I had just completed my engineering and had joined a small company in Pune – nearly an hour and a half away from my home. What initially felt exciting slowly dissolved into a droning monotony – the same alarm, no time for breakfast, familiar faces in the metro and a final kilometer-long walk to reach the office. The days blurred into each other. It was as if daily, I was moving through the routine till it was time to return home, sleep and begin again.
There was an old white dog sitting in the office premises every morning – puffed face, dull tired eyes and the quiet habit of always lying on his belly and gazing at the sky. Every day he chose a different spot to rest, while the guards barely acknowledged his presence. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I found myself looking for him every morning. I’d stop to caress him whenever I could. Somehow, he felt strangely familiar—as if we were both silently making peace with the same routine.
Then one afternoon, I was told that I would be relocating to the head office in Bangalore. They congratulated me on the opportunity, spoke about career growth, and reminded me how exciting a new city would be. I smiled along, but beneath that excitement was an emotion I hadn’t expected. Somewhere along the way, I had grown attached to the life I once found painfully repetitive. The familiar commute, the familiar roads, and the quiet presence of a dog I had never even named had become small anchors in my day. Starting over suddenly felt far more daunting than exciting.
Fast forward to two weeks later – I found myself in Bangalore, settling into a PG hostel barely two hundred metres from my new office. One evening, while walking back, I noticed a cheerful dog wandering around the colony. Unlike the old dog back in Pune, he greeted everyone with a wagging tail, bright eyes, and an enthusiasm that seemed impossible to ignore. Before I knew it, I had started looking forward to seeing him every day.
Life rarely gives us the endings we imagine. It simply changes the scenery and waits. One day, without warning, you find yourself smiling at something new with the same quiet affection you once reserved for something you thought you’d never stop missing. That’s when you realise that healing doesn’t announce its arrival—it slips into your routine.
Shruti Keskar has recently completed her engineering degree from COEP Technological University, Pune in Instrumentation and Control. She currently works in a semiconductor-based company in Bangalore. Apart from writing, she loves to cook and sketch.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble
“Oh no! The sail is torn!”
I looked outside and the tall black sail, known as the reacher, was billowing above with a one-meter gash. The boat bumped along in the wind and the tide. My hat blew behind me, held by the cord around my neck, and my matted salt-encrusted hair scattered in all directions.
“Can you fix it?”
“Well, I have some sail tape as a temporary solution, but I can’t do the repair while we’re underway. It means we won’t be able to get to our destination tonight. The reacher was giving us a good speed in this wind, and without it we won’t make it all the way to the Horizontal Falls. We can only approach it when the tide is flooding. The only problem is that there are no anchorages listed in the cruising guide between here and the falls. I’ll have to choose an unlisted spot to anchor before it gets dark,” Alex explained.
Horizontal Falls in the Talbot Harbour is a destination often advertised in Australia by cruise ship companies. The advertisements feature glamorous retired couples enjoying luxurious service on deck, often sipping Champagne. I confess to feeling a tad envious looking at those couples with clean and coiffed hair wearing freshly laundered clothes, with constant access to hot water. Fresh water is a luxury on a sailboat, and hot water even more so. But we like travelling on our own terms, creating our own timetable. Plus, Alex likes the adventure. His expression starts to relax once he is at the helm heading out to sea.
Horizontal Falls is so named because it features rapidly moving water that ebbs and floods between narrow cliff faces. Unlike a normal waterfall, which flows vertically, the water flows horizontally. Alex and I were heading there in a very unconventional way. Rather than taking a cruise ship, we were sailing there in our own boat. We witnessed multiple cruise ships on our voyage but no other sail boats. Guests on the cruise ships would see the falls from sea planes or helicopters because the falls were best observed from above. We would be observing it from surface level.
“How long is the afterglow? Can’t we try to make it there this evening?” I persevered.
“It’s not a good idea. Sailing in the dark and fighting a tide in these remote waters is tricky. Let’s try that cove over there.”
The cove looked well sheltered and would hopefully give us a good night’s sleep.
“The main hurdle is that the tide is nine metres, so we have to anchor in at least three metres at low tide. We also have to avoid coral and rocks that might be lurking beneath the surface.”
We circled a few times, trying to conserve what little power remained in the battery. Eventually Alex settled on a spot and lowered the anchor. We had been sailing for two weeks, and our rations were starting to run out. We did have half a packet of blue brie and some crackers, so we contented ourselves with that. The sun slipped beneath the horizon and framed the seascape in burnt orange.
“Hooray!” I said as I did every evening when the sun set. Finally, I could escape from the sun. During the day I actually wore two hats when I was outside, but only one when I was inside and the light was streaming through the windows on all four sides of the saloon. The sun would sear into my eyes and turn my pasty skin a shade of watermelon after even a couple of minutes of exposure.
Meredith CoveAlex adjusting the mainsail
Alex then announced: “I’m going to name this place Meredith Cove when I add a listing to Zulu Waterways.” Zulu Waterways was Alex’s favourite online cruising guide, which he used wherever he sailed, whether Japan, Indonesia or Australia.
Alex prepared Nasi Goreng, having been recently inspired by his delivery voyage through Indonesia. He used up cooked rice and leftover vegetables from the fridge. We were to indulge in our evening pleasure of streaming a British crime show, but the pitch darkness of the seascape sent us into a deep sleep, and we never did rouse to watch the show. There were no other vessels anchored nearby, but the occasional cruise ship passed us in the distance.
Around 2am, the anchor alarm sounded. This was not a listed anchorage, so there was a possibility that something could go wrong. The tide had come in, and it was too deep for the anchor. We needed to avoid drifting into the cliffs. Alex went to the stern.
“Can you hold the tiller? Keep the boat facing towards the compass on the screen.”
This was too much responsibility for me. I couldn’t see the cliffs because it was pitch dark.
“Can’t I raise the anchor instead?”
“No. I don’t want you going up there.”
I was secretly relieved. In this pitch darkness I didn’t trust myself walking to the bow to raise the anchor. What if I fell into these crocodile and shark-infested waters with the massive tide movement? How would Alex save me?
In the end he managed to stabilize the boat without entrusting the tiller to me. He ran to the bow and soon I could hear the chugging and grunting of the anchor chain. I kept my eyes on the screen, willing the boat to continue pointing in the right direction. Thankfully it did, and soon Alex was back at the stern. Soon the tide would fall, and it would get shallower. Alex was confident the anchor would hold.
The next morning was a late start because we had to wait for the Talbot Harbour to flood so that we would be going with the tide and not fighting it. It was a two-hour voyage to reach Horizontal Falls. As we entered the Talbot Harbour, we saw cruise ships. Closer to the falls, seaplanes and helicopters circled overhead. After the isolation of two weeks sailing with nary another vessel in sight, it suddenly felt like we had arrived at a marine Grand Central Station or Clapham Junction. (Or should I say Shibuya Crossing since both of us had spent so many years in Japan?)
Sea plane near the Horizontal Falls
We anchored outside the falls, a few hundred metres from the floating hotel. Tenders were departing from a cruise ship anchored closer to the falls. A power boat was taking guests in from the floating hotel.
“Shall we take the tender to the falls?” Alex asked me.
