So Light She Was Floating
We’ve been playing charades, which is what you do when there is no shared language. Tipping a “c” shaped hand toward your face = are you thirsty? Pointing at a plate of sweets = Eat, eat! Hand rounding out over belly = pregnant. Finger like slash across the neck = killed.
There are some things that are unspeakable, and yet an 11-year old girl can convey them with her hands. With the tilt of her head. With her tongue sticking out of the side of her mouth.
We didn’t need a translation app to understand hand slapping hand = teachers were cruel. Arms clutching air and yanking back and forth = streets were dangerous. And without any hands at all, simply through silence, eyes cast down, head shaking, we understood the subtext: we are fortunate to be here, they–the ones we love–are not so lucky.
Earlier in the week, the son had asked me to take them swimming. When I arrived at their home, they served me coffee and a sweet. A son motioning proudly to his mother, his hands kneading the air = she made this, isn’t she the best? I quickly realized they were dressed for the market, so we made a detour to pick up borrowed swim trunks. A too-tight pair for the father, a too-loose pair for the son. For the daughter, we improvised with a long-sleeved leotard and tights whose feet we cut off. A mother shaking her head = don’t worry about me.
When we got there, we met up with more friends–the man who is spearheading the co-sponsorship and his family. His daughters pulled the girl into their unit, seamlessly morphing from an even number to an odd. They held hands. They jumped up and down. I could not have told you — no one could have — which one of these girls was not like the others.
In the pool we pantomimed, too. An invisible line drawn from pool side to pool side = do not go past this point because you cannot swim. Fingers pinching nose = this is how you go under water when you do not know how to blow bubbles. One man pointing to himself, then to his new friend, raising an eyebrow, then pointing to the other end = race ya!
There were noises that came out of the daughter’s mouth. Beautiful, high pitched noises which I came to recognize as laughter. Her brother thrashed about gasping, yelping, whipping his wet hair back and forth in delight.
At one point, the daughter motioned for me to help her swim on her back. As I gathered her tiny body in my arms, she frantically sat up, nervously laughing. I placed my arm along her knobby spine, supported her head with my shoulder. And just when I thought she was going to break from my arms and stand up, she said in English, “Okay, Okay,” took a deep breath, and lay on her back in the water.
She stared up at the clear blue sky, steadying her breath. It was just for a second, but the cruel people grabbing at her mother on the street for not being covered fully were gone. The pregnant woman and her baby neglected to death by indifferent hospital staff, gone. The teachers with their hateful words and hard strikes for a girl who they somehow viewed as less, gone. The friends and relatives stuck in Syria–yes, even them–gone. They left her, for one small moment, and she was so light she was floating.
This story is part of a work in progress about falling in love with a Syrian refugee family.
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