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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