Lost in Translation

Karim watched the whiteboard, a vast, white desert where strange symbols danced like mirages. Mr. Davies’ voice rumbled, a distant thunder that carried no meaning. The sounds swirled around Karim, a confusing storm of English words he couldn’t catch, couldn’t hold onto. He saw the other children’s mouths move, their eyes bright and quick, and then a ripple of giggles would spread, often followed by a pointed finger. He knew, with a sinking certainty, that the finger was for him. He curled deeper into his seat, the rough fabric of his trousers a familiar, scratchy comfort against his skin. He wished he could disappear, melt into the chipped blue paint of the desk, become as invisible as he felt.

He clutched his worn notebook, its pages filled with the vibrant colours of his homeland. He’d drawn a hawk soaring over sun-baked mountains, its wings spread wide against an endless sky. He’d wanted to show it to someone, to share the feeling of freedom it represented. But the words caught in his throat, a tangled knot of fear and shyness. When Mr. Davies had asked a question, a question that sounded like a warm invitation, Karim had simply stared. The other children had turned, their faces a mixture of curiosity and something else, something that made his stomach twist. He’d seen a girl with bright red hair whisper to her neighbour, and the giggles had erupted. Karim had felt a hot blush creep up his neck. He was a stranger in a strange land, and his own voice seemed to have been left behind with his suitcase.

Lunchtime offered no respite. The cafeteria was a roaring ocean of noise, a cacophony of clattering trays and boisterous shouts. Karim sat alone, picking at a sandwich that tasted like cardboard. He watched the other children in groups, their laughter a sharp contrast to his own silence. He saw a boy with a missing front tooth share a secret with his friend, their heads bent close together. He saw a girl with pigtails offer a bite of her apple to another. These small acts of sharing, of connection, felt like a language Karim hadn’t yet learned. He traced the outline of his water bottle, the cool plastic a small anchor in the swirling chaos. He missed the familiar scent of his mother’s cooking, the comforting rhythm of his old street, the easy smiles of his cousins. Here, every interaction felt like a tightrope walk, and he was afraid of falling.