I Am Okay.

Never before have I been thrust between fear and chaos. It is war here, between what the people believe and what the government wants. What happens if one side wins? Are they automatically right? Or does yet another riot commence because their opinion differs from the rest?

My prior information was not inaccurate, but it did miss some crucial details that were not available to me at the time of writing. Two protests turned into riots yesterday, with people intermingling between each injustice and how they felt at that moment. It was both against the social media ban and governmental corruption. The government, which I have learned through a social media addict, has been pocketing the tax money paid by the citizens, and they have had enough of it. I am not confident this is true, but based on the evidence of Nepal's struggling economy, it has a strong chance of being right. Late today, the Prime Minister stepped down from his position, refusing to solve the issue face to face with his citizens. This is the main point of panic for me, since now what? There is nobody to resume the position, and that would cause anarchy, would it not? Is this a revolution?

The sirens, which have been wailing throughout the day, shall be my midnight lullaby. The Wi-Fi, my sole connection to home and to safety, just in case, is glitching. Oddly enough, I do not feel fear. Deep down, there is a part of me believing these humans have the compassion so many believe they own and that they would not attack a home filled with disabled children. I am optimistic that they do not know where this home is. However, the pessimism everyone knows me so well for pushes those thoughts aside at some points with: "They don't know where the home is. That is more dangerous." Bijata's road to get home was the main attack point. It was so close to my only contact, my closest friend here, and that does scare me. Which direction will they choose to go? How will this night end? How many more people must die before peace, if that ever was, resumes?

In case of lack of belief, cabin fever is most definitely real, and though I may not be affected as strongly as others, I still am, for I am in an unknown country without the means of exploring the places I am only stuck watching from my window. I am merely safe physically, but am on the brink of losing it.

For a few moments this week, the world seemed so simple, and I have been witnessing and appreciating that. As cliché as that is, it proves that most clichés ring true, for here I sit in a country opposite my own—hot, financially stricken, brutal, corrupt—where there is beauty in people, mountains, houses, and buildings. I should be sightseeing and shopping, but instead, I am on a mat these kids I met a week ago dragged out for me on the floor, consistently winning Uno. It is Uno Flip, where there are two versions of the game, and you play one until a flip card is played, at which point you play the other version. One of the kids cannot comprehend this and doesn't organize his cards properly. This leads to comedic actions, which ultimately end in the most genuine children's laughter, rolling on the floor, bright red faces. If nothing else, it is a safe space mentally. I have finally grown a connection with these kids, finally faced the language barrier with nothing but my wits about me. I am sarcastic, I am understanding, and my original description of the kid with the kidney failure is the class clown and my new best friend (here).

And for a minute, the world seems so simple.

I wake each morning later than I had the previous week, for there is nothing to wake for, and I do at times dread having to spend every hour of every day this week playing these prison games with the prisoners who are in need of superior (and if not superior, then new) hobbies. Every morning is the same. I sit staring out the window at the brick wall as I eat my daily meal of two hard-boiled eggs and ponder the surrealism of this life today.

Night itself changes. Perhaps I will sleep through it, ignoring the world on fire, or perhaps I wake at three, four in the morning, in the middle of a blackout, therefore the loss of my white noise, and panic to the noises surrounding me, overthinking I am going to die. Lucky me, I never did.

However, each day is something new. On our first day together, I was getting the hang of Chess, Uno, and Ping Pong, winning at most. The kids were in high spirits, excited to be out of school, either completely oblivious or apathetic as to why. The day ended with a group of kids I call "the cool kids," not because of their stature, age, clothing, or jokes, but because they reminded me of myself when I was younger, at camps, in school. There was always this one group I was never a part of that would joke with the adult (volunteer, teacher, camp counselor, be what it may) and befriend them and genuinely create a human experience with them, and I was now that adult. I was now the person people wanted to be with, and the feeling was reciprocated. I was a part of that group that I yearned for so long; I was the reason for it. They all semi-circled me and gave me Nepali phrases to repeat back, and after they translated them for me. All I learned from this is I feel so much more sympathetic towards each of these kids, for I have completely forgotten the difficulties of the fundamentals of learning a language and must have left my memory on the plane, because I caught nothing but "Didi?" "Azure."

