I fell in love with my country when I was stranded in Nubira. I learned to fear nothing and hope for nothing. We planned to look for a better place to live and start a new life. I was born and raised in a Muslim family. We spent most of our time at the Mosque. To me, religion meant fear of God. We grew up. Then things changed. I could no longer keep on doing that ‘please God’. I had to keep something for my parents, so every evening, we prayed. Of course, nothing is harder than doing nothing. We were only two in my family, me and my brother Bilal.
I grew up getting ready to face the world. I was raised in a family that taught us to be satisfied with what we have. “Chasing too much costs you what you already hold,” our uncle Abdullah used to say. He took care of us after our father’s death. Growing up without our father, we learned not to expect anything from anyone, so as to avoid frustration and find happiness within ourselves. We were just two boys, and our mother who went back to the village. We never heard from her again—not because we didn’t want to hear from her, but because the means of communication weren’t available there.
Living with Abdullah, we endured starvation and famine. He was a struggling man who relied on borrowing to make ends meet. We barely had enough to eat. Our only hope was to do well in school.
In 1994, my brother Bilal left school and got a job as a clerk in one of the companies in Karumeh. I was extremely happy, I couldn’t wait to benefit from his salary. But nothing came my way. So, I reduced my expectations to make the suffering easier to bear. Of course, from the day he got that job, we never went to bed with an empty stomach.
Life was extremely hard. The only choice was to seek refuge in the northern region of the Zarath Desert. There were moments when I forgot who I was, but I refused to let that hardship threaten our comfort. We chose not to surrender to suffering, or to change what we knew. I dropped out in the seventh grade; I was happy with it. Abdullah was obsessed with women and spent all his money on them. At the time, the city was full of beautiful women, and I couldn’t blame him. I accepted his choices although the elders warned him where that path would lead. I never forgot the purpose of my life, and hoped in the end, all things would turn out well.
Sometimes, you note your dreams down, you read them back and wonder, ‘How will I ever achieve these dreams?’ I was overwhelmed and I began thinking of leaving the country, to find peace somewhere where we could sustain our lives. At first, Bilal wasn’t sure where to go and who to ask for help. After all, he just started a job. He thought of our life. I was so happy, I couldn’t believe it. I had this brother I absolutely adored. He shared all his plans with me. I was seventeen at the time, and everything was clear to me, just like a baby saying yes all the time. That fascinated me really.
In September, I promised him I wouldn’t tell anyone about our plans. And so it began, almost like a joke.
In the evenings, when he returned from work, we ate together and then prepared for bed. Since childhood, we had shared the same room, sleeping on a bunk bed.
“Hey, how was your day?” Bilal asked.
“It was good, only two goats missing. I don’t know what to tell uncle Abdullah.”
I had spent the afternoon going back and forth, searching everywhere in the forest for the missing goats but I couldn’t find them anywhere. I came home exhausted and frustrated, and realized I needed to survive without putting too much pressure on myself. Looking after goats was my job after school. I had no choice.
“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Bilal said. “Get ready.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
“I’ve got enough money today. We can’t stay any longer.”
I knew quite well that one day we’d find a way out.
Well then, I picked out the best clothes I had and a nice cap. Bilal had always looked after me. We were poor but he didn’t want me to look the part.
A car was ready to pick us up in the morning and take us to the Sudari, a district in the north. “How did you afford this?” We had a journey of a day and a half ahead of us.
“I don’t know. It was a gift from Allah. I resigned and I asked my manager to do me a favor and that was it.”
Normally you don’t get those kinds of favors in our country, so it must truly have come from Allah. Everything seemed to be well. Just one day stood between us and our destination. The only route we could afford was the desert way, and that was all we had. We hired camels for twenty-four dollars. It felt like going to war, but we made it to Nubira.
It was a long journey under a scorching desert sun, without food and water. The heat was terrible. Around 2 am, Bilal fainted from exhaustion. Tears came streaming down my face as I called on for help but no one came. I carried him myself. He felt hot in my arms, so hot that I pictured life slipping out of him. I sprinkled water on his face, forced him to drink and fanned him with a cloth. After several attempts, he coughed, drew a small breath and came back to life, crying in a thin voice. He felt better and began to breathe normally again. We paid five dollars to spend the night in a tent. It was too hot inside, but outside was filled with mosquitos. I sat in the corner of the tent, staring at the stars, hoping to see tomorrow.