“What do they advise?” I asked him.
“They say to exercise caution,” he responded. “It’s a flood tide, which will tend to suck us in unless we’re careful.”
I was a bit worried we would be swept into the falls, but they must be worth looking at, given the number of seaplanes and helicopters circling overhead.
“We have come all this way. We had better do it,” I said somewhat fearfully.
We covered as much exposed skin as possible to protect ourselves from the sun and donned our lifejackets. We stepped off the back of the boat onto the tender, and Alex took it towards the falls. The tenders from the cruise ship went to the outskirts of the falls, whereas the power boat from the floating hotel went all the way in. We took our cue from the other tenders and stopped outside the falls. Alex tethered the tender to a tree, and we faced the direction of the falls, hearing its roar, and enjoying the shade of the cliff. From our vantage point, we could only discern a thin ribbon of whitewater.
“Let’s go back, Alex!” I urged, afraid of getting swept into the falls.
He untethered the tender from the tree and we headed back to the boat. We had to wait for the ebbing of the tide before heading back out of the Talbot Harbour to the open sea. Alex donned his swimmers and snorkel and performed an underwater adjustment to the rudder. I stood above him scanning the water for crocodiles and bull sharks. Then he started making bolognaise for dinner, so it would be ready once we had stopped at our next anchorage that evening. As he was performing these chores, I heard a helicopter engine and saw a helicopter make a careful and delicate landing onto the helipad on the cruise ship. This clever manoeuvre made me want to applaud. The guests disembarked, more guests boarded and the helicopter took off again, swirling over the hills in the direction of the falls. Sea planes took it in turns to depart from the floating hotel to take their guests on aerial tours.
The author’s view of Horizontal Falls
The Horizontal Falls had been the purpose of our voyage, but other tourists were part of organised tours and so they had been escorted up close to see the falls. As private tourists we didn’t feel it safe to go into the falls too deeply, in case we got swept away. Although the falls were beautiful, it was somewhat of an anti-climax, viewing them from the same level rather than above. However, it was worth the visit. The sight of the helicopter heading to the cruise ship and making a precise landing on the ship’s helipad was a spectacle indeed. It was all the more impressive because we suddenly went from the extreme isolation of nature to bustling human activity. I felt a deep sense of satisfaction that we had persevered with all of the sailing hardships to witness this spectacle. Sometimes you don’t find what you are looking for, but you find something unexpected that is equally satisfying.
Helicopter landing near the falls
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I grew up in a town that was once part of another municipality. Originally called “Binuwangan,” this islet now requires villagers to take a 15-minute boat ride from a small port. My town was named after the Spanish Governor General Jose Francisco De Obando y Solis on May 14, 1753.
I was born in the early 1960s, and it is perhaps an understatement to describe the town as purely rustic; it also boasted forested areas, enchanted trees, shallow fishponds, sprawling rice farms, large vegetable gardens, poultry, and piggeries. I enjoyed both land and water.
Flooding was practically unheard of during my childhood, except for one devastating tropical storm that I believed was the end of the world, characterised by sharp lightning, roaring thunder, incessant rain, and dark, billowing clouds that lasted for days. We lived in a bungalow but had to relocate to a two-story house owned by our grandparents just a few meters away from our residence. Sources indicate that Typhoon Patsy was a Category 4 typhoon that struck the Philippines in November 1970.
At the age of seven, I was perhaps naïve regarding the widespread and severe damage the typhoon inflicted on my hometown. I never imagined that such a catastrophic flood would happen again in my adulthood. I was terribly wrong.
After graduating from college, I noticed a gradual decline in my hometown. Hectares of fishponds in a neighbouring town were reclaimed by the national government to make way for a housing project.
Ironically, the reclaimed area now faces frequent severe flooding due to high tides, inadequate drainage, a weak dike, and powerful typhoons. Similarly, my coastal hometown also experiences these issues. Even during past summers, the area has been flooded despite the scorching heat. When bodies of water are reclaimed without proper infrastructure, towns that were once unaffected become permanent catch basins, eroding and eventually succumbing to salinity and acidity. Residents are being forced to leave their homes and are uprooted from their origins. It is paradoxical that my hometown is famous for a fertility festival, yet water, which is supposed to be life-giving, has now become an agent of death.
The disappearance of material items is always tragic, as they are physical remnants of our memories that are taken from us, making it impossible to recover and restore them. Our memories are often intertwined with the physical objects we hold dear; however, in their absence, our memories become hazy and dim. As we age, our memories become less reliable.
In 2009, Typhoon Ketsana struck the Philippines on a sunny Saturday morning. I remember this vividly, as I was conducting lectures on research and writing at a graduate-level seminary in Manila. After class, a few students invited me to lunch, but it had already started to rain lightly before class ended. The rain intensified as we made our way to a fast-food chain. Unfortunately, the power was out, and there was no food available. Little did we know that the entire city would soon be submerged in a torrential downpour, equal to a month’s worth of rainfall.
Hungry, we attempted to navigate flooded roads, moving from one fast-food restaurant to another, but to no avail. Eventually, we found our way to a friend’s flat in the late afternoon as the water gradually receded. We stayed there for a bowl of hot noodle soup, some biscuits, and herbal tea to warm our spirits during a friendly conversation. However, I couldn’t go home because it was still raining in the evening. I decided to spend the night at the seminary, as I felt it was unsafe to commute.
Upon returning home, I was greeted with chaos—my clothes had turned into rags. My photo album, filled with memories of my childhood, grade school classes, family reunions, social activities, overseas travels, friendly letters, employment certificates, and published articles and poetry, had been washed away in the flood. Bags, millstones, jackets, family heirlooms, and wooden cabinets had also disappeared. My cousin and her family, who had been staying with me, left in a hurry—it was a matter of life and death. Neighbours informed me that the flood inside my home had reached chest-deep, while the water on the street was up to people’s necks. One’s grief is synonymous with lost belongings.
During the 2020 COVID-19 Pandemic, Typhoon Vamco caused extensive damage to our country. Years prior, my siblings and I faced the difficult decision to sell our family home due to persistent flooding. I relocated to an upland neighborhood in Rizal province, where a former student resided.
I initially slept in a small space that served as a community pharmacy, part of our church’s development project. The room had a leaking roof due to overhanging branches and stray cats, while its concrete walls remained unfinished. During heavy rains, the room would flood, requiring basins to catch the leaks. I endured two sleepless nights as the rain and strong winds threatened to blow off my roof. With no electricity, I had to sleep in the dark on benches. My eldest brother, who lives abroad, was concerned for my safety, as he could not reach me. Technology is not always reliable, especially during natural disasters.
Nature can cause devastation to communities that exploit and misuse natural resources. Quarrying is widespread in my area, leading to the erosion of protected landscapes. Montalban has an estimated 16 to 20 active quarrying and rock-crushing plants. Operations are closely monitored for their impact on the Sierra Madre Mountain Range and nearby river basins, particularly in a village called San Isidro.
During typhoon season, silt, mud, and rain flow downstream, causing significant damage to life and property, as seen in many villages during Typhoon Vamco.
