My fingers felt clammy, and I checked my jacket pocket again—the passport was there. The cool leather pressed against my palm like an anchor in the swirl of uncertainty. Outside the glass wall, a plane waited on the tarmac, its engines humming low and steady, the vibration crawling through the floor and up my legs. It was real. Ali was right. We were actually going to the United States.
"Can you believe it, Anwar?" Ali nudged me, his elbow digging into my ribs. His grin stretched so wide I thought his cheeks might split.
I tried to return his excitement, but inside I felt like a tangled mess of wires. It was that feeling you get before fixing a tricky piece of machinery,you know you can do it, you've prepared—but there's still that small, unwanted voice whispering, What if it doesn't work? My breath caught, and I took a shallow sip of the air, heavy with that recycled, slightly stale airport smell.
A year ago, we were still in our small town in Morocco. High school diplomas gathered dust on a shelf, and we had no jobs. Most of our days blurred together at Hassan's place. He had been a steady presence since we were kids, and though Ali and I had our own roofs, it was in his house,surrounded by the scent of mint tea and old books, that we felt most alive.
One late afternoon, sunlight spilled through the curtains as we lounged in his living room. Hassan cleared his throat and leaned forward, his warm eyes turning serious.
"So," he said, his voice low and even, "have you two thought about applying for a U.S. visa? You've finished high school, it might be the right time."
Ali laughed. "Us? Come on, Hassan. They don't just hand those out."
Hassan smiled, slow and knowing. "Maybe not. But you won't know unless you try. I'll help you every step of the way."
We both knew the odds. Getting a U.S. visa in Morocco was like climbing a mountain without forms, photos, interviews, endless lines. Still, something in Hassan's tone made the impossible feel suddenly within reach. Ali and I exchanged a look, that quiet question passing between us: Can we really do this?
I straightened in my chair. "Let's try," I said.
The week after that, the real struggle began. I remember hunching over the scarred kitchen table. Then my uncle barged in, his shadow slicing through the light.
He snatched the papers from my hands and let out a short, cruel laugh.
"I hear what you're planning," he sneered, tearing a page in half. "It's stupid."
I said nothing,just reached for the torn sheets, trying to piece them back together.
My parents had died when I was young, leaving me with my grandmother and my uncle. Since childhood, he had forced me to sell things on the street, sometimes to steal—always to bring home money. If I failed, he didn't feed me. My grandmother tried to stop him, her frail hands trembling, but he always shoved her aside. I never blamed her. She was just an old woman .
Months crawled by. Ali and I poured everything into those applications. Hassan helped quietly, steady and patient, pushing us forward whenever we wavered. Then, one morning, the letters came.
Accepted. Both of us.
Joy hit like a wave,sharp, overwhelming, impossible to contain. But the joy quickly gave way to panic: we needed money, a lot of it.
Ali's grandmother, bless her, sold a small piece of land to give him the funds. His mother had died years earlier, and his father had remarried elsewhere. Ali rarely saw him and preferred it that way , he only went to see his sibling .
My grandmother gathered her gold, her dowry, her heirlooms and sold it all. I still see her hands, the deep grooves where her rings once rested. The lump in my throat stayed there for days.
After another month of scraping, saving, and begging, we were finally ready.
A year of forms, fights, and sacrifices had brought us here.
We boarded the plane. The door hissed shut behind us. Eight hours,that was all that stood between our old lives and whatever waited ahead. We found our seats, shoulders pressed together, hearts racing.
Ali kept glancing down the aisle, his face tight, his voice low.
"My uncle," he murmured. "He'll be waiting for us."