At the end of the line was my grandmother. She was like all grandmothers, I suppose. She had white papery skin, that I felt would crack if I held her hands too tight. She had crows feet, not just next to her eyes, but all over her face. Grey hair, thick bifocal glasses glossing over her cataract clouded iris.
But beyond that she was nothing like other grandmothers.
Amidst this insistent hullabaloo that had erupted around me, I froze. The police didn’t know I was only there to teach the children. They would arrest me like everyone else. They would throw us into a cramped jail cell, pull us out one by one to break us, interrogate us hitting those body parts where the baton leaves no marks. My mind went blank and my body stiffened in terror.