In 2025, Rizal Province was declared as in a state of calamity as the province was severely flooded when Typhoon Wipha made landfall. Flats had been constructed on tributaries, and agricultural lands converted to commercial areas, which exacerbated downstream flooding. Additionally, rivers continue to be large dumping sites for household and industrial waste, and flood control measures are inadequate. Protected landscapes are also being sold off.
Climate change is intensifying the severity of floods, and our aquatic ecosystem is greatly impacted by the belief that nature can survive without human intervention. Communities must take responsibility for their actions and work to restore the environment, which could enhance nature’s resilience to future challenges.
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Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specializes in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble of their sailing adventures in the Southern Hemisphere
East Falls, King George River, Western Australia
“Shall we bother going to the East Falls?” Alex asked me.
“I’m a bit worried about crocodiles, not to mention jellyfish,” I replied.
Jellyfishes in King George River
I looked overboard and saw tens of large pale pink jellyfish. We had spotted a crocodile the day before on the banks of the King George River. I felt safe from the height of the boat, but would we be safe in the tender? I was tempted to decline and head back to the ocean. After all, the previous day we had taken the boat all the way along the river to see the Twin Falls. It had been in the late afternoon and the sun was punishing. I had walked around the boat trying to seek out shade. The heat alone had exhausted me. After having seen the Twin Falls perhaps we didn’t need to see the East Falls, but my curiosity prevailed.
Twin Falls
“Let’s do it! We’ve come this far,” I relented.
We donned our lifejackets. Alex lowered the tender into the water. He held it with a rope while I gingerly hopped into the centre. Then he stepped in behind me and started the outboard motor. It was still early morning and the sun was low. Our bodyclocks were not adjusted to the standard Western Australian time but were rather in synchrony with the sunrise and sunset. The gorge walls provided shade, and we motored to the waterfall in an exquisite coolness. We were alone at the waterfall apart from a small fishing boat. Mist from the waterfall enveloped our bodies and my toes started tingling. It was that hallowed feeling that reminded me of Salisbury Cathedral, when you enter into a higher plane and dissociate yourself from both the outside world and daily life. The hardships we had endured to get here, the seemingly endless crossing of Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, the fierce sunshine, and the stress of having to retrieve furling and fishing lines that had become entangled in the propeller, were worth it.
“Let’s stay here, Alex!”
“Sadly, we have to head back to the sea while the tides are still in our favour,” he explained.
We motored back to the boat and climbed back in. He raised the tender and we set off down the river towards the ocean. Tens of tenders loaded with tourists headed towards us. They must have come from a cruise ship. Because we had anchored at a mid-point at the East Arm anchorage in the river, and had risen early, we had had the waterfall to ourselves. We kept the rudder half-raised to manage the shallow waters of the river enclosed by gorge walls and once at sea, witnessed a large and a small cruise ship. This confirmed that we had chosen the right destination.
Next, we were to sail to several locations that were the site of ancient rock art. We obtained permission and paid the requisite fee to the traditional owners, the Wunambal Gaambera people, and spent a day sailing west to each of the locations. All the while I was terrified of bumping into a crocodile. The first of the locations was Jar Island. We anchored and took the tender to the beach.
The tender on Jar Island
“Is that a rock or a croc?” I asked Alex.
The dark object protruding from the water looked to me like a crocodile.
“They’re just rocks,” Alex reassured me.
Then as the water splashed over them, he moved closer to observe them more closely and confirmed that they were indeed rocks.
I carried the boat hook with me to defend myself, as we carefully walked the path and clambered over rocks to reach the ancient art. This was to be repeated at the next two locations. We would anchor at a safe depth, calculating the change in tides during the time we were ashore, and then take the tender to the island, monitor the shore for crocs, and locate the rock art.
Crocodile, King George River
The second site of rock art was Swift Bay. We anchored a long way from the shore and hopped in the tender. Alex motored towards where the co-ordinates had indicated the art.
“The map is wrong! The inlet on the map doesn’t exist. Let’s go to the other side of the bay. Maybe it’s over there.”
We turned towards the other side of the bay. The tender skipped over the rough waters, and I was drenched in sea-water. I could taste the salt entering my mouth. Finally, we arrived at the beach. I kept my shoes on as I clambered out of the tender for fear of stepping on a jelly fish barefoot. We hauled the tender to a higher place on the shore and tethered it to a rock. Then Alex checked the co-ordinates on his phone map.
“It’s over there, about two kilometres away!’
We walked along the beach, over rocks and rock pools. There was no sign of human habitation on the shore, nor was there any rubbish. I kept scouring the shore for crocs, holding my trusty boat hook. Alex consulted his map again.
“It’s over that rocky hill! The tide has receded and the inlet on the map has appeared. It’s better to go back to the tender and head to the newly revealed inlet.”
“I’m too tired!” I whinged. “Can’t you go and get the tender and pick me up here?”
“Yes. It’ll take me about half an hour.”
Then I thought it might be scary to wait by myself. How would I defend myself against a crocodile?
“I’ll come with you. We should stay together.”
He grabbed my hand, and we hurried back to the tender. Light was falling. Just as well I had got drenched in the previous tender ride because my damp clothes were keeping me cool. We untethered the tender from the rock and dragged it into the water. I hopped in first and Alex pulled it to a suitable depth. Then he boarded and we motored to the inlet.
Once at the inlet we disembarked with our shoes and socks on, as usual, and dragged the tender across the sand to a rock.
“Not far now,” Alex reassured me, following the map.
After walking through bushes and climbing rocks we deduced that there must be a better way to get to the ancient art. We retraced our steps and found a well-trodden path. We just had time to view the rock art in the sunset. We couldn’t afford to linger though. We needed to return to the boat before nightfall. I kept nagging Alex to take photos of the sunset, but he urged me to hurry. What if it were too dark to take the tender back to the boat and we were stuck here with little food and water, and the fear of crocodiles?
By now the tide had turned, and the tender, which we had beached earlier, was floating. We untethered it, pulled it into the sea and I hopped in. Alex pulled it further and hopped in behind me. The tide was strong and it turned the tender around to head back to the shore. Alex pointed it back out to sea, turned on the engine, and headed towards the boat. The tender bounced along the water, and I was again splashed with sea-spray. The boat was a small object in the distance. Would we make it? As darkness progressed, we could just make out the anchor light at the top of the mast. The boat grew larger and larger. Alex turned off the motor, and I grabbed the rail at the stern. I pulled myself up and received the dry bag from Alex. After securing the tender Alex boarded, fixed some snacks, and we sat at the stern, savouring the relief from the sun, the solitude, and the purple and orange lights flickering on the water in the sunset.
The third location was Wary Bay on Bigge Island. By now I had had enough of the heightened tension that came from being vigilant for crocodiles. Maybe it was just me. I decided to do a search for the dangers of crocodiles in the Kimberleys, and my fears were confirmed.
“Maybe we should just enjoy Wary Bay on board?” I suggested.
“Don’t you want to see the rock art?” he countered.
‘Will you protect me from the crocodiles?”
“Of course.”