The next morning, we went to the town. We thought of heading to the Eastern provinces to find work but all borders were closed. We didn’t have a choice but to act like the Nubirian, enduring pain that follows experience, the inhumanity of fleeing a county filled with corruption, unfair taxes, and nepotism. The entire nation protested against the state, and the state protects itself by killing people just to stay in power. The police threw tear gas without mercy, and yet both came from the same mother. I felt disappointed. It was the first time I ran for my life. I felt trapped in someone else’s prison, without dreams, no future, but still fighting for life.
We met with a well-dressed man out in the street, he looked like he worked for the government. He stared at us, making our hearts beat faster.
“Don’t be alarmed by what is happening here,” he said. “Just watch out for your health!”
We didn’t mind him. We only thought of our happiness. All we needed was information to survive.
When I turned around to look at him again, he was already far away. Bilal was standing with a young, well-dressed girl. I was happy to see them talking and walked over to join them. But what I heard was not good. It made me feel depressed and tired, and it left me wondering why I chose to leave the goats.
“You’re coming from the east?” she yelled at Bilal.
I don’t know what kind of question Bilal asked, but I hoped it was a simple one.
“You people from outside have bad manners!” she added. “Don’t tell me your nonsense!! What brought you here, don’t you know the rules?”
“Keep quiet!” said Bilal sharply.
I stood back watching, thinking to myself, ‘when is he going to say it?’
“I am sorry, alright,” he said calmly. “I hope you don’t mind, we have come in peace, and mean no harm.”
She said nothing. She looked at us from head to toe. She sighed and shook her head.
“We came here looking for a better life,” Bilal continued. “And we believe you can help.”
“You don’t even know how hard life is here,” she said without hesitation.
“We just need a place to stay for a night… and any kind of work.”
She looked at us, at my dusty clothes and my tired face. That’s when I truly realized nothing is for free, and I knew what true happiness means. Her expression changed. I had no idea what was going to happen but I waited around to see where this was going.
“How long have you been travelling?” she asked.
“Four days through the desert,” I said.
Her eyes softened, she looked away and then back at us. “Alright, I’m Lina, I’ll help.”
She took us far from the town. We became her guardians. In the evening, we got to her grandparents’ home. She explained our situation to them in their language, we understood nothing. We were given one room in the back. It wasn’t comfortable but it was better than the tent. Hope rose in me. There are still people out there who can help. I said to myself.
“My cousin needs people to work for him,” she said the next morning. “It’s hard work, but they pay daily.”
“We’re ready,” Bilal said. “And thanks for your support.”
“Just don’t cause trouble.”
That was the first time I had ever worked for money. And it was the first time since we left home, that I felt we might actually survive. We went to the construction site, and the ways we were treated reminded me of who I am. The happiness of the past felt real again.
After work, I came home and found I had no appetite. The next day was the same. Bilal coughed up blood. I was shocked. We were forced to stop working and returned to the village to rest. Everything felt uncomfortable. I woke each morning knowing only the present. I was the same, free of pressure. I’d be lying if I told you I was fine.
Every breath acted as a chosen pace, and now we trace where we came from. Every loss finds my voice. Every fall carves deeply into stone. I did not learn from simple things. Hardship shaped me into who I am. Sitting with my own reflection, without looking away, taught me to measure my patience. The grandmother gave Bilal some herbs. He grew strong again. As for me, I had been feeling unwell since the day he collapsed. My thoughts drifted away from material things, toward the dignity of simply living the life I had.
Outcomes lead nowhere. Lina was right: we had no idea how hard life was here. But to know when to act and when to walk away. We had been chasing something that kept running when we needed to be at peace in our own way.
Have you ever been at a loss, feeling like nothing is going as it should? We learned that everything matters. Those days in Nubira gave me purpose. I am enough as I am. There is no certainty in this life. We refused to let the past define us. Instead, we stood in decision and never surrendered. Learning from hardship was our best school, because it made us reflect on where we had come from. When we realized that running forward was no longer possible, we returned empty-handed. We came back carrying guilt and new strategies to live where we felt safe, where we could be heard. It is persistence, hope and trust in those who stand by you that helps you through.
