I had just arrived from a journey that was not supposed to be survived.
I had seen suffering up close,
the kind we prefer to believe does not exist.
Or if it does, then only elsewhere.
In others.
Far away.
We tell ourselves they are different.
That they carry the darkness.
That we are safer, cleaner, better.
As if we are still repeating the stories we were told as children,
to make the world feel less frightening.
Now I am sitting in a warm classroom.
It is November 2016, and it is unusually mild.
I feel guilty for the warmth.
Others are cold.
The room is grey, draining energy.
I am at the University of Kiel, near the Danish border.
Around me sit Syrians, Iranians,
people who have seen what theory refuses to look at.
A few seats away from me sits an Iranian man.
He is studying international law.
When the teacher asks us to choose a presentation topic, he chooses human rights.
He speaks calmly. Almost without visible emotion.
Inside me, something erupts.
My ears burn.
My stomach trembles as if the ground has shifted.
Everything inside me is moving, firing, demanding action,
while on the outside, I remain perfectly still.
I say:
"How can we talk about human rights in a world where the color of your passport determines how you are
treated?"
The teacher does not understand.
I repeat myself.
Still nothing.
Another Syrian student explains it more directly.
The teacher speaks again. Long. Detached.
I stop listening.
I am extremely angry.
Anger tells me: This is not fair.
I am also afraid.
Fear tells me: Expressing anger is dangerous.
So there I sit,
anger mobilizing me,
anxiety paralyzing me,
while he remains on his high chair.