First, we had to anchor. Our chosen anchorage turned out to be too shallow. Alex raised the anchor and headed for deeper water. We repeated the process of heading ashore in the tender. This time it was a short ride, as was the walk to the caves. We congratulated ourselves on the ease of achieving our aim. We managed to return to the boat way before sunset. As the afternoon and evening progressed, we noticed a coral reef between the beach and us emerge from the water. The tide receded, and the reef grew more and more imposing. If we hadn’t anchored at a greater depth, our boat would have become grounded on the reef. If we had lingered in the caves, the reef would have blocked our route back to the boat in the tender. Instead, we would have been stranded on shore until the next high tide, scanning the water for crocs, or looking at rocks.
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
In a world moving away from compassion, there still exist souls who refuse to turn away from human suffering. Farhana Javid is one of them.
Farhana is a psychologist and humanitarian aid worker working for an organisation she prefers to leave unnamed. She has been working in conflict areas around the world since 2011. Her work has taken her to places such as Syria and Ukraine, where she supports families searching for missing loved ones, children who have stopped speaking, and survivors trying to rebuild psychological stability after loss.
People describe her in many ways: a psychologist, a humanitarian, a deeply spiritual woman shaped by faith and compassion, a person of rare intelligence. Yet none of these titles fully capture her. To the broken she becomes hope, to the lonely, warmth, to the wounded, a source of healing. And to those who know her closely, she is remembered for her quiet strength, steady presence, and generosity that never asks to be seen. She never seeks attention. Goodness, she believes, should move quietly like a prayer whispered in the depth of night when only God is listening. Her faith does not make her fragile. It anchors her. It lives in presence, in listening without interruption, in staying when others withdraw, in silence that holds rather than escapes.
She does not arrive with answers. She arrives with presence, clarity, and trained emotional steadiness. She listens without absorbing. She understands without collapsing. Her strength is not distance from suffering, but the ability to remain grounded within it.
Some places do not leave easily.
Syria stays with her in sharp, unsoftened memory. Ukraine stays with her in a quieter way, not as shock, but as a lingering awareness that reshapes how she understands human endurance.
In Ukraine, she remembers underground shelters where children draw homes on paper, as if imagination can protect them from collapse. One child once asked her whether the sky could break. She did not soften the question. She told him that even when things feel broken, people learn how to live beneath what remains.
In Syria, she remembers a mother repeating her son’s name again and again, as if naming alone can resist disappearance. Farhana sat beside her without interruption, allowing grief to exist without distortion, without forcing it toward closure.
These moments remain within her not as wounds, but as disciplined memory held with clarity.
Her former husband once struggled to understand her calling. He belonged to a quieter life, one rooted in continuity, shared presence, and the belief that love is built through constant togetherness. For him love meant closeness that does not leave. For her, love also meant responsibility toward suffering that cannot be ignored. Over time, this difference did not break loudly. It stretched slowly into silence that neither of them could hold forever. Eventually, they parted with mutual respect and quiet dignity.
And still she remains a mother. Her children, Soha and Zaidan, live with their grandmother in Srinagar, in a house that breathes differently under her care. Their grandmother, Farhana’s mother, holds the home with quiet discipline and deep tenderness. Though she has household helpers, she often chooses to cook herself, finding quiet joy in serving warm meals to Soha and Zaidan. The children grow within this rhythm. Absence does not weaken their bond with their mother; instead, it shapes it into curiosity and a quiet, growing pride.
Soha often asks, “Mama, when you are there, do people trust you easily?”
Zaidan once asks, “Do children speak to you immediately, or do they stay silent at first?”
Farhana answers with calm honesty. “Trust takes time,” she says. “Safety is not immediate. It is rebuilt slowly.”
And to Zaidan she adds, “Some children speak. Some remain silent for a long time. Silence is also protection.”
They listen not with fear, but with growing understanding.
And pride quietly forms within them.
“My mama helps people in war places,” Zaidan says once.
Soha adds softly, “She sits with children who cannot speak after what they saw.”
It is admiration shaped by understanding, not imagination.
When Farhana returns this time from Syria, she is composed and steady. Not distant, not overwhelmed, but quietly adjusting from the intensity of field awareness back into the slower rhythm of home. There is no visible break in her, only a subtle shift, as if her mind is still moving at a different altitude and gradually settling into familiar ground again. She speaks less in the beginning, listens more than usual, and carries a kind of alert stillness that comes from having lived too long where everything required attention. Yet nothing in her feels lost. It is not absence she brings back with her, but experience that is still finding its place within silence.
For the first days she remains quiet. She works on her laptop. She sits by the window for long hours. Time around her feels unclaimed, as if she is still moving between two worlds of experience.
Her mother does not interrupt her silence. She places food beside her, adjusts her cotton stole when it slips, and allows space for return without demand.
Her grandmother watches with understanding, knowing this is not emotional collapse but professional reintegration.
Soha and Zaidan stay close, not only seeking her presence but trying to understand her inner world.
One evening their grandmother says, “Let’s go to Dal Lake.” Her tasbeeh[1] moves slowly between her fingers. She adds softly, “The lake brings clarity when the mind has carried too much.”
Soha steps forward immediately. “Mama, come with us.”
Zaidan adds, “Even I am going. You cannot refuse now.”
Farhana looks at them for a moment, then nods. “Alright.”
They leave as evening settles over Srinagar.
The city is alive with its familiar summer movement, people heading toward Dal Lake, voices blending into warm air, the energy of evening gathering near water. It is not chaos, but rhythm, a collective turning toward stillness.
At Dal Lake, wooden shikaras wait along the shore, rocking gently against the water. They step into one together. The boat shifts, then steadies as it moves away from land.
The shore recedes slowly, not like disappearance, but like release.
Soha’s voice breaks the silence gently.
“Mama… does it stay with you when you come back?”
Farhana looks at the water before answering.
“Yes,” she says. “But not as pain. As understanding. It becomes part of how I see human beings.”
Zaidan asks, “Like what?”
“Like knowing how much people can survive and still remain human,” she replies.
Soha looks at her with quiet admiration.
“You really help them.”
Farhana shakes her head slightly.
“I help them remember what already exists within them.”
A silence follows, calm and full.
Then Soha asks softly, “What do you actually do there?”
“I sit with people in distress,” Farhana says. “I help stabilise emotional trauma. I make sure they are not alone while they are trying to hold themselves together.”
Zaidan murmurs, “That sounds important.”
“It is,” she says simply.
From behind them, her mother speaks, her voice steady with faith and lived wisdom.
“She has always been like this. Clear in thought. Steady even in difficult places.” The grandmother adds with quiet pride, “Even as a child she never turned away from pain, but she never lost her balance either.”
Her mother continues with calm conviction.
“Farhana was never meant for a small life. God gave her a heart that sees beyond comfort, beyond fear, beyond borders. And I am proud of her. Proud that she is my daughter. Proud of the way she carries light into places where others hesitate to go.”
She adjusts her tasbeeh slowly.
“But even those who carry light across the world must return to rest. Life does not place weight without wisdom. God places ease within burden. And home is part of that mercy.”
Farhana listens, grounded and steady.
After a pause she says quietly, “I am here. I am present. That is enough for now.”
The boat continues across Dal Lake as evening deepens into gold.
Soha leans into her. Zaidan sits close. Her grandmother closes her eyes in prayer.
