Windsor Dove

Arabian Sea Newspaper - Special

A Windsor Pigeon My visit to Windsor has always held a special place in my heart. This time, I was accompanied by my friend Sabrina and her daughter, whom I used to visit from time to time in Slough, southwest of London. Windsor, despite its small size, possesses a strange charm that blends history and tranquility, as if time moves at a slower pace there. I had visited this city twice before. The first time, I wandered through the corridors of the famous Windsor Castle, and I was amazed by the splendor and royal treasures I saw, especially the golden lion's head, the image of which is still etched in my memory. That day, the flag of the kingdom was raised, which meant that Queen Elizabeth II was inside the castle. I felt a sense of awe, as if I were standing at the gateway to history. Curiosity has always been my companion in my exile, and I regularly visited historical landmarks in Britain. For an immigrant like me, who had lived in this country for nearly six years, understanding its history and traditions was a gateway to understanding its people and culture. However, the city of Windsor, in particular, attracted me more than others. On my second visit there, I met a lively elderly woman on the bus. She told me that she came to Windsor every week to walk in its beautiful gardens all day long. We sat together in a small cafe on Peascod Street, then parted ways after that moment was imprinted in my heart. On my third visit last May, accompanied by Sabrina and her daughter, I felt something inside me pulling me towards that particular street, Peascod Street. For those who don't know it, it is Windsor's oldest and most famous street, and is now a busy pedestrian area filled with shops and various activities, closed to cars during business hours to give visitors a comfortable shopping and strolling experience. It was first mentioned in 1177 as a road connecting the market square (where the statue of Queen Victoria stands) and Cluer Lane. We walked from alley to alley until we reached it. As we were walking, Sabrina felt a slight pain in her stomach, so she suggested that she sit down for a while on a nearby bench and let me continue my tour, but I preferred to stay with her. The street was teeming with passersby, and the movement was constant. On the upper floor of one of the houses, a small window caught my eye, like a small glass house, in which a black and white cat sat, staring steadily at the roof of a neighboring house. It looked like it was stalking prey. I followed its gaze and saw a pigeon fluttering between one roof and another, then landing to eat crumbs placed in front of a barbershop behind the bench where we were sitting. I looked closely, and I don't know why, maybe it was my love for animals that drove me to do so. But what I saw caught my attention sharply: plastic threads were tightly wrapped around the legs of that poor pigeon, and they were mixed with small twigs, like shackles lurking around its delicate limbs. One of its toes had turned black. I told Sabrina, and decided to approach to try to catch the pigeon and free it. At that moment, a woman came out of the barbershop and said that she had been trying to save the pigeon since morning. The four of us - me, Sabrina, her daughter, and that woman - whom we had not yet met - cooperated and formed a small circle around the pigeon until the woman was able to catch it. When we caught it, it seemed to have given up, as if it were saying: "Finally, someone felt my pain and came to rescue me." I held it in my hands, and it was throbbing with fear and pain. Sabrina and her daughter began to cut the tangled threads, carefully and cautiously, while I continued to hold it gently. We spent more than twenty minutes trying to untangle those threads, one by one, as if we were unraveling puzzles of suffering that had lasted for months. We were unable to remove them all, as some of the threads had embedded themselves in the flesh of the toe, which appeared to have lost its blood supply and life. Some passersby gathered, and some realized that we were trying to save a weak creature, so another woman intervened to help. We began to discuss where we could take the pigeon so that it could receive medical care. The woman - and it turned out that her name was "Emma" - took us into the barbershop where she worked to wait for her until she searched and came back with something to put the pigeon in. We sat waiting for her, continuing to care for the pigeon, which I named Angel, removing the last of the tangled threads, as if we were freeing it from a small prison. After a while, Emma returned with a fabric box for her dog. She told us: "It's as if God sent the three of you to her at the right moment... She was about to die." It later turned out that the threads that were wrapped around her legs were remnants of an anti-pigeon net, in which she had fallen and become entangled for weeks, perhaps even months. The opinion was that Angel should be transferred to a bird center, and the nearest center was forty miles away. Despite her concerns and despite the late hour, Emma did not hesitate to take on the task, as I had to return to London and Sabrina's house was not on the way to the bird center. Emma took a taxi for forty miles after finishing work, just to deliver "Angel" to a bird care center. For a moment, it made me think about the tenderness of some people's hearts and made me wonder if I had the level of compassion that Emma had? Indeed, that Quranic verse from Surat Al-Hujurat was manifested before my eyes: "O mankind, indeed We have created you from male and female and made you peoples and tribes that you may know one another. Indeed, the most noble of you in the sight of Allah is the most righteous of you. Indeed, Allah is Knowing and Acquainted." We stayed in touch with Emma, the kind-hearted woman, and she told me that the center had to amputate the black toe, but they saved the leg, and that Angel later recovered and was released into the sky after two weeks. When I think about that moment, I feel that we didn't just save a bird, but we saved something of humanity within us. We, who were brought from London and Slough to Peascod Street in Windsor, were perhaps just a means... a response to a faint voice that no one but us heard. Perhaps, before we are swept away by our daily preoccupations, behind our selfishness disguised as modern excuses, we should stop for a moment and contemplate the creatures that have no voice. The weak, small creatures that share this planet with us do not have a tongue to ask for help, but they have hearts that beat with life just like us. Thinking about them does not make us less human... but perhaps, it is what keeps us human in a world that wants to forget mercy. I do not deny that I felt immense happiness when I learned that Angel had recovered and was released after a short period, as I am not a fan of bird cages. This is the story of the Windsor pigeon, a story of mercy and humanity, reminding us that we were created as peoples and tribes to know and have mercy on one another, not to quarrel or distance ourselves. Mercy among people is the bridge that makes the world wider in heart and more beautiful to live in, and without it, the universe narrows despite its vastness. Mariam Ismail Tunisian journalist