The Old Tapes

Sitting in the middle of a classroom, deliberating on whether I should risk the embarrassment of raising my hand, I heard my name. It was not the usual name to which I was now accustomed to, after four and a half years in this country. Instead, it sounded like my real name, in my native language. I knew someone used this pronunciation unintentionally, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that this sound slowly melted itself into my ears, spreading warmth and comfort to the deepest crevasses of my soul at the thought of those distant days spent at home, far away from this foreign land. As if playing the old movie tapes, I kept revisiting happy memories from my past, until the last scene of that film appeared on the screen, leaving my heart with tingling sensations of worry and uncertainty.

It was a sunny July morning. The usually-scattered rays of light banded together to resemble a cinema projector, illuminating the yet-empty driveway in front of an old, brick Khrushchevka building. The neighbours, whom I was solemnly observing from the kitchen window of our apartment, gathered outside, anxiously waiting for a small van to appear in the yard. I heard the trembling voice of my mother whisper my name from behind. “It’s time,” she then added with an absent look on her face. “It’s time,” I repeated humbly, leaving the kitchen with a deep sigh.

Standing in the cluttered hallway of our apartment, amongst the numerous bags and suitcases, I glanced around myself. At the sight of empty rooms that were filled with nothing but heartwarming memories, I lowered my eyes as intense fear took hostage of my mind. Fear of the future, fear of the unknown, fear of isolation - the list of my inner phobias was endless. What if our choice was wrong? What if we were making an awful mistake that will lead to a disaster? Will we be judged for throwing caution to the winds and returning home? All of these questions fired inside of my mind like bullets, piercing it with the unbearable pain of not having an answer. Until this moment, I always avoided such thoughts, but now the wall of intentional blindness was finally destroyed by the realization that there is no way back on the path we had chosen.

With this discovery, the gun trigger of my thought process was released. As if at the “start” command, my mind became filled with countless scenarios of potential difficulties and hardships that immigration might challenge me with. Such unexpected grapeshot of hesitations tore the innermost strings of my heart; but instead of blood, streams of tears began pouring out of my eyes, further flooding me with despair. Overcoming the numbness in my limbs, I stepped out of our apartment, conquered the staircase, and stood in the bright morning light that was now illuminating a small van, one that was going to separate my past from my future. After all of the farewells were distributed to our relatives and friends, my family boarded the van, leaving dozens of crying faces behind a shut door. The sound of the engine starting painfully echoed in my ears, which caused another wave of tears to descend from my red-rimmed eyes. We were now officially alone.

The monotonous lecture, the gestures of the instructor, the faces of my classmates, everything seemed inconsequential. Then, some unknown force inside of me turned my attention back to the screen, resuming the paused movie. Peaking out of a car window, I tried to quench the upcoming thirst of nostalgia by embracing the last bits of a beautiful, familiar landscape, where green hills sprinkled with colourful buildings lay scattered alongside the road. In a few moments, I had to board the plane that was destined to separate me from my home country, similarly to how a child is taken away from the arms of its mother by an uninvited intruder. Soon we arrived at the airport; and, minutes later, I made the last step on my native soil. The last step … . Thoughts about the undefined future were constantly attacking my torn soul with hundreds of poisonous arrows even afterward.  “That’s it,” a verdict flashed in my head when the plane took off and began its journey through the cotton valleys of the sky. As I kept staring into the illuminator, memories of the past were mixing themselves with predictions and hopes for the future, while teardrops mercilessly exposed my sorrow to the world.

The film was unexpectedly paused when I heard the impatient voice of my teacher demand an answer to a question on the new lesson. Feeling paralyzed at first, I experienced an immense surge of anger that was caused by such an abrupt intervention into my movie session. I began to speak in a trembling voice that gave away my rage along with the fear of stating an incorrect answer and embarrassing myself. Chances are, this mindset would have given me an excuse for not knowing the response, while also allowing me to resume the old film that was interrupted a few seconds ago. However, at this moment, a blissful eureka miraculously appeared in my head. It dawned on me that by constantly revisiting my past and grieving over it, I was robbing myself of my own future. Instead of courageously accepting challenges offered by my fate, I chose a cowardly alternative of tearing the scab from lingering wounds only to heal them with my tears, time after time. This truth was reflected in today’s class as I kept playing the old movie tapes in my head, instead of absorbing the new lesson. Striving to change this undesirable reality, I decided to move forward and to continue my life journey without constantly looking back. To begin with, I overcame my inner hesitation, answering the teacher’s question with my own ideas. Unexpectedly, they were correct.

As it transpires, immigration was not the last scene of my movie, but one that read “to be continued”. It was, just as any other major change in one’s life, a scene that gave birth to a new episode of my story, the script for which I am still writing today.

N.K.