Soha’s hand stays in hers. Zaidan sits close. Her mother continues her remembrance.
Together they drift forward, not as a family untouched by distance, but as one held together by something deeper than absence, something quieter than separation, something that still knows how to get back together.
Gowher Bhat is a columnist, freelance journalist, beta reader, book reviewer, avid reader, and educator from Kashmir, and a published author of both fiction and nonfiction. He serves as a senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Narrative by Meredith Stephens & photographs by Alan Noble
I donned my fluffy hooded jacket on a wintery June morning in Adelaide, desperately trying to insulate myself against the cold. Today, Alex and I were due to fly four hours north to Darwin in order to complete the first leg of sailing his new boat back to Adelaide along the northern and western coasts of Australia. Darwin was in the same country, so I couldn’t conceive of it being much warmer than Adelaide. It was just over 2600 kilometres away.
What I was most looking forward to was dropping into the airport lounge before the flight. Later, there would be all sorts of deprivations and challenges, but in the lounge, I could put these thoughts out of my mind. For thirty minutes or so, I could savour being pampered. I could drink as much chai latte as I wanted and help myself to thinly sliced watermelon and cantaloupe. When I was in the lounge the prospect of being the only vessel on rough and unpredictable seas was unimaginable. But eventually, I was summoned from my indulgences when our flight to Darwin was called. Alex and I made our way to our economy seats, and relaxed in-flight for the next four hours. When we exited the airport in Darwin, the heat was tropical and the sunshine seared. Instead of using my fluffy jacket for warmth I held it over my head for sun protection. Was I really still in the same country?
I had declined the offer of sailing previous blue water passages. When Alex crossed the Great Australian Bight, over the Southern Ocean, I had insisted he be accompanied by a qualified sailor. How could I rescue him if something untoward happened? He had been accompanied by a much younger sailor, Sven, whose ancestry could be traced back to the Vikings. One day when they were twenty nautical miles offshore in the Blight, Alex had noticed that one of the lines had become tangled in the propeller. He tied one end of a rope around his middle and handed the other end to Sven, instructing him to hold it. Then he dived under the boat to untangle the rope from the propeller.
Sven was flabbergasted to have been asked to do this, but relieved when Alex emerged having untied the line. Hearing this anecdote, I felt vindicated in having insisted that Alex sail with a qualified sailor instead of me. Surely, I would never be put in the same position as Sven. But this time in the north of Australia it was just the two of us.
Alex is a qualified sailor, but I am not. I had thought I could manage because the seas would be calmer in the dry season of northern Australia than the Southern Ocean.
We made our way from the airport to the marina and spent the next morning provisioning the boat for the next three weeks. We didn’t make time for swimming because we were afraid of encountering crocodiles, Box jellyfish and Irukandji jellyfish. The following morning, we departed. The first step was exiting the marina through the lock. We booked our passage through the lock at 11 am and cautiously motored past the other boats to get there. The passage through the lock was narrow, so Alex reduced the width of the boat by folding the starboard hull. “Stand on the port bow so you can make sure we don’t scrape against the side of the lock,” he urged me.
I carefully walked along the narrow hull, so I could hold the lockside rope in order to create distance between the boat and the lock. I worried about losing balance. What if I fell into the gap between the lock and the boat and got crushed? I gave it my full concentration and maintained my balance. The attendant opened the barriers of the locks one by one, and the water in the lock levelled with the ocean. We called out our thanks to the attendant, as he heartily wished us a good day. I carefully turned around and retraced my steps back to the middle of the boat.
The sail to the Berkeley River across the Joseph Bonaparte Gulf took us three days. There would be no marinas and no shops along this long coastline until Port Hedland, over 2,000 km away, so every stop would be at anchor. The first two days of sailing and anchoring were uneventful.
Banks of the Berkley River
The third day, aiming for the Berkeley River, was to be a very long day. Alex rose at three am and departed. The waters were rough, although not as rough as the Southern Ocean. In my case, seasickness takes the form of extreme drowsiness and minor nausea. I spent most of the day sleeping and relieved the nausea with dry ginger. Every now and then I would try to walk around the boat, steadying myself as I grasped furniture.
Then, as the sun was low in the sky I heard Alex gasp. “Oh no! The furling line has gone overboard! I can’t furl the reacher without it.”
Then he looked under the netting of the trampoline to the water below. “There it is! It’s twisted around the port propeller.”
“Excellent!” I replied. At least we hadn’t lost it.
“Not excellent,” he countered. “I have to dive in and get it.”
“No! Don’t put me through this. You know I can’t rescue you.”
“It’ll be fine.”
He had already tied one end of the rope around his waist. The other end was tied to a pole. Then it was twisted several times around a winch for extra safety.
“You just have to pay out the rope from the winch. You don’t have to hold it,” he explained.
After all my protestations, I was being placed in the same position as Sven. Only I wasn’t of Viking stock, and I was quite a bit older. I could feel my heart pounding. I couldn’t meet Alex’s eyes. This was the predicament I most wanted to avoid, being responsible for the physical safety of my irrepressible husband. But he wasn’t entering into discussion. Dismissing my objections, he slid into the water. I wasn’t even sure when to pull in the line, or when to pay it out. I was too scared to look over the edge of the boat. What if I fell into the water? But within a couple of minutes, I heard Alex’s triumphant voice.
“Success!” he shouted, clutching the line. Then he quickly pulled himself onto the boat.
“At least you weren’t eaten by a crocodile.”
‘We are too far away from the coast for that,” he explained.
“What about the Irukandji jellyfish?”
“That’s more of a possibility, but I was only in for a couple of minutes.”
Finally, Alex accepted the beach towel I proffered him. He was too exhilarated by the success of his mission to be sensitive to the cold you would normally feel after emerging from the ocean. The sun was setting.
“I would have been unable to do this in the dark,” he added cheerily.
There were five hours of sailing left to get to the Berkeley River. Night sailing is anathema to me, but there was nowhere to anchor at such depths. Alex used his chart plotter and radar to guide him into the bay. The moon was yet to rise. As we glanced upwards, we saw the Milky Way with a clarity we had never seen before. The level of the tides varied by about six metres every day, so he had to ensure the tide was right not just for when we anchored but also the next morning. Eventually the instruments told us we were in 3.9 metres and Alex decided to anchor, just after midnight. We celebrated with a gin and tonic and Toblerone. The waters were choppy, so that night it was not unlike lying in a sleeper car of an overnight train.
The next morning, we rose to the sight of waves crashing over a nearby beach.
“If I had known we were this close to the beach I wouldn’t have anchored here!” exclaimed Alex.
We had survived the first two hundred nautical miles of our voyage. Now only eleven hundred more lay between us and our destination on the west coast, Port Hedland.
Sunrise over the Timor Sea. Port Hedland is located on the Timor Sea.
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
Gowher Bhat mulls over his conversation with Nazir Ahmed Khan, who published his first book at ninety-three
Nazir Ahmed Khan, the man who published his first book at ninety-three. Photo by Gowher Bhat
“Before Partition, people entered each other’s homes without hesitation,” says Nazir Ahmad Khan. “Life moved together.”
