He tells me about his life. He speaks to me in near perfect English, but is still shy about it sometimes. He smiles at the girl from China and in Mandarin tells her to stop being afraid. She gives him a big grin and skips away. I think they’re becoming something like friends.
He tells me about Tibet. Chinese soldiers shot 2 of his family members, killing one and permanently injuring another. He says all this in a whisper. Secret history of a family he hasn’t seen in a long time.
He wants to study international business. He is already fluent in Chinese, Hindi, English and Tibetan, and would like to learn more (I am reminded of the Palestinian girl I met 4 years ago, who told me that language is better than a gun on your shoulder.)
We leave the school where he volunteers, and he walks me to the front gate. The monsoon has started– it begins around 1pm every day. It is about 1:15 now, and in full force. I cower under a rain jacket in hood. He is calmly walking through the storm in a basketball jersey and long shorts. He is getting soaked but doesn’t seem to mind.
“Why are you Americans always trying to fight with nature?”
“Come again?”
“It’s just water. It’s part of the earth, just like you.”
“I don’t want to get wet.”
“You get wet. And then you dry. It’s really very simple.”