I Packed More Than My Suitcases

The Announcement

The day my parents told us we were going to live in another country, everyone seemed happy.

Abi was already talking about the new house.

Oummi was looking at schools on her phone.

My little brother mainly wanted to know if he could bring all his toys.

Me, I was thinking about only one thing.

My best friend.

I didn't say anything.

I didn't want to ruin the moment.

Abi was explaining why this departure was important for us, he talked about our religion, a new start, things we could do more easily over there.

Oummi was smiling.

My little brother too.

So I smiled.

Just a little bit.

But inside, something had tightened.

The next day, at school, my best friend looked at me for a long time.

Then she asked:

"Mayssa, are you really leaving?"

I nodded.

She looked down.

"Forever?"

I didn't like that question.

I didn't even know what forever meant.

So I answered:

"I don't know."

She said:

"Oh."

And after that, we almost didn't talk anymore.

Not because we were mad.

Just because we didn't know what to say.

---

The Boxes

In the following days, the boxes started.

At first, it was a bit fun.

I put things in them, I wrote my name on them, I decided what I wanted to keep with me on the plane.

Then my room started to change.

An empty shelf.

Then two.

The picture frames taken off the wall.

The books stacked up.

The clothes folded into suitcases.

One evening, Abi came into my room with a big smile.

He looked around and said:

"There, it's becoming real."

I also looked around.

Yes.

It was becoming real.

But not in the same way for him and for me.

Everyone was talking about what we were going to have.

A new house.

A new school.

A new neighborhood.

A new life.

Me, I was mostly looking at what I was losing.

My room.

My way to school.

The bakery where Oummi sometimes bought something on the way back.

The little mark on the wall that I had made when moving my desk.

My best friend.

My grandparents.

All the things I had never thought about before we started putting them in boxes.

One evening, Oummi came to sit on my bed.

Well, on the mattress, because the bed had already been taken apart.

She asked me:

"Are you happy?"

I answered:

"Yes."

She smiled.

Then she left.

And I stayed sitting.

I don't know why I had said yes.

Maybe because I could see that she was happy.

Maybe because I felt like I had to be too.

---

The Last Days

The days went on.

At school, everyone knew I was leaving.

Some girls asked me lots of questions.

"Where will you live?"

"What language will you speak?"

"Will you come back?"

"Will you have a big house?"

I answered as best I could.

My best friend, she almost didn't ask questions anymore.

She just stayed with me.

At recess, we sometimes sat in the same place as usual.

And one day, she asked me:

"Will you forget me?"

I answered too quickly:

"No."

She looked at me.

"Promise?"

This time, I waited before answering.

Then I said:

"Promise."

But in my head, another question appeared.

What if she forgets me?

---

The Day Before the Departure

The day before the departure, my room was almost empty.

Only my suitcase, my bag, and a few things on the floor remained.

I sat near the window.

I looked outside for a long time.

I knew almost everything you could see from that window.

The roof across the street.

The tree at the corner of the street.

The streetlamp that sometimes flickered.

The little piece of sky between two buildings.

I wondered what the view from my new room would look like.

Then I started to cry.

Not a lot.

Just silently.

Oummi came in without me hearing her.

She stopped.

Then she came to sit next to me.

"Mayssa?"

I quickly wiped my cheeks.

"I'm fine."

She looked at me.

I knew she didn't believe me.

She asked:

"Are you sad to leave?"

I didn't answer.

Then I said:

"A little."

She waited.

So I added:

"A lot."

Oummi stayed silent.

I thought she was going to remind me of all the good reasons to leave.

Tell me about the new school.

The new house.

Everything that was going to be better.

But she didn't.

She asked me:

"What will you miss the most?"

And then, I think something opened up.

I told her everything.

My best friend.

Grandma.

My room.

My school.

Even the bakery.

Even the flickering streetlamp.

Oummi smiled a little at that moment.

But she didn't laugh.

Then I said:

"Everyone is happy except me."

Her smile disappeared.

"You thought you had to be happy?"

I shrugged.

"You are happy."

She looked at the empty room.

Then she told me:

"We are happy about some things. But that doesn't mean you don't have the right to be sad about what you're leaving behind."

I looked at her.

She continued:

"We talked to you a lot about why we wanted to leave. I think we didn't ask you enough about how you felt."

I didn't answer.

But that sentence stayed in my head for a long time.

---

The Departure

The next day, we left.

At the airport, everything was fast.

The suitcases.

The passports.

The announcements.

People walking in all directions.

I felt like everyone knew exactly where to go except me.

My best friend had given me a little envelope before I left.

I hadn't opened it yet.

I had kept it in my bag.

On the plane, when everyone had settled in, I took it out.

Inside, there was a piece of paper folded in two.

She had written:

"You don't have the right to forget me."

Below, she had drawn two little stick figures that were very badly done.

I laughed.

Then I cried.

Then I laughed again.

I think the lady sitting a bit further away didn't understand what was happening to me.

---

A New House

When we arrived, it was warmer.

Much warmer.

Everything seemed different to me.

The streets.

The cars.

The buildings.

The signs.

Even the light seemed different.

Abi was looking around with a big smile.

Oummi too.

My little brother was talking nonstop.

Me, I was looking.

That's all.

The new house was pretty.

Really.