Born in 1933, Nazir Ahmad Khan belongs to a generation that witnessed significant social and cultural changes in Kashmir over many decades. His memoir, Biscoe Boy’s Echoes of Time, written in his nineties, is shaped by long memory and lived experience. Through personal recollections and reflections, the book presents glimpses of everyday life, education, work, sports, and social transformation across different periods of time.
Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the purpose of writing the memoir was not to analyse events or offer commentary. Instead, he wished to preserve memories that might otherwise disappear with time. “I did not write to explain events,” he says. “I wrote to record what I actually witnessed over time.”
Recalling his early days in Kashmir, Nazir Ahmad Khan has memories in which people interacted freely and naturally. Homes remained open to relatives, friends, and neighbours, and social interaction formed an essential part of daily life. Families shared happiness and hardship together, and community bonds were maintained through constant communication and mutual familiarity.
According to Nazir Ahmad Khan, life during those years moved with simplicity and closeness to local surroundings. Most people depended on small businesses, agriculture, trade, and traditional crafts. Daily routines were modest, and relationships were shaped more by personal connection rather than by formality.
Education also had a deep impact and was viewed as very important. Although opportunities and resources were limited compared to today, learning was regarded as a source of discipline and personal growth. Schools played an important role in shaping character and responsibility among young students.
As years passed, society gradually changed. Expanding educational institutions, professional opportunities, and administrative systems introduced new ways of life. Traditional occupations continued, but they increasingly existed alongside modern professions and growing public institutions.
Nazir Ahmad Khan describes these changes as gradual adjustments that influenced everyday experience. Familiar neighbourhood patterns slowly evolved, and people adapted to changing social and professional environments. Yet many older values, particularly discipline, simplicity, and respect for community life, continued to remain important.
Traditional crafts such as weaving, carpet-making, woodwork, and papier-mâché also gained wider recognition over time. These crafts connected local skill and artistry with larger markets while preserving traditions rooted in Kashmiri life.
The life of Nazir Ahmad Khan itself reflects this period of transition and development.
He studied at the Tyndale Biscoe School, which he describes as one of the most influential institutions in shaping his outlook and discipline. According to Nazir Ahmad Khan, the school focused not only on academics but also on physical activity, service, courage, and responsibility.
“It was not about comfort,” he says. “It was about preparation for life outside school.”
The school encouraged students to develop confidence and resilience through activities such as swimming, sports, outdoor exercises, and teamwork. Students were expected to learn discipline through action and responsibility rather than produce grand results based on classroom instruction alone.
For Nazir Ahmad Khan, the values taught at the school remained meaningful throughout his life. Many students from that generation later entered different professional fields, including administration, engineering, medicine, education, business, policing, and sports. He believes that the school’s emphasis on discipline and commitment helped shape their future journeys.
Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the title Biscoe Boy’s Echoes of Time itself comes from his years as a student at the Tyndale Biscoe School. Since the institution played a central role in shaping his personality, discipline, and outlook on life, he chose the title Biscoe Boy as a reflection of that lifelong connection and identity.
The professional life of Nazir Ahmad Khan moved through several important departments and institutions. Over the years, he worked in transport administration, food supply systems, youth development, and sports administration, eventually serving as Director General of Youth Services and Sports.
When speaking about his career, Nazir Ahmad Khan describes his work in practical and modest terms. His responsibilities often involved coordination, management, organisation, and public service.
“My work required patience and responsibility,” he said.
Alongside his professional life, football remained an important part of his identity. His long association with the sport continued across many decades. For Nazir Ahmad Khan, football represented discipline, teamwork, dedication, and collective participation.
He recalls local football culture with warmth and clarity, remembering tournaments, playgrounds, and the enthusiasm people once carried for the game. Sports, according to him, brought people together and encouraged qualities such as cooperation, endurance, and mutual respect.
Even in old age, many of these memories remain vivid in his mind.
When discussing his memoir, Nazir Ahmad Khan explains that the book developed slowly over time through recollections, notes, and reflections gathered across many years. The writing process itself became an exercise in revisiting moments that had quietly remained preserved in memory.
“It came in fragments,” he says. “Not in order.”
The memoir therefore does not follow a strictly linear structure. Instead, it moves through scenes, experiences, observations, and remembered moments that together form a portrait of a long and eventful life.
Nazir Ahmad Khan notes that writing in old age changed the nature of memory itself. Certain major events became distant, while small ordinary moments returned with surprising clarity. A classroom, a road, a conversation, a sports ground, or a familiar face often remained more vivid than larger public developments.
“At this stage,” he reflects, “you do not arrange life. Life arranges itself in memory.”
This observation perhaps captures the spirit of the memoir. Rather than focusing on grand conclusions, the book remains attentive to everyday experiences that quietly shape a person’s understanding of life over time.
At its core, the narrative suggests that memory is built not only through achievements or milestones but also through ordinary moments that remain connected to place, relationships, education, work, and routine life.
Throughout the memoir, Nazir Ahmad Khan repeatedly returns to the idea of documentation rather than interpretation. He views writing as a way of preserving lived experience honestly and simply.
“What I have written is not the story of everything,” he says. “It is what remains when everything else has settled.”
Seen in this way, the book becomes more than a personal memoir. It serves as a reflective record of changing times, social life, education, sports culture, and everyday experience across generations in Kashmir.
Through these recollections, Nazir Ahmad Khan preserves glimpses of a world shaped by simplicity, discipline, community life, and gradual social change. His memories remind readers that the essence of history often survives not only in official records or major events, but also in classrooms, neighbourhoods, friendships, routines, and the quiet persistence of memory itself.
Gowher Bhat is a columnist, freelance journalist, beta reader, book reviewer, avid reader, and educator from Kashmir, and a published author of both fiction and nonfiction. He serves as a senior columnist for several local newspapers across the Kashmir Valley.
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PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
As a student living and studying in Japan, I’ve come to realise that I’m more drawn to places where I can feel close to local people and truly understand everyday life, rather than famous tourist spots filled with crowds and tall buildings and places like Asakusa, Shibuya, Dotonbori, Universal Studios Japan, the geisha streets of Kyoto, or the Golden Pavilion.
Of course, in my first year in Japan, I visited many of these well-known places. But now, I find myself wanting the opposite to seek out hidden gems, places that are not widely known, where I can quietly admire the beauty of nature and experience something deeper.
In Shikoku, Tokushima, there is a place called Nagoro, also known as the Scarecrow Village, where dolls seem to live among people. I first visited this place on a rainy day in June. Crossing high mountains, passing through lush green forests that felt like they touched the clouds, I walked through mist after the rain. It felt like stepping into a dream. When I arrived, I visited the assembly hall and the “Kakashi no Shōgakkō,” the scarecrow elementary school. I remember how excited I was, thinking I would take photos with all the scarecrows.
But instead of joy, I felt something else. A quiet sadness. Thinking about how deeply someone must long for people, to create human like scarecrows and live among them, touched my heart deeply. In Mongolia, we also have scarecrows simple wooden sticks dressed in worn clothes, standing in the fields to protect sheep and goats from wolves. But this was the first time I had seen scarecrows that felt so lifelike, almost spiritual, as if they could be mistaken for real people.
So I ended my first visit with mixed and somewhat uneasy feelings.
