'What do the rocks know?': Bus Number 2 to Langland Bay
A reflection on being a woman, an asylum seeker – and a free spirit
As a woman, I had a vague memory of having an identity in Tabrobana, not inside the house of course, but definitely outside. As a teacher I could dominate the realm of students. But that’s gone now.
Power is fascinating. And I think it is too bad I wasn’t born a man so I could feel it in every life situation. Even though that man has the right to be depressed, to play the victim, he still has power over me. I, a woman naturally adaptable and enduring, can go insane eventually, but I can’t give up. I have no power over myself or anybody. And I have two daughters.
I take my phone from my bag to message Tom. He is the reason I went to the drop-in. He is a former lecturer and I thought he might be able to help me sort out the problem of my identity. Good that Tom volunteers at Swansea Asylum Seekers Support; even better that they reimburse the bus money.
Number 2 bus comes to Platform W.
Walking forty minutes to the town from Plasmarl and helping them clean and rearrange the hall after the drop-in is fine as long as they give me £4.70 for the bus. Similarly, the Oxfam bookshop. I volunteer there for two days per week. It means £1.50 for a Greggs coffee, four sugar-sprinkled donuts or chips for my girls and a journey to Langland Bay.
These are my precious expenses which I never need to beg my husband to cover from the house money. His money is for essentials. My needs are not what he calls essential – but it is essential for me to reassure myself that I am alive, and stay alive.
Unlike the buses in my country, the buses here often have many empty seats. I always like to sit on a special seat, one before the last. And I always sit on the side from which I can see the beach through the window. As the bus starts its journey I take my phone out. I see my reflection in the glass of the phone: cracked lips, uncombed hair and my bushy eyebrows. Who wouldn’t guess that I live on money handed out for doing nothing. In a world where appearance counts for so much more than words, who couldn’t see that I am an asylum seeker?
No wonder nobody returns my smiles. I glance down at my jacket, which is at least two sizes too big for me. I don’t know to whom it belonged before it appeared in the bag of clothes given to us by George. But I’m glad I could afford to buy new coats for my girls. What else could a mother want more than the happiness of her children and their comfort? I am 34 and that is old – so I shouldn’t bother about my appearance. Moreover, I have a husband.
‘But you still have a life…’ The other me sometimes screams in my head. I always ignore her. Shut up bitch – no time to live. Survive! I mutter to myself while texting Tom. Why survive? Because Buddhists can’t commit suicide. If so I go straight to hell. From this hell to another as bad? Not very wise.
‘Dear Sir, I still didn’t receive an Asylum Registration card. Without it I won’t be able to get the Postgraduate Sanctuary Scholarship.’ And his response: ‘The Swansea University Scholarship application process is highly competitive. They offer only one scholarship.’ I reply: ‘Don’t worry about that Sir – I am the one who will get it. All I need is a way to contact the Home Office and get my ARC as I need some sort of Identity.’ He replies ‘We’ll contact the MP and see what can be…’
I don’t have a time to read the rest as I have to get off the bus. From Langland Corner I have to walk for ten to fifteen minutes to reach the beach. As I walk a woman in her mid fifties, wearing a worn green check coat, comes towards me holding the lead of a cute Pomeranian puppy. The puppy bounces near me and starts to sniff. She pulls him quickly towards her and says ‘sorry’ in a sniffy tone which I hear clearly as ‘Stay away from us. You don’t belong here.’
Strangely I always felt the same when I was with my own people. I never belonged with them either. Life was always a quest for me. In a country like mine, it’s very risky for a woman to be born with intelligence and a desire to be liberal. I always took the liberty to follow my heart, to run like a wounded wild boar until I found success, or what I defined as success. I wasn’t scared of riding a motorbike at 100kph or driving a car for that matter. My mood led my fashion choices. I was a free spirit. I didn’t enjoy the company of women who knew everything about their next-door neighbours but knew nothing about Carol Ann Duffy or Emily Dickinson.
I preferred the company of men. They were straight, they knew amazing things about vehicles, electronics and about surfing the internet. My mother was terrified to see the kind of woman I was going to be. So was my father.
The wind is pushing me backward, but I am determined to go forward. The common gorse bushes are in full bloom on both sides of the serpentine cliff path stretching from Langland Bay to my favourite bench at Caswell. The gorse spreads a light scent of pine and coconut. The path gets steeper and steeper and I take deep breaths. With each the aroma grows stronger.
These bright yellow flowers remind me of the early mornings when I was young. In many parts of the country the monks wear orange robes. But in my village temple they wear yellow. Every Poya day, around twenty monks used to come at dawn to collect food from the village for their breakfast. They walked from their monastery in the hills and kept their eyes lowered to the ground. Carrying a plate-like pot, they receive food offered as alms by the villagers. They would appear as a slow-flowing yellow river, descending from the misty green mountains in the distance. Their quiet unhurried gait walked a peaceful beauty through my youth. Today, there are not even any skeletons of Buddhism in my country. Only the yellow robes are left.
I sigh and yet again warn myself against overthinking. For here I am, in my favourite place of all. A bench to sit on top of a mountain, looking at a larger picture of the world. An undisturbed world of my own. The continuous sound of waves, the stillness of cold, the moment of emptiness.
Sitting on this bench, I watch the waves struggle to smash enormous rocks as if they could drag them a little closer towards the shore. I feel self-pity wash over me. Once, I too had been like those rocks, guarding everything or everyone – valuable or without value – behind me. I endured every lash of destiny, challenging every wave which came my way to do what it could to wash me away.
And in a split second my whole existence has dissolved. I have become a useless wave, first bubbly, then still, mocked by now-towering rocks. I grasp for my old self. I, a woman naturally adaptable and enduring, can go insane eventually, but I can’t give up. I have no power over myself or anybody. And I have two daughters.
After all, what do the rocks know? Even the gentlest wave, with enough patience and a million tiny strikes, can one day wear down the mightiest stone.
The author of this article wishes to be known as Max.