By The Illyrian Pilgrim*

Perhaps, the sky does not have the same nuances everywhere on Earth! That’s what I was thinking of when I saw for the first time the cloudy sky of London that morning while walking down the street.

My visual impairment did not unfortunately disable me from feeling that sense of not belonging when I heard that strong British accent spoken around me, which sounded like an enigmatic language.

I barely understand only a few words of it and none of the slang phrases, which are more than common in this grey city. – Alright? – the old gentleman who works in the small shop near here says to me as he waves his hand.

I smile at him while I’m thinking: “That’s how they say how are you, perhaps.” Looking up at the sky again, I recalled the last moment I looked back at my dreamy blue sky and the deep breath I took, as with the air of home, I was trying to take with me all I was leaving behind.

I remember my mother saying goodbye to her partially sighted daughter, who, until then, could not walk without guidance. What did she feel when she saw that fragile bird flying away from her arms? She often used to say to me: “Never leave me, my darling daughter”.

Remembering this now, while walking with a white cane among unknown people, I think that we never know if we can fight the fire before facing it.

I catch myself smiling ironically after thinking that, as I felt the true impression people have when they see a young lady walking around with a white cane.

“Poor little thing”, I’d hear them saying behind my back. In these moments, I would hate my visual impairment; I would hate the fact that I have a bachelor’s degree, which hasn’t been used for anything; I would hate all the beautiful books I have read, all the things I have suffered from learning and achieving.

“All of that to live as an asylum seeker and feel no sense of belonging in a planet which is or should’ve been my home”. My voice, which sounded angry at that moment, brought me back. I felt warm tears on my cheeks, but I whipped them away quickly as I was arriving at the building where the Hear Me Out charity holds its music sessions. I feel a little scared, as I don’t sing more than two songs in English.

“Are you growing a sense of humour lately, Pilgrim? You can’t even formulate two sentences correctly,” I say to myself as I step into the room.

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The Illyrian Pilgrim* is a participant in Hear Me Out's music workshops who wishes to remain anonymous.

This piece (part one of a three-part series) was originally published by Migrant Women Press on 11th September 2023.

Image by Abed albaset alhasan via Pexels.