..the 300s #002..

Everyday I ride to language class with three other single, American women and George, a 6 foot and many inches tall Sudanese man in his mid-thirties. I met George last summer, when a group of us began picking him up on our way out to the kibbutz where we have class for four hours everyday. Picking him up was always my favorite part of the ride. To be honest, I usually sat in the back of an eight passenger, manual transmission van that had no air conditioning, so pretty much anything could win the award for “best part of the ride”. George is quiet. African quiet. His demeanor is hushed, but his presence is voluminous. I do not know the details of his story, but I do know that he fled Sudan three years ago, after his wife and at least one son had died as a result of the violence in that land. He is not much older than I am, yet his life has been drastically different. I have never wanted for anything. I have never lived in fear. I have never had as much joy as George does. I might be crazy, but I envy him. There is a small pond of goldfish on the kibbutz. I like to go there during breaks and spit in it and watch the fish try to eat it. A trick I learned from my dad. Last week during one of our breaks, George went to the pond with me, and I showed him how to do it. We laughed and laughed at their huge mouths gaping open, ready to devour nothing. He taught me the word for lily pad in his native language and laughed at me when I couldn’t say it right. “It is hard for you. It’s okay.”