Francis Barakat

It was either an end of term Christmas party or Eid shingading in either class 1 or 2, I can't remember now but I remember wearing a fuschia pink skirt and white lace sleeveless blouse and that was pretty much the only colour left at the entrance to the school. Everyone had left, literally everyone and I was perched on the railings above the bench, increasingly morose, had even stopped wandering to the gate to look out for our trademark Lancer. Quite feeling the betrayed by the father, which at this age is a luxurious feeling I wish he had the youth and I had the short sightedness to feel again. Then at some point Francis who had been keeping his eye on me came over and I remember thinkin Oh god is he going to be one of the Santa Claus variety gate keepers or the bastards who make kids feel they should be brave enough to disregard a late parent (I am unfortunately not one of those sorts, still not am, if you make a child highly emotionally dependent upon you, then you should not be late at the airport. I control the mood better now, but I am still just as upset). He wasn't either and I wasn't surprised. He spoke to my dad regularly and I'd say good morning to him and he'd ask about my dad and that was the extent of our interaction during most of my school days. I just found out about his death, through of all things, Facebook. I haven't been to school for the past 5 years and still it was such a singular shock with instant tears though I can't claim any finality of feeling or experience. Except the last moment felt very much like the time as child I lost track of my mother in the throng on Tariq Road. He was 69 at his death, my father is 65 I think and all I think about nowadays is age and death, which the more I read seem to be the universal themes of those in exile.