Later, I often heard from my friend from Uzbekistan that visiting this village was at the top of her “things to do in Japan” list. After hearing this many times, we decided to visit again together, along with a friend from Taiwan.
On a warm spring day filled with sunshine, we returned to the village. While visiting the assembly hall, we met an elderly woman who gave us pamphlets about the village. What surprised me most was learning that she had created all of the scarecrows in the village herself.This was my second visit, but I realized I hadn’t really observed carefully the first time. Back then, I had been more afraid than excited. This time, however, meeting and speaking with her became the most meaningful part of the journey.
Her name is Ms.Ayano, and some people call her the “Mother of Scarecrows.” In 2002, she returned from Osaka to Nagoro. The following year, while remembering her father, she made her first scarecrow in his likeness and placed it in the fields to scare away crows. When villagers passing by greeted the scarecrow as if it were a real person saying “Hello” or “Good morning”, she was inspired to continue creating more.
Today, the village has an assembly hall, an elementary school, rice fields, and even a bus stop that all filled with scarecrows. You can see elderly couples fishing by the river, people working in vegetable fields, and villagers chatting near stacks of wood. If you look closely, inside the assembly hall you might find a traditional Japanese wedding scene. Outside, scarecrows sit on benches or sweep the ground, just like real people. Near the school, there’s a young man resting with his hat over his face, and a grandmother with glasses waiting with her grandchildren for school to end.
Inside the school, you might see a couple dressed in Western wedding attire, elderly people playing cards, or even villagers participating in a tug of war competition. Some of them are not even Japanese, but appear to be foreigners. Each scarecrow seems to hold a story. If you let your imagination wander, you could create dozens of stories behind each one.
As of October 2025, Nagoro Village has only 27 human residents but around 370 scarecrows living alongside them. It’s truly fascinating that a village where scarecrows outnumber people.
Each scarecrow is registered, with a name, age, gender, personality, and even a life story. Their records are updated every year, and their clothes and accessories are checked and repaired.
When I asked Ayano sensei[1] how long it takes to make one scarecrow, she said three days for an adult and one day for a child. Thinking about the time and dedication she has poured into this village fills me with admiration.
When I was a child, I lived in the countryside in Mongolia, in a village with very few people much like Nagoro. Especially during summer, it would become even emptier, as most families moved to pasturelands to herd their animals. I stayed behind with my grandparents, often longing for people. My only “toys” were stones. The few children who remained would spend whole days stacking stones and pretending they were houses, playing together.
Just like my childhood, perhaps the people of this village also created scarecrows out of loneliness.
During this visit, I found myself talking to the scarecrows, getting to know them, playing with them even going on a “date” with one. Sitting at the edge of the wood, talking to what seemed like a male scarecrow, felt strangely comforting. Even though these didn’t respond, it somehow filled a quiet, empty space inside me.
This time, I carefully observed each scarecrow. Their faces were all different some were listening to music, some even smoking. Ayano sensei not only works in Tokushima but also travels to other towns to teach people how to make scarecrows. She even offers workshops in her studio, where visitors can bring clothes and create their own scarecrow.
Hearing this made me realise how much I miss my grandmother. Next time I visit, I want to take her old clothes and create a scarecrow that looks like her. Maybe then, it would feel like meeting her again—like I could finally say all the things I’ve been holding inside, and sit with her once more.
In a place where people and scarecrows live side by side, I began to understand something simple but profound: sometimes, when human presence fades, we find our own ways to fill the silence with memories, imagination, and love.
Odbayar Dorj is an international student from Mongolia currently studying in Japan. Her writing reflects on cultural identity, personal memory, and the power of connection across borders and generations.
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Narrative by Meredith Stephens & Photographs by Alan Noble
Bridge in Hoi An
The tour to the Mekong Valley had finished. Rather than return straight to our hotel, we left our luggage from behind the counter of the tourist office so we could explore the nearby markets unencumbered. Later, after we retrieved our bags and headed outside to wait for the taxi, our guide emerged from the office and smiled at us.
“Where are you going next?” he enquired.
“To Hoi An, and then Hanoi,” Alex informed him. “What’s it like up there?”
“I don’t know. When I was a uni student I went with my friends to Hanoi, but I didn’t have any money, so I just walked around the town rather than going anywhere. Now that I have a two-year old child I can’t travel anyway.”
“Does your wife work?” I asked.
“Yes. She works in a shoe factory.”
“Who looks after your daughter?”
“My mother does. Both my wife and I need to work to pay the bills so we can’t really go on holiday. I work seven days a week. Paying the rent, the bills, and our daughter’s education, are very expensive.”
Our taxi arrived, so we carried our luggage and put it in the boot. Our guide stood by the car, smiled at us, and waved us off. There was one piece of advice he had given us that stood out in my mind.
“If you need to cross the road, raise your hand to let people know and cross confidently!” he had advised.
We had alighted from the taxi too early to visit a cathedral, but it was closed, so we decided to walk the rest of the distance to the railway station. After all, it was only just over a kilometre. Or so we thought.
Cathedral at Ho Chi Minh CityTraffic in Ho Chi Minh City
It turned out to be just under three kilometres. The footpaths were blockaded by motorbikes and rubble, so we had to detour via the street to make our way forward. What was much more challenging was crossing the intersections. The pedestrian crossings were disregarded. Instead, you had to make eye contact with the motorcyclists, raise your hand, and stride ahead. Alex and I stood helplessly on the footpath watching hundreds of motorcyclists slowly turn the corner. A young motorcyclist looked at me as he slowly turned along with hundreds of others and gave me a wry sympathetic smile. The traffic turned to gridlock, so Alex held up his hand and weaved his way through the stationary traffic, with me following. Finally, we safely reached the other side. One of our tour guides, referring to traffic lights, made light of it saying that the drivers were colour blind. We did witness a minor accident, so there is no way I can advise how to safely cross the road in Vietnam.
We continued to pull our luggage along the footpaths, veering onto the road whenever the footpath was blocked, which was frequently. Then Alex decided to provide some relief by heading down a narrow lane, which he thought was a shortcut. Residents gave us surprised looks. A grandmother handed her grandson a lettuce which he placed in his bicycle basket. We greeted each other. At the end of the lane, we arrived at another main road clogged with motorcycles. We paused wondering which way to go. I saw something dark scurry towards me and brush across my sandals. It turned out to be a rat which rushed behind me under some buildings.
“Oh no!” Alex exclaimed. “My phone’s run out of battery and I’m not sure of the way to the station.”
I looked around for someone to ask, but the few people who weren’t on motorcycles appeared to be intent on whatever they were doing. More importantly, I didn’t have the Vietnamese language skills to ask them. Alex and I were stranded in rush hour and unable to find the station. Would we miss our train? We looked up and saw the sign Ga Sài Gòn. The first word sounded like it might have come from French gare, meaning ‘station’. We followed the signs and within a few hundred metres we reached our destination, the station. Alex’ phone had expired at the very moment that the sign had appeared.
We were in good time for the sleeper train and headed towards our carriage, fifteen minutes before departure. There were four beds in each cabin, and we had secured all four beds for just the two of us to ensure our privacy. The train departed exactly on time. My favourite cure for insomnia is lying on a train sleeper. Soon after the train had departed the gentle motion of the train rolling over the tracks, and accompanying sounds, sent me into a comforting sleep.
