My [redacted] Journey

A teacher's search for inner peace.

There’s No Place Like Home

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Getting ready for Amrah Bint graduation, 2013  Taken at Al Ruwais, Abu Dhabi

Getting ready for Amrah Bint graduation, 2013 Taken at Al Ruwais, Abu Dhabi

December 15, 2013

Dear Readers,

As soon as Dorothy clicked her heels, both her ruby slippers and what she exclaimed snuck up to the head of the line of what is pop culture (should I capitalize?).  Most people I know agree with Dorothy, there is no place like home.  But what happens if home is where the heart is?

Recently, I came back from teaching in the Middle East.  I know, most of you are bored and about over my stories.  However, the effect that I had on my students and that they had on me is still coming to fruition.  I loved my students, just as I have always loved all of my students.  However, this teaching job was more than just a job.   still haven’t quite figured out what it was.  However, I do know it was something special.  So, dear Readers, I write about it, a lot.

For those just joining us, a quick recap.  I taught at an all girls school in the Middle East from January of this year until June of this year.   Now, I’m home.  Yesterday, I was contacted by one of my former students.  Actually, I made first contact, and I do not know how it happened.

I belong to a great deal of the social media sites available on the internet.  I enjoy a steady stream of material to read and as a writer, I enjoy getting my “product” out there.  Two days ago, while scrolling through one of my sites, I ran across a name that looked familiar, but, for the life of me I couldn’t quite place it.  I knew it had to be one of my former Middle Eastern students.  The problem was (is?) that my students would never put pictures of their faces on the internet, so I wasn’t quite sure if I had the right face to the name in my mind.  That all changed yesterday afternoon.

As I was scrolling through my site, I came across some pictures that told a story, here is the story.  Faba (not her real name) was a native in the country I taught, and her pictures indicated that she was very proud of this.  During the summer  months, as she had graduated from high school in June, she had to take placement tests to go to a university.  I could tell she was currently at a university because I recognize the setting, the class schedule and the dorm rooms.  Some things are universal.  I then came across a comment from Faba that indicated that she had taken a test and needed a lot of help, and the memories came flooding back to me.

I do not know why that simple post brought on a flood of memories, however, it was incredible.  I could so picture who this was.  I remember my time teaching to her and her classmates.  I could picture just exactly where she sat in class (front row, last row to my left).  I remember how quiet she was in my class.  Now, she was making her way in the world as a first year university student.  I am so very proud of her.  And I have faith in her, so that is what I wrote to her, “I have faith in you.”

The next part of my post is directed at Faba, but you, dear Readers, may take a peek.

Faba,

I remember both you and your classmates.  You all had such a profound effect on me.  I wish I could express to you just how much you all meant to me.  I don’t even understand it myself, but you are part of my life.  I have your class picture on my laptop and look at it frequently.  You are in the front row, right, and you have your hand up in what looks to me like you are trying to make a peace sign but someone snapped the picture too soon.

I wish you and your classmates all of the best that life has to offer.  I am most proud to have been your teacher, if even for a short time.  I love you all and I still have faith in you, and I always will.

Love,

Miss Victoria

Well, dear Readers, that’s the end of the story.  I hope to keep up with Faba’s life and I hope she will allow me to.  There is no place like home and home is where the heart is.  I’m just not sure where either one is for me anymore.  Peace, ~v.

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