The Lines We Draw

On the planet Earth, in a small town in the middle of a large country, a little girl sat at her oversized school desk. She looked attentively toward the front of the class, where her lanky, foreboding teacher stood by the blackboard. The atmosphere in the room was heavy, laden with words unspoken — for Sarah, it felt difficult to breathe.

The class was world history, and he had just finished going over the Berlin Wall. He told the class his grandfather kept a piece of the wall and brandished it to the class with gusto. Sarah had snorted, and he whipped his head toward her, an accusatory scowl on his face. A silent standoff transpired, the teacher's gaze penetrating Sarah's own in a challenge to say something more. Her heart rate quickened, and she looked down at her desk.

The other kids shifted in their chairs uncomfortably, shooting glances at each other and murmuring softly to break the tension. The sun shone harshly through the window, prompting a bead of sweat to roll down her back, but she stayed statuesque, thinking maybe if she didn't look up, he would decide to move on - and he did. He resumed his ramblings, but the class didn't resume with him. Instead, they looked at the girl, wondering what would happen next.

"That's Diego’s friend,” said one soft, hushed voice.

"She needs to shut up,” advised another.

“A border is nothing but the separation of land, children. You would be wise to remember that,” came the teacher’s leering voice, paired with an equally leering gaze that he swept over all of the children.

Dark pit-like eyes stopped and scanned the class nuisance over thin-framed glasses, and Sarah gripped her chair tightly. She knew that wasn’t truly what a border meant — not in practice — but she didn’t dare speak up again. The teacher's gaze lingered a bit longer on the girl, but when she was satisfactorily silent, he resumed his lesson.

“Sometimes that’s what a country has to do to protect itself,” came the teacher’s final, resounding justification, the tone louder with each heavy word. “By any means necessary.” With finality, he slammed his head on the desk he was now standing behind, and every student's head snapped his direction.

Sarah stiffened in quiet defiance. She quickly turned her gaze to the window, where a line of students stood — pink, yellow, and blue shirts against brown skin. They were being ushered into a white van, and the sight made her nauseous. Her muscles ached for action, for justice, for her best friend, Diego.

She knew soon the only border would be between her and the country she loved,

between her and the freedom she cherished,

between her and the hope being ripped from her.

She laid her head down on the desk, the weight suddenly too much to bear. The teacher continued the lesson, his voice droning on, but Sarah knew it didn’t matter anymore — this country had drawn its lines.

In her head, she replayed her memories with Diego: his rumbling, joyful laugh — his quick, helping hands — his big, innocent eyes. She hoped against hope to go back to earlier... earlier...

Earlier, on the planet Earth, in a small town in the middle of a large country, a girl named Sarah and a boy named Diego played hopscotch in the sticky heat of August. They collapsed onto the ground together, laughing at their exhaustion and vulnerability.

“Are you my best friend?” Diego asked, his eyes wide and hopeful.

“Of course I am,” Sarah said, handing him a white daisy, which Diego put in his pocket with a smile. “I hope you’ll always remember that.”

They smiled at each other, and the bell rang, the signal that their break was over. They headed inside, not knowing it was their last time seeing one another. Unseen by the citizens of this town, a line of white vans rolled toward the school, cages hidden inside. The students stayed inside, learning their lessons in the meanwhile... meanwhile...

Meanwhile, on the planet Earth, in a small town in the middle of a large country, a boy named Diego stood in a line winding toward a white van. He looked up at the adults around him — lanky, foreboding figures — who ushered him forward with heavy hands pressed to his back, barking:

“Stay in line.”

“Don’t talk.”

“Stop crying.”

Their eyes were dark and empty, yet the small boy found himself searching within them for any trace of humanity. His tear-streaked face felt leathery and stiff, pulling against his skin with every blink. His eyes burned, raw and stinging. Despite their orders, he cried out:

"MAMA! I want my mama!”

His plea was met with the rough, cracked hands of a man who leaned down, his breath sour and words sharper still.

“Your mother isn’t around anymore,” he said.

“You’d do well to remember that.”

Diego looked toward the ground, down at the flower that had fallen out of his pocket, knowing he would always remember the world when it didn’t have its lines as he was ushered into the van. Next to him, the white van smelled of putrid gasoline, and the cries frol the other children ripped him back down to reality. A rough hand landed on his shoulder and guided into him into the van, where chuldren's faces were pressed against the mesh cage seperating driver from abductee. The doors slammed behind him, the final border between him and his reality, and he crumbled to the floor, remembering Sarah's words from earlier - best friends. Remember it.

Sarah kept her head down on the desk, the teacher droning on about borders and separation, her thoughts tangled like yarn. One thing, however, was for certain — this was the first time she remembered Diego crying. The first time she remembered seeing him thrown to the ground. And this was the last time she’d feel whole again. After all, she lived in a place where lines were drawn, not through land, but through hearts.