Iced Coffee on the Train
There was no dining car on the train. Instead, hawkers would board the train at the various stops. The next morning, we couldn’t start the day without coffee so we bought one from one of the vendors. A few hours later, we looked across the train tracks while the train was stopping at a station. We made eye contact with an elderly lady on a distant platform. She was holding two cups of iced coffee in plastic bags and calling out urgently to us. Normally, hawkers who are too insistent have the effect of turning me off, but not this woman. We nodded, and she ran across the tracks and held the coffees up to us. We took the coffees but were unsure of how much to pay. We held some cash out, and the conductor happened to be standing next to us. Unable to communicate with the vendor, we looked at the conductor. She took 20,000 duong from us ($1.00) and handed it to the lady. She took it and made her way back to the platform. The train departed and we returned to our sleeper compartment. The ice was in one cup and the coffee and condensed milk mixture in another. We tipped the ice into the coffee and savoured this new taste.
When we alighted at Da Nang many people touting for business made eye contact and called out to us. We looked for the driver we had booked. Finally, we found him, and followed him back to the taxi, from which he drove us to our destination, Hoi An. We briefly relaxed in our hotel room before walking the streets to the market. We crossed the streets in the same manner as we had in Saigon, making eye contact with motorcyclists and raising our hands, before making a show of confidently striding across. This remained stressful but instead of hundreds, there were tens of motorcycles.
Lanterns in Hoi An
We reached the river, alit with colourful lanterns. The streets were lined with throngs of fellow tourists speaking multiple languages. Touts and hawkers would stand directly in my path, call out ‘hello’, and try to engage me. I looked straight ahead and stepped around them. There were too many choices of where to stop, and the throng of displaced westerners, like us, was disconcerting. The westerners outnumbered the locals, but it was not a group of westerners with a shared culture, but a mixture of visitors from far-flung locales. When we decided on a place to stop for dinner, we shunned the ones who were standing in our way pressing us to stop, in preference to a stall-holder who did not even make eye contact with us.
There were two locals who stood out in my mind during our first few days in Vietnam. One is the lady who called across the rail tracks from the platform to sell us some coffee. Other hawkers, standing in my way and behaving like they are my best friend, I confess to have found annoying, but Alex and I completely dropped our guard down for this lady prepared to go the distance to sell a drink to strangers on a train that was passing through.
The second person was our tour guide in Ho Chi Minh. The tour itself was informative and fascinating, but the impression that lingers was our brief conversation after the tour when we were waiting for the taxi. The next time I purchase a well-priced and crafted product that is made in Vietnam, I will recall those who have brought it into my hands, maybe working seven days a week, paying exorbitant rents, and having others look after their children.
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Meredith Stephens is an applied linguist from South Australia. Her recent work has appeared in Syncopation Literary Journal, Continue the Voice, Micking Owl Roost blog, The Font – A Literary Journal for Language Teachers, and Mind, Brain & Education Think Tank. In 2024, her story Safari was chosen as the Editor’s Choice for the June edition of All Your Stories.
PLEASE NOTE: ARTICLES CAN ONLY BE REPRODUCED IN OTHER SITES WITH DUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT TO BORDERLESS JOURNAL
I was born in the early 60s. While growing up, I was surrounded by various forms of communication, such as television, radio, magazines, and newspapers. My dad would often read newspapers at night while continuing his bookkeeping tasks at home. His favourite was a traditional broadsheet, as he held conservative political views himself. Due to my Catholic education, I was not exposed to any socially progressive publications during my childhood.
As far as I knew, the existence of alternative media outlets were kept hidden. Even if they were covert, I still believed that their function was to provide a unique perspective on social issues. Since publications were limited in volume and space, it was perhaps relatively easy to separate the truth from lies. Fake news was not as rampant as today’s offline and online mechanisms.
I started freelancing in the late 80s, but it was quite intermittent. My first published piece focused on a televangelist’s downfall due to financial and physical corruption. He had manipulated followers for many years. The case was well-documented in the US, with substantial verified evidence of a money trail and sworn testimonies of victims. The couple confessed to their sins as all proof pointed to their exploitation. With the advancement of technology, it has become increasingly difficult for societies to discern if a particular event is truly authentic or artificially staged. Most individuals find written and moving images appealing, regardless of how extreme, insensitive, foolish, fake, or clever the presentation may be, as long as clickbait has continuously increased.
The sheer volume of YouTube channels offering every type of content makes it exceedingly difficult to determine whether a presentation is shallow and misleading or thoughtful and authentic. For instance, I know there are those who unquestioningly believe all videos circulating online about the country’s political climate and presents them as indisputable truth to those who have not examined the broader context, often making sweeping statements without any credible supporting evidence.
Video diaries of common occurrences are repeatedly presented in different settings, with varying characters, sequences, and incidents. This is not inherently wrong; however, it becomes manipulative when such episodes are portrayed as the standard for everyone. Personal and professional experiences are inherently relative and may vary at any given time; however, this does not mean that there are no socially, spiritually, morally, or intellectually agreed-upon standards or conventions. Some online discussions are staged solely to bully individuals, spread disinformation, and provoke unhealthy conflicts and tiresome quarrels.
Wouldn’t it be better if we could see more spontaneous video presentations online that depict real-time behavioral reactions? This would be a lesson on psychosocial framework and practice.
A friend posted online a random reaction from an elderly man who claimed that every time this former government official ran for public office, she lost, despite her previous victories. Not all spontaneous reactions are truthful.
Online celebrity channels have an advantage over other internet personalities, as they possess greater credibility based on their body of work in television or film. However, these channels may also be deceptive, as they can become overly performative.
How, then, do we determine whether the presentation is authentic or merely staged? Patterns provide clues or indicators. If they are consistently misleading in both volume and content across production after production, this suggests that the episodes are not trustworthy and exist solely for clickbait.
A collage of spliced, unrelated videos presented as proof is essentially a red flag. This tactic is related to ad hominem arguments, which are common among YouTubers seeking to drive a point but, upon legal, philosophical, and semantic examination, tend to crumble. Investigate the videos to see if they have been removed due to inappropriate content. It’s important to note that just because a video has been taken down doesn’t necessarily mean the content was inappropriate, as online judgment can be inaccurate at times. However, the frequency with which the videos have been removed is a factor to consider.
In print, biases or personal and professional agendas must be identified to assess the validity of a piece. Although we all have biases, they must be supported with facts from diverse perspectives so that the work can still be perceived as fair and objective.
We live in precarious times, both offline and online. Danger lurks at every threshold and confronts us at every turn. Vigilance must be exercised and maintained if we are to thrive; otherwise, the world will judge the videos as perpetually peddling lies.
From Public Domain
Manuel A. Alindogan, Jr. or Jun A. Alindogan is the Academic Director of the Expanded Alternative Learning Program of Empowered East, a Rizal-Province based NGO in the Philippines and is also the founder of Speechsmart Online that specializes in English test preparation courses. He is a freelance writer and a member of the Freelance Writers’ Guild of the Philippines (FWGP).
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