The next day calmed the kids, for they were worn down, chose to watch T.V. instead of play, and I was quite grateful for that. I conversed with Ipsha many times throughout the day, and Suhanna, the little sweetheart, and I became close friends. She followed me, and I followed her, offering to braid her hair, to play pattycake and another clapping game only she knew, to watch the smoke rise from the government buildings. She babbled on in her language; I would only ever pick up "mame," but we were once again in the same headspace, thinking the same thoughts. Later, I chose to sit in the kitchen with my bilingual friend, the first girl to call me (and still does) sister. She and the younger boy who requests Ping Pong were making what was called Egg Roti, which was an egg-based bread. It was fascinating to watch as she mixed it, knowing what to do, how much to add, the consistency it needed to be, all on her own with her memory. I sat on the floor with her as she cooked them over a little gas stove and do still regret not trying when she offered.

I was asked by Bijata to try and teach her daughter, and by teach I mean help her with her homework. Dad, I am so sorry I was always upset with you when trying to teach me math... it is impossible. That and science. And English as a second language. And giving her more homework that she needs to do on her own. I struggled, but we finished. I questioned everything after just one break. Suhanna's tooth had fallen out the next day, around noon, and she was walking around with her friend in pigtails showing it off to everyone. My Paddington book had exited my room, as well, and Asmita, a new friend of mine, was reading it out loud with my help in the kitchen. It was a quaint, yet cherished moment. This was after Tashi, the bilingual aide the kids call uncle, had brought me the pizza Bijata had asked him to get me. I had never been more grateful for chicken pizza on naan bread at eleven in the morning. Later, the kids had received (finally) new birdies (which, I do now understand why North America says "birdies" and not "cocks" after a couple of hours of the latter) after a show of wanting one by trying to play with a hacky-sack. That reminded me of my childlike wonder and how I'd try everything to play something I wanted to. We were out in the street, just smacking the birdie around, taking turns if someone had called out. I learned, unfortunately much later, that they all just wanted a turn against me, for they would yell at my opponent if it had been a foul or if they were out, but if the same thing happened to me, it would be dead quiet and I would walk myself off the make-believe court.

That Friday, I was surprised by kind Bijata inviting me to her home for the entire weekend and telling me the world was letting up. I needed a break, so I took her offer, driving off into the sunrise to the SDSS where there were perhaps 5 workers and the patients who lived there. Passing the hall to Bijata's office, my eye fell on a very young girl, perhaps five. Her hands and arms were bandaged up to the bicep, and her poor head was covered in a bandana to mimic the protection her singed hair couldn't provide. It looked as though she had just walked through fire. I consistently asked Bijata if there were any new patients, new kids, and she denied it, more than likely due to a lack of comprehension, but my mind continued to race as my eyes rested on that little girl. All I could believe was that she survived humanity's cruelties that she knew nothing of and would have had absolutely no part in. She was evidence of everything, but I didn't know if that was true. She was, however, kind and childlike and didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary about her appearance or pain or anything. Unfortunately, I feared for her future, when opinions matter, looks can kill, and she will understand the basics of a mirror. I hope her confidence sticks. Bijata and I, after breakfast, passed one of my students, Sumita, and Bijata stopped to ask in their mutual language if she would like me to teach her. Sumita never hesitated to say yes to this, so I was the sole teacher to these five/six kids.

