Here I am, sitting in a corner of this tent in Jordan, thinking about how my life has changed. Although this country has provided me immense opportunities, I still hold the memories of my motherland close to my heart. My father was from a family of traders and he himself was a cloth merchant. Every night, my father and I would lie in the open, looking at the faint stars, talking about our relatives in Afghanistan and Iraq.
I remembered that fateful night. We heard aeroplanes flying over us, bombs striking the fields, our homes, and the market. My heart started pounding. I saw houses burning, and the window panes constantly beamed an orange light. Ma opened the door with a big bang and the very next moment, an actual missile dropped on our neighbors roof. The sound was deafening enough to hide my shrill screams. We hurriedly packed some of our stuff and rushed to Ashima’s house and then to Rashid Uncle’s place. Fortunately, nothing happened to us. The next day, we went to see our house, which stood blackened like a burnt corpse.
Time didn’t allow us to reminisce about our past. We got inside a van and started our journey across the border. We began a new life there after. Jordan has provided for my education and I have good friends here, but I miss my earlier life. An integral part of my life still remains missing...
