It is so quiet here now. Every night for the past week, I have sat at my desk, running my eyes over the lines of my textbooks, listening to the clattering percussion of luggage wheels running over the salty black asphalt by my window.

The local students are leaving for Christmas; most of the international students are going home for Christmas. Like so many migratory birds, they are rolling out of the gates that my window gazes out over. I am not affected by the fact that I will not be heading back for Christmas; rather, I am struck by the sudden quiet and silence that has descended so sharply on the compound.

On a regular night, I will hear the drinking games and the hyena laughter of the people along my corridor, and of those at the bar. These days, however, can be spent entirely in silence: a breath echoes against the palm of your hand; your footsteps race ahead of you along the empty corridor; the shuffle of books sends shudders through the room.

I exaggerate, I know. But knowing and feeling are two entirely different things altogether. I know that there is at least one other presence in the compound, amidst dark-panelled halls of warmth. I know he sits at his desk, or lies on his bed, just the same as me, surfs the Net, fights sleepiness, sometimes in vain.

In spite of this knowledge, this unusual silence will take some getting used to.

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