside my window is empty so I watch the rooftop next door instead. Some nights I watch a young boy trying to wheel his bicycle around the small space, dodging bathers and those attending to the plants. He doesn’t really see the others. He’s in a wide green field. He’s racing along the banks of a river. He’s somewhere without containment because he can dream himself there.

Other nights I watch two little girls hang laundry. When they think no one is looking they toss a pebble into the air and hopscotch across imaginary squares. My window is cracked and I can hear their laughter, half uncertain of, half delighted in this secret joy.

*name changed