O dear son,
On a gloomy, rainy August evening, we set foot on this land. The airplane landed at a small airport that bore no resemblance to our notions of the advanced and glitzy West. We picked up our suitcases, filled with longing, and eventuall ...
O dear son,
On a gloomy, rainy August evening, we set foot on this land. The airplane landed at a small airport that bore no resemblance to our notions of the advanced and glitzy West. We picked up our suitcases, filled with longing, and eventually located a quiet bus stop tucked away in a remote corner.
Traveling to foreign lands brings with it the joy of discovery—discovering the best parts of that soil: ancient ruins or museums, festivals and restaurants. But migration to that same land is full of fears—fears rooted in incapability. On the way from the airport to the hotel, I stared out the bus window at a vast, green plain so unlike the familiar landscapes of my homeland, while listening to a language in which only a few words sounded vaguely familiar. It was as if all I had learned belonged to another world. The doubt that sprouted in our hearts at the moment of departure had by then become a towering tree… Was the path we chose truly the right one?
Exhaustion twisted our bodies into the hotel bed so tightly that we forgot the fear of the next morning. And from the next day on, many hard days came—and turned into yesterdays. We learned how to fall and how to rise again. Until now, when our hearts have become full of memories of what has passed.
Today, as I write these few lines, you are sitting across from me, playing in your own little world. From here, I can see your face—your eyes not unlike mine. My hair once looked like yours, and a few of your habits are tiny inheritances from me. It’s as if I’m seeing myself in a magical mirror, returned to my youth. My scalp covered again with dark hair, and ahead of me, instead of what has passed, bright days lie in wait. What a dream…
And yet, the life that lies ahead of you is, for me, a road nearing its end. Today, as I still am—and with every day that adds to my past—there may be neither opportunity nor strength left to tell you my story. So I decided to write it down for you somewhere.
Perhaps your curious eyes will never be drawn to read these lines. But the words will live on forever in virtual memory, and these few fragile sentences will keep a name—your name—on the cover of a slender book: Your parents stepped onto this land on a gloomy, rainy August evening.
And so I tell you, O dear son…
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