TWO … THREE … FIVE … eight … twelve … sixteen …. Always the counting. Numbers. Under the breath. In soft, sibilant whispers. There must be no slip in their precise numbering. But we had names. Must we forget them now? Names that were known among friends. Parents. Loved ones. In which country? One that seems so distant now. The one we have left behind. Home: hills, fields, valleys; rivers, jungles, habitations; trees, flowers and fruit. They pass through my mind like those Jataka tales unfolding in the temple murals of my country. Tales of the several lives of the Bodhisattvas. The striving of The One to reach Enlightenment, become a Buddha. But first to reach the highest state of perfection. Until then he is on the road to Enlightenment and on that road which he travels through successive births, he will live and speak with all beings—animals, birds, humans. That journey of his, that Road to Perfection …. And ours? We are travelling on many unknown roads. Taking unfamiliar routes through alien terrain, crossing frontiers and borders. On and on we travel. To reach what destination and why?

The guide knows where we are being taken. We must trust him absolutely. We are walking through a forest. There are no tracks. The trees are silent and watchful sentinels. Yet they offer us protection too. Oak. Birch. Beech. Pines. The snow piles up silently. Our boots sink deep as we step cautiously through it. We cannot afford to flounder. Or delay. In the darkness we have to keep together. By instinct. Animal instinct. If we veer off the track we will be lost. Losing our way will mean that we can never make it to our destination. There’s a woman among us, with her young son. That makes sixteen of us altogether (asylum seekers, refugees—call us what you like). Seventeen with the guide. The guides change from time to time and place to place. No names. Just gestures to follow them. Trust. Absolute trust.