SHADOW OVER HOPE

Tracy Shao Weiqi, BIBWH

My mind gradually clears as I recall the piercing noise I heard. I knew we had to leave…

My eyelids grew heavier on the way, each blink slower than the last. I tried to stay awake, terrified that my parents might leave me alone and forget about me. But as exhaustion crept in, my eyes closed, and the world slipped into darkness.

In my dreams, new worries swirled. I imagined what lay ahead, wondering what kind of country we were going to, what creatures might lurk there, or if I’d be separated from my family. Would I survive the journey? The questions and fears spiraled through my mind, flooding even my sleep.

When I next awoke, I found myself on a narrow bed in a tiny room. My eyes, still blurry, took in the stark emptiness around me—nothing there but my suitcase. With my heart pounding, I stumbled out of bed and rushed to the door. I looked right, then left, down a seemingly endless hall of closed doors, each one exactly the same as the last. Panic surged; where were my parents? They were my only source comfort, and now they were gone. Back in the small room, I fought to keep calm, telling myself over and over, “Don’t worry. Be strong.” I kept reassuring myself. I didn’t cry. But I could feel my heart splintering. It was as if one more crack would shatter it completely.

After hours of sitting there, numbed by fear, I decided to search for my parents. I ran down the hallway, each step echoing in the silence. The hall stretched on endlessly, and my legs soon grew heavy. But I kept pushing forward. Suddenly, I spotted a bright light at the end of the hall. I bolted towards it, and before I knew it, I was wrapped in my father’s arms.

At last, we reached a building marked by a flag I did not recognize. I was only seven, and I only saw flags as shapes and colors back then. We dashed inside, through the thick and musty air, carrying a strange, sour smell. I shivered, uneasy, yet I understood this building was my refuge. Moments after we entered, there was a deafening BOOM outside, followed by screams and the slamming of the gate. The noise faded into silence, broken only by the footsteps of someone who stepped forward to give a speech in a language I didn’t understand.

My parents led me to a section of the building where we waited for what felt like forever. I sat on a small chair while they filled out paperwork, their faces drawn and tired. A man handed me a little sticker with my name on it and a series of numbers that, though I didn’t know it then, were my parents’ phone numbers—a fragile threat to my family, should we be separated.

Then came the medical check-ups. They led me to a doctor with white hair, who instructed me to open my eyes for a test. “It’ll hurt just a bit,” he said. Trusting him, I held still as he pressed a cotton swab into my eye. Pain shot through me, and I burst into tears, refusing to let him continue. For a moment, my vision blurred, everything had been overtaken by the sharp, raw ache.

As I calmed down, they checked my heart and body, and the routine was finally familiar. Once I’d been through every exam, I got a sticker with a green tick, marking me as cleared. Then, they led me to another place where a kind lady asked me a few questions— simple things, like where I was from and why we’d come here. I answered quickly, though it felt strange to speak about a journey I was only beginning to understand.

Meanwhile, my parents sat across the room, facing an hour of questions. When they were done, they got their stickers, each with a blue tick. Finally, with the official checks behind us, we waited, along with the other families, for the next steps, all of us in quiet exhaustion, united in hope and fear.