Beyond Borders Scotland and Dove Tales, the Association of Scottish Writers for Peace, collaborated on the Beyond Writing Competition, aiming to facilitating dialogue and cultural exchange through the creative writing and storytelling.    

The competition consisted of three rounds; Inspirational Women, Creative Peace and Beyond Borders.  

This piece by Lesley Traynor was shortlisted in Round III: Beyond Borders. The competition’s judge, Jean Rafferty of Dove Tales, described the piece as ‘a subtle and complex exploration of a love story across the ethnic divide. With a poet’s sensibility, Traynor defined the character of her protagonist through language, individual words leading to a deeper understanding of the character and the situation. A moving and imaginative piece.’ 

—

Warrior

‘Why choose me?’  

The anguish in his voice prevents a glib answer. His eyes hold mine, pushing for honesty. However I reply, pride stalks the shadows. The slight up–tilt of his head, his defiance. He holds his arms flung wide, the better for me to consider the whole, but I see discrete images, pieces of him. Perhaps if I flip them all together like a child’s animation book, I would generate a whole. Him. I consider a lexicon of words that will map this man. 

Man. A word that I cross reference with masculine. Cross reference with stature. Given different clothes, a different time, I would add warrior. Commanding attention on entering a room, striding towards me, back straight as a dancer, his height elevating him above the crowd. Magnificent.  

I stare at the face in front of me. Hazel eyes flecked with the soft embers of a fire ready to re-ignite. Sweet, soft lips that generate a slow–release smile of mischief, form words of unique craziness making me double up with laughter. They shout his love of the country of his birth, even if it may not fully accept him. Those lips have found remembered words of his youth, where aye escapes now as frequently as fuck.  

But that mouth can fuse with his eyes to project wrath, an emotion he exiled in his youth; banished to live in the dark confines of his soul, but like a sleeping dragon spews vitriol when roused. I add fire.  After a pause, I add heart. It lies within that dark cave too. His father taught him to see both sides of an argument, said that this is the path of a good man. I know that he tries to follow his teaching, confront taunts with eloquence, to accept the unacceptable. Has this generated the pride, formed the tilt of the head? Or is it defiance, melded with smothered anger with that which must be endured? No longer. The sleeping dragon has been roused, spewed vitriol. I add fire. 

I wince at seeing the swollen, misaligned joints on the thumb of his left hand cradled within long fingers that can stretch to a chord. Those elegant fingers he drew into a fist, releasing a viper strike, delivered venom. First strike must happen within five seconds. I had been told this by a sensei. Had he? When had he known that he must learn to defend himself? Childhood, I conclude. Perfected as a man. Wise, I add. 

He catches my reaction to the damaged digits and pulls his arms in. Tucks both hands into his jacket pockets. Shame, I add. At having to use violence? At enjoying the feel of his fist skimming bone, burrowing into soft flesh? Regret? For what? The consequences? The Police had been appalled when they had viewed the CCTV. If he hadn’t hit out, the blade would have slipped into him. Or me. Shame at having been in a police cell? From the look that seeped from his father when they confirmed his son had to defend himself? All his years of assimilation backfiring on the one of Scottish birth. This son, this professional son, the one who had made all the hardship of crossing borders, walking a path that took him further from himself worthwhile. Or so he had believed, had to believe still.  

In those seconds as he looked at his youngest son, we watched the illusion dissolve. Voices from his past, old ways, traditions; he yearned for the comfort of them in his old age. At that moment, he felt the pull to walk again in his village high in the red mountains. Take his place with the men sitting in the shade, amber beads flowing over fingers, providing the rhythm to their talk of youthful adventures leaping like goats down rocks. Not the hunger, the bombings or the pain of losing family. 

My presence hadn’t helped, his father arriving and seeing his son’s head resting on the shoulder of a woman, a ferengi. Not how we had planned to out ourselves. How many battles would we have? I stopped at the word, we. Was I prepared, did I even want to be challenged about our relationship? I knew what it felt like to be the outsider, the alien, the unwanted. Stopped at borders, questioned, but I had been working. I had endured, accepted that they had the right to protect their citizens. Endure; put up with. No, I would not, could not endure what was brewing. I could not accept. I wouldn’t be able to stand silent if he was challenged. Again. Why should he? We, I add to his image. 

I flip the words, running them together, but they refuse to form a whole. Love, softly, quietly finds a space. Where had that arrived from? Had it always been there, on a page in a dictionary bookmarked by the Gods? Fate? 

‘I never chose you,’ I reply to his shocked face. ‘I am with you, because I have to be.’  

I reach into his pocket and gently pull out his damaged hand, run my fingers across the bloodied ridges. Feather touches. Fight, I add to our image and the pages flicker to form the whole.