The face is what forbids us to kill

“Harder! Much harder!” shouts the teacher. “You have to attack! You mustn’t wait! Faster, quicker, meaner! They can’t let you down! You must stay standing! Never fall over! Never hold back!”

The instructor’s sharp voice echoes through the gym. Rachel stands on the mat. Her arms hang beside her thin body like rolls of wrapping paper. She sees the coach jumping there in her immaculate white workout clothes. Strong, upright, fearless. The eyes of all the girls are on me, Rachel knows. It’s not the first time. In fact, it seems like all the martial arts lessons revolve around one thing: her being made a fool of. She’s the scapegoat of the group. She’s the victim, the patsy, the fool, the sucker, the soft touch.

“Now are we even moving?” asks the teacher. “Try to remember what we learned last year. Or pretend you remember something.”

Rachel peers at her opponent. A girl her age. Ten, eleven. She has a wild look in her eyes. Her hair is slicked back. Does she have dark pencil lines under her eyes to appear frightening? Rachel clipped her nails just before class started. And washed her face.

“This is going nowhere, Rachel,” the instructor concludes. “Please, go get in line with the other kids. Let’s try again at the end of class. Maybe you’ll be done daydreaming and are prepared to fight.”

A willing laugh erupts. Rachel shrugs and trudges to her spot at the back of the group. As she passes, she peers at the linoleum. A mouse searching for a hole. A hedgehog longing to hibernate.

Her mother sits on the small wooden platform. Rachel doesn’t make eye contact. She knows what’s going to happen after class. She’ll get a lecture. From her mother. And if things go wrong, the coach will intervene too. They both have her best interests at heart. She believes that. Both are worried. That she’s so sweet, so defenceless, so naive. Hence the bullying at school, on the street. She doesn't stand up for herself, they say. And that has to change.

After all those conversations with school administrators, psychologists, remedial teachers, caregivers, and social workers, the decision was made as a last resort to offer her martial arts lessons. She must and will become more resilient. That's what she's constantly being told. How will she ever survive in a world ruled by wolves, rats, and snakes? How can she hold her own?

Rachel sees how other girls fight. Hard, merciless, fierce. They kick, they hit. And they get kicked, hit. But they don't flinch. There are no cries, no whimpers. Only shouts, curses, insults.

Rachel would love to disappear unnoticed to the locker room right now. She's brought a book in her gym bag: Watership Down. She's halfway through. How wonderful it would be to continue reading undisturbed. She's curious how her friends are doing. Hazel? Bigwig? Blackberry? Pipkin? Speedwell? But especially. Fiver.

No one notices. But Rachel spots it. A pigeon has flown into the room. Through one of the many broken windows. The greyish-white creature has perched on one of the side beams and is watching in amazement at the many frantic movements below her.

How wonderful it would be, Rachel dreams. To be a bird. She doesn’t mind of she would be a pigeon. To not have to worry about the world. About all the obligations, about all the bullying. To just go your own way. Without a mother, without a coach.

The teacher yells at her. Rachel opens her eyes. Oops, she’s back in reality. And realizing what's happening. It's her turn again soon. She'll be competing against the tallest girl in the group. The girl is twelve years but looks like a full-grown weightlifter.

Rachel hears a loud, dull thud. And as she looks up, she sees the pigeon tumbling down. Did she fly into a window? And while the girls fight, hit and kick, Rachel kneels. Stroking the bird's head, the broken wing. And while the others prepare to survive in a world full of snakes and rats, Rachel holds the little creature in the palms of her sweet, defenceless, naive hands, and kisses the small face.