Truth be told, I work better when alone. I decided to attempt asking them what they wanted to learn, merely collecting blank, confused stares like trading cards. Sumita, in her own world as per usual, proceeded to read and spell the months of the year, which gave me my first idea. I taught them hangman for months, colors, and parts of the body. I realized as I was drawing the gallows that perhaps in this political epidemic that Nepal is enduring, with all of the deaths, such things should not be promoted and that this is not an intelligent teaching idea... lucky me they hardly understood the rules, much less the concept. But it continued to bother me, so I moved on to emotions. I taught happy, sad, angry, excited, fine/ok, tired, and scared. I taught them how to use it in a sentence (how are you feeling today?), I taught them associations of everyday life with the words (I wrote out examples on a sheet of paper My friend stole my food, I am feeling..., gave each kid a paper and asked how they were feeling. They understood completely in the third round), sentence structures with aforesaid words (I won the game! I feel _______) and told, more so than taught, them that emotions were viable and you do not need to know how you are feeling all the time. I had them write it in their books. I hope someday they remember the strange girl who made them write that when they're teaching their families the same.

Late that Friday, I had lost choice entirely. Before anything, driving to Bijata's was uncomfortable and freaky. I had finally been able to see the roads, army men with guns the same height as them, standing in twos on every other road, and the busiest road in Kathmandu shut down. We needed to stop for a man before driving on, to tell him where we were going. My heart pounded, and I am sure my eyes were larger than I wanted them to appear, for I was white, and I feared they would ask my identity. It terrified me to stick out of this crowd. I have begun, this week especially, to feel a different sympathy for others in my position in the country I call home. I'd later, after laughs and dances and stories being told, was called. I was informed I was to go home. On my own. Three flights. Back to Canada. It was unsafe where I was. It was devastating, the news itself, but more so, for a prime minister had been instated seconds before my call. I couldn't comprehend why they were taking me, for I genuinely believed that nothing was happening because it had gone by unnoticed by me. But they feared the same thing I did. Feared the public was merely awaiting a target in order to overthrow the government. Fearful of the military all over and new command. Fearful towards my death. I cried. I felt it insincere and unjust and poorly thought out. I thought them too cautious, and I have learned that caution leads to so many missed opportunities. This trip was plotted into my future; I could not bear the thought of losing it, for I knew not what I was to do with my life past this point, had I gone home. I worried for the connections I made as well. I had the unsubstantiated fear of war and how these kids had already suffered some form of traumatic event in their lives; they did not deserve to go through another. And if they died? If Bijata and her family were affected? I had already sympathized greatly with the families who endured the losses this false anarchy has caused because I understood the pain. I feared I would have to understand it again. That night, I slept in the same room as Bijata and her kids, who sleep with her due to their chronic separation anxiety caused by the loss of their father. I understand. It's terrifying to live afterwards; anyone and everyone could leave you. It was comforting. Strange at first, but we bonded. I'd become a large part of their family; I felt seen and loved, both necessary in a time where I grieve my lonely future. I love them as my own, and they love me just the same.

The next day felt like a day of mourning. We went for a hike and baked, and I was in no mood to continue. I believed, why do so? Why connect more if it's going to change nothing? I am quite fortunate for the connection I gave into, however. It was with Goma. Sweet, knows-perhaps-5-English-words-but-tries-her-hardest Goma. We sat on the couch, both mourning, mine feeling especially selfish, for she felt ready to cry with me. To tell me she understood. And that she missed her son. I knew not what to do. I was awestruck. I wanted to cry alongside her, but this was her moment. You can't take that from people. 

It is both beautiful and wounding how grief can translate itself.

In the end, I stay. In the end, the curfew has been lifted. In the end, everyone knows, once again, solely normalcy. I do not believe it was God who helped us through it like my surroundings tell me, for why would He place you in such a position to begin with just to help you out of it once again? I digress. I am happy. I am thankful for these children and their laughter, Uno being the main source of it. Thankful for Bijata and her family for just sitting with me in my time of need and feeling comfortable enough to reciprocate it. Bijata had called me her sister. I believe her, for she is mine.

There is no one lesson to be pulled from such a piece, so I urge you to dig and find them all. Life is about bumps and starts and stops, and even if it consistently feels like it does not want you to steer straight on the same path, sometimes it does, and other times, it loves never being right.

Thank you to all the people who told me it would work out. I never believed you, but you were right.

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Photos Taken by Myself and My Kids