“Turkey’s not so bad”, I say, willing the heat of withheld tears to stay just that. “Well”, she says, “I prefer here.” I grit a smile and run, making it round the corner before the rage builds and the heat turns to a flood.
Ar-Rahim! Remove this anger from inside my heart. Reassure me it’s going to be ok. Don’t let me begrudge others from living their lives in my country. Prevent me from looking with envy.
We have friend who’ve fled war-torn countries, with nothing more than a weekender suitcase. As refugees they entered a country where they didn’t speak the language and had no income or home to return to. And they did it with courage and faith. We’re returning to a house full of our belongings in a country three out of four call their own. What do I have to complain of?! Ya Allah! Please ease this rage that I feel. That a passport can determine where you can live your lives; that a government can tell you to choose between your husband and your country. It’s like a bad dream you can’t wake up from.
But I am awake.
So I cuddle my kids and come home. Whatever that word now means.