My room was even a little bigger than the old one.

Abi said to me:

"So?"

I answered:

"It's nice."

And it was nice.

But it wasn't my room.

Not yet.

The walls were too clean.

There was no mark.

No memory.

No place where I knew exactly what to put.

The first night, I went to bed and looked at the ceiling.

I couldn't sleep.

I took my phone to check the time.

There was a message from my best friend.

"So?"

I answered:

"I arrived."

She sent:

"What's it like?"

I looked around me.

Then I wrote:

"Different."

I couldn't find anything better.

---

The New School

In the first few days, everyone asked me if I liked it.

"Do you like the neighborhood?"

"Do you like the house?"

"Are you happy?"

I often answered yes.

Because some things I really did like.

But I didn't know how to explain that I could like something here and want to find something back there.

Then there was my new school.

In the morning, my stomach hurt.

Oummi accompanied me.

At the entrance, I asked her:

"Can you stay?"

She answered:

"I can stay a few minutes."

I watched the other girls pass by.

They all seemed to know where to go.

Me, I didn't know anyone.

A teacher came to get me.

She said my name.

"Mayssa?"

I raised my hand.

Then I looked at Oummi.

She smiled at me.

I followed her.

The class wasn't bad.

The girls either.

But everything required an effort from me.

Understanding how things worked.

Knowing where to sit.

Understanding certain expressions.

Knowing who to talk to.

At noon, I looked around and thought about my old school.

I knew exactly where my best friend would have been sitting.

I wanted to go home.

Not to the new house.

To the old one.

That evening, I said to Abi:

"I want to go home."

He looked at me.

"But we are home."

I got upset.

"No. The other house."

He didn't answer.

I think he understood after a few seconds.

Oummi came to sit with us.

I said:

"I don't like school."

That wasn't completely true.

I didn't know the school well enough yet to know if I liked it.

I was mostly scared.

So I added:

"I don't know anyone."

Oummi asked me:

"Do you want to talk about it?"

This time, I didn't say yes just to please her.

I answered:

"Yes."

---

Little by Little

The weeks passed.

Slowly at first.

Then a little faster.

I started to recognize the way to school.

The man at the small grocery store in the neighborhood knew which juice my little brother always wanted.

A girl from my class sat next to me several times.

Then one day, she asked me if I wanted to stay with her during recess.

I said yes.

I didn't think:

There, I've replaced my best friend.

Because you don't replace people like you replace a pair of shoes.

She was just a new person.

A new story.

And that, I took time to understand.

I kept talking to my best friend.

At first, almost every day.

Then sometimes every other day.

Sometimes less.

Once, she didn't answer for a whole day.

I looked at my phone at least twenty times.

In the evening, she sent me:

"Sorry, I was at my cousin's."

I was relieved.

But also a little sad.

Her life was going on.

Without me.

And mine was going on too.

Without her.

I think that was one of the hardest things to accept.

---

Two Places in My Heart

One evening, a few months after we arrived, I was near the window of my room.

That room wasn't completely empty anymore now.

I had hung things on the wall.

My books had found their place.

There was even a little mark near the desk.

This time, I had made it myself.

Abi didn't know yet.

I planned to keep that information to myself for as long as possible.

Then I heard the adhan.

I had already heard it many times since we arrived.

But that evening, I stopped to listen to it.

I don't know why.

Maybe because I was calmer.

Maybe because I was finally starting to hear something other than everything I missed.

Oummi came in.

She stood next to me.

We listened for a few seconds.

Then she asked me:

"Is it better now?"

I thought.

Before, I would probably have answered yes immediately.

This time, I really thought.

Then I said:

"Yes."

I paused.

"But sometimes, I still miss it."

Oummi nodded.

"What?"

"Everything."

She smiled gently.

Then she told me:

"You can be happy here and still have the right to miss there."

I turned to her.

I think I had needed to hear that sentence from the beginning.

Because for a long time, I had believed I had to choose.

Either I loved our new life.

Or I loved the old one.

Either I was happy to be here.

Or I was sad to have left.

But it wasn't like that.

I could love hearing the adhan and want to see my old street again.

I could love my new school and think about my old class.

I could laugh with a new friend and miss the one I had left enormously.

I could be grateful for what we had here and still cry sometimes for what we had left behind.

Both could exist at the same time.

---

Me Too, I Am Making the Hijra

My parents had prepared our hijra a lot.

The papers.

The suitcases.

The house.

The school.

The trip.

Me too, I had made the hijra.

But I think at first, no one had really understood that my hijra didn't fit only in a suitcase.

I had carried my memories.

My habits.

My fears.

My friendships.

The places I loved.

And everything I had left behind.

Today, I no longer feel like I did on the day we arrived.

This house is starting to become my house.

This street is starting to become my street.

There are places here that I would be sad to leave now.

It's strange when I think about it.

But I haven't forgotten anything.

I don't need to forget.

Sometimes, I still call my best friend.

Sometimes, after hanging up, I miss her enormously.

And sometimes, five minutes later, someone knocks on my door to ask if I want to go out.

So I go out.

I live here.

I remember there.

And little by little, I understood something.

My parents had made the hijra.

Me too.

Except that a child doesn't travel only with their suitcases.

They also travel with everything they leave behind.

Now, my parents know that.

And so do I.