The Sufferings of Immigration—2
My mother and Isa turned their heads from the seats in front, eager to hear my father’s sorrowful tale. He looked into my eyes, and tears formed around his weary eyes
By: Khan Mohammad Hedayat
My father, seething with anger and despair, walked over to the lone tree where a few others were gathered. I couldn’t understand why he went there. Weren’t we supposed to leave this suffocating and dreary place after settling the accounts? I thought to myself: If the issue is money, why did they separate my father? What does he want? Money doesn’t grow on trees here. Neither my mother nor Isa knew the answer. All we could do was watch as our dignity and honor were trampled upon.
Every time I heard the voices of those three men, I felt an army of rage and hatred assaulting my heart. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and imaginations.
I told myself: If I had the power, I would transform myself into a ferocious, terrifying beast right now—devouring those three men first and then swallowing all the oppressors and bullies of the world in one gulp. But you cannot imagine the vile curses I hurled at God in my heart. I looked up at the overcast sky, then sighed softly—so quietly that only my mother and Isa could hear—and said, “Oh God, why don’t you melt away in shame?”
My mother, furious, shot me a glare and said, “Watch your mouth! What nonsense are you spouting? Now, you dare to talk back to God?”
Her words left me disheartened. I didn’t know God was too great to care about people’s words. Until now, all I had heard about Him—mostly from my mother—was that God was mighty and helped His servants. But this time, filled with hopelessness, I asked, “Why isn’t the God you always said was the helper of the weak helping us now? I protested, so what’s the harm in that?”
“My daughter, be careful! Never question God, or you’ll go straight to Hell.”
“Hell!”
It was the first time I’d heard that strange word. My anxiety grew. I asked, “Mother, where is Hell? What kind of place is it?”
My mother explained, “Hell is a dangerous place, meant for sinners. Those who question God are sent there after death. It’s a place where there’s nothing but fire, and its fuel is the souls of sinful humans.”
I was terrified. I didn’t want to say another word about God. But one thing became clear to me—hell, as my mother described it, must be this very place. Maybe it wasn’t worse than here: hunger, cold, waiting, humiliation, illness... I fell silent. I didn’t want to say anything more.
Hours passed, and the crowd gradually thinned. The yard was nearly empty, with only the people under the tree and their families remaining. We were among them. The man holding the list of names called into the building. Shortly after, two men, each having a wireless device, came out. They walked straight to the group under the tree, which consisted of about ten people. They counted everyone and then split them into two groups.
One of the men approached the three doors leading to separate halls. He motioned for five people to follow him. The other man headed behind the building, taking the remaining five with him.
We waited for just over an hour. It wasn’t just my mother, Isa, and I enduring the pain of waiting; a few other women and children shared our plight. That one hour felt like an entire black, hellish year. Our suffering wasn’t just from waiting—we were also burdened by the uncertainty surrounding my father’s fate. Where had he gone? When would he return? What cruel fate awaited him?
What if he didn’t come back? Where would we go? How would we survive? These poisonous thoughts stung our minds and hearts every moment. We knew no one here. Whom could we ask? Who would know where my father and the others had been taken? Should we dare to ask the three men sowing seeds of fear and hatred? No, never. It wasn’t an option. We had no choice but to swallow our grief.
After an hour, my father and another man appeared behind the building. Their faces bore the marks of exhaustion and despair. The accountant announced, “You can now join your families and board the vehicle.”
I was overwhelmed with joy. My father and Isa loaded the suitcases and backpacks under the vehicle. My father then took my hand, and we all climbed in. The vehicle was divided into two sections, and we were waiting for the remaining passengers before it could depart.
On the left side, in the middle of the vehicle, my father and I sat on two seats behind my mother and Isa. I took a deep breath, thinking I could finally talk since those three men weren’t inside. The other passengers were all like us, sharing the same fate.
Turning to my father, I asked, “Papa, where were you?”
My mother and Isa turned their heads from the seats in front, eager to hear my father’s sorrowful tale. He looked into my eyes, and tears formed around his weary eyes. After a deep, painful sigh, he recounted the hour he had spent away:
“After we were moved from under the tree, they took us behind the building, where the restrooms were. Two of the five of us, including me, were taken through the back door of the building. The other three were ordered to clean all the restrooms immediately.
We two were taken to the first floor’s hallway. Cleaning supplies were scattered in a corner. We were instructed to clean all three floors’ hallways, bathrooms, and restrooms. Once we finished, we were allowed to leave. But I don’t know about the other three—perhaps they’re still working.”
A flood of strange and troubling questions surged through my mind. I didn’t want to salt my father’s wounds by asking more questions. As I lowered my eyes, I noticed dried bloodstains on my clothes. This prompted a question: “What is our crime?”
At that moment, the driver entered through the middle door. My father leaned close to my ear and whispered cautiously, “Don’t talk too much, my daughter. We are migrants... migrants.” The End.
