 Far from heaven
Where he belonged was where he ran away from
By Torang Asadi
May 21, 2003
The Iranian
He woke up by the sudden thump of his seat. Rubbing
his eyes, he looked outside but saw nothing but darkness. The sudden
clapping startled him. He looked around, not knowing exactly what
to do next.
It wasn't one of those first days at school or summer
classes, where you just need to follow the rest of the kids in case
you don't know where you're going. But he felt the same; unfamiliar
surroundings caused the butterflies in his stomach.
He jumped at the ringing that came from above his
head. The light had gone off, but he had forgotten to fasten his
seatbelt. He pretended to unfasten it, in case the flight attendant
was looking. He didn't want to risk being yelled at again. He sat
there, observing the others, confused.
He listened to the silence, clutching to his bag,
which was filled with "gerdoo", "khormaa", and
other things his mother had packed for him, just in case he didn't
know how to come across food on the way. The silence was broken
by the sound of bags and feet thumping on the airplane floor. Everyone
started walking towards the front, and he followed.
As he exited the causeway, and entered the airport,
all his confusion and worries melted away, only to be replaced by
fear. He feared his alienation and estrangement. He feared the vast
crowded room, in which he was a foreigner, non-existent to the world
he was so afraid to face. He felt a phobia form inside of him. He
was embarrassed to look at the people around him, feeling punished
by their looks and wonders.
He did not know what to do, how to ask for help,
or who to seek assistance from. Women started talking to him in
a foreign tongue. Men started yelling at him in another language.
Children screamed in an awkward way. Elders walked in an unfamiliar
pace. This is what he had left for. He could not go back, because
he was seeking a better life. This was no better, but it was the
best he could find.
To be or not to be? Amongst the torture, the pain
seemed casual. Where he belonged was where he ran away from. Where
he wanted to belong, was now where he had to escape. He never learned
anything about this in his 22-years of education. He was uneducated.
Yet the land of opportunity had shined so bright in his mind, the
darkness he now encountered made him miss what he left behind, for
home is where the heart is.
As exaggerated as his feelings were, he could not
help but feel sorry for all those who had gone through this before.
How they ended up was another story. What they had to go through
to get there was their legend. How unfortunate it was that they
had to hide their distress. How ill fated he was, for not being
exposed to these legends. How regrettable it is, that we keep our
pain to ourselves.
What a failure he was, for believing he understood
what he was facing. No degree in the world could help him now, because
his heart and mind were raw. So many nights he read and recited,
so few moments did he take a moment to think. Home is where the
heart is, and having a heart is never taught in books.
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