I felt the tingles at the soles of my feet as I walked through the massive metal gates that shielded the school from the public eye. Far ahead stood the strong brick and mortar. The brown and white coats of paint attracted the rays of the morning sun. Three buildings merged into one. Each contained four floors with long narrow balconies. A magnificent building on a dramatic landscale.

I had lost my mother four weeks before my application to this school. For the very first time in my life, I felt completely alone. My father had died suddenly of an undiagnosed coronary heart disease four years before the road accident that led to my mother’s abrupt ending. The shock of her death shook my very existence. I became an orphan unexpectedly and I didn’t know how to move on. The first few weeks after her death were particularly difficult. I was lost and lonely and I missed her in manners words couldn’t explain. Two decades after her demise, I still do.

The Pain Of Loss

Not only that I lost my mother, but I also lost the only person who had fed and provided for me from the get-go. Time stood still after her death, each new day brought its misery and agony. About two weeks after her death, we received the news of the court’s final proceeding on the piece of land our little room was built.

There had been a dispute on the plot of land our tiny room stood. In all honesty, the case had been in court for a few years, but the final preceding hit below the belt. The verdict was an immediate eviction. This was a dire need situation for us; my siblings and me. The little room was all I knew, it was a dwelling we grew to appreciate, value and envision the future.

Not long after the eviction notice, our neighbours began packing: in readiness for their new chapters. We looked on as everyone shared the news of their next abode. We had nothing to share.

The realisation crept in: a fresh graduate with no experience, no parent and no job on offer, hopeless and helpless! My siblings and I were at the bricks of losing the only place we called home and I had no money, strength or power to make any change. With no particular plan in place, every advice became something to hold on to. Amid the emptiness, sadness and confusion, a friend urged me to put in an application in a school not too far away. I did.

In The Wake Of Things

I wasn’t sure of what to expect when I knocked on the door with the inscription of RECEPTION on it. An elderly man with thick-framed glasses and a white clean-cut beard summoned me in. He adjusted his thick glasses while he read the application letter I handed to him. He paused, raised his head and glanced at me from head to toe; then gestured to a seat at the sharp corner of his large office. Another man who sat behind looked on as I shuffled past.

From the elderly man’s eyes, I grasped the words he didn’t utter and I knew what he was thinking. The stares and glances had become a second nature. I understood the tone they danced to. I was clad in full Islamic clothing: a maxi dress and a hijab to complete the look. To his programmed brain, my dressing didn’t conform with official dress code . He wasn’t the first to scream with his roaming eyes, he wasn’t the first to question my choice of clothing.

However, he comported himself soon after to explained the process of the interview. The interviewer would only be available after the morning assembly. The only problem was I only intended to drop my application letter, I wasn’t ready for an interview!

Our Views

The silence in the office grew while I waited. I fixated my eyes on the television set in the reception to while away the draggy morning. The television stood on a piece of furniture placed in a corner central to all views. I watched as the news aired the latest investigation on 9/11. This was a few weeks after the world trade centre deadly attack, in 2001. After a while, the elderly man notioned to the other man in the office, he then made a comment which I responded to.

Something about my response took him by surprise and changed his perception of me. From that point on, the air in the large reception became warmer. Our discussion touched various topics; from 9/11 to the world at large. In contrast to how we started, a topic I had knowledge of was touched upon and I had the opportunity to educate the elderly men in the office on the world view.

The Staged Interview

As we discussed, a staff member walked in. Mr M was the interviewer. As I expected, Mr M gazed at me and asked me to follow him to the interview room. Mr M ran up the stairs and I ran after him. The interview room was between rolls of classrooms on the second floor of the building. It contained a wooden table and two chairs. I sat down on one of the wooden chairs with my heart pumping against my rib cage; struggling to regulate my breathing.

Mr M took another look at me and asked, “Can you define an Adjective?’ I took a deep breath and then answered. It was difficult to read the expression on his face, but I could sense dark clouds hanging around him. The interview was over in less than ten minutes.

I walked out of the interview room onto the long passage leading to one of the stairways. As I climbed down the winding staircase, I contemplated going to the reception to say my farewell to the elderly man before leaving the premises. I did. The elderly man asked how the interview went and I told him it wasn’t an interview, it was more of definition and spelling test.

At that point, the man shook his head and sat on his reclining office chair. With a frown forming above his thick glasses he said; ” I was informed you performed very poorly during the interview. But something told me the person I discussed with earlier wouldn’t fail an interview. Are you willing to sit for an interview, do you have another hour to spare?”

A Job On A Platter Of Silver

Things happened so quickly. I sat for yet another interview chaired by a senior member of staff and passed. My employment began the week after the eventful interview. The elderly man was officially introduced as the proprietor of the school. Mr M left the school just before I resumed and I went on to become the Head of the Language Department.

I formed a strong bond with the proprietor. He had beautiful life lessons to share. My dress code didn’t matter to him after he discovered the person behind my misinterpreted facade. The job became a mantle I needed to surge forward at lowest point of my life.

This story came into play many times in my life. Times when I feel lost and invisible. It gives me hope in humanity, hope in what I represent and hope in the Divine Love.

…And do not lose hope in the mercy of Allah, for no one loses hope in Allah’s mercy except those with no faith

Quran 12:87