Before the city swallowed him, there was another beginning… a difficult and painful one, yet it was the first true step on his path.
When Hamid first began school, he did not know a single word of Arabic. The only language he spoke was Amazigh—the language of his home, of the mountains, of the life he had grown up in. He entered the classroom with hesitant steps, his eyes wandering across unfamiliar faces.
He sat quietly in his place, trying to appear normal, but inside, he was overwhelmed with fear.
The teacher began the lesson, speaking in Arabic, explaining, asking questions… but Hamid understood nothing. The words passed around him like wind, never reaching him.
He felt lost.
Then suddenly, his eyes filled with tears… and he could no longer hold them back.
He burst into tears.
The teacher stopped and looked at him in surprise. He asked in Arabic,
"Why are you crying? What happened?"
But Hamid did not understand.
He looked at him, his crying intensifying. He tried to respond, but the only words that came out were in Amazigh—broken, frightened, confused.
The teacher could not understand him.
Silence fell over the classroom.
Then another student stepped forward from the front row and said,
"Sir, he speaks Amazigh."
He approached Hamid and gently began to explain what the teacher was saying, translating between them.
Little by little, Hamid calmed down.
He was no longer alone.
From that day on, his journey with the language began. It was difficult, sometimes harsh, but he did not give up. He learned one word, then a sentence, then he began to understand.
Over the years, that child who had cried on his first day became one of the most distinguished students in his class.
Hamid did not leave school… but he left everything else behind.
He moved to a large city to continue his education, where his uncle lived. His cousin Aziz accompanied him on the journey, and Aziz also worked in that same city.
The city did not welcome Hamid with open arms.
It swallowed him.
From the moment he stepped off the crowded bus, the world he knew seemed to dissolve into noise, dust, and unfamiliar faces. Buildings stood tall and silent, blocking the sky he had once known so well. There were no mountains, no whispering winds through olive trees—only the constant hum of engines and the hurried footsteps of strangers who never looked at one another.
Hamid clutched his small bag tightly, his eyes scanning everything at once. Aziz walked beside him this time, guiding him through the chaos, while Hamid struggled to absorb this overwhelming new world.
The streets felt endless. Cars passed quickly, horns echoing everywhere. People spoke fast, in tones that felt distant and unfamiliar, as if everything moved without pause.
That night, Hamid lay on a thin mattress in a small room in his uncle's house. The walls were bare, and the window faced another wall. There were no stars.
He missed the stars more than anything.
Back in his village, the sky had been his companion—wide, infinite, filled with the stories his grandparents once told. Here, it felt distant, as if it no longer existed.
He whispered to himself,
"I must be strong."
The next day marked his first day at his new school.
He entered the classroom, and this time, he was no longer a stranger to the language—but he was still a stranger to everything else.
The students were different.
The way they spoke, the way they laughed, the way they interacted.
He sat silently.
During the break, he stood alone, simply observing.
Days passed… then weeks.
Hamid studied hard. He succeeded. He excelled. Yet the feeling of alienation never truly left him.
He returned home each day, helped his uncle with small tasks, then sat with his books. Sometimes he studied. Other times… he wrote.
Memories.
Names of his siblings.
Details of his village.
Writing became his way of holding on to what he feared losing.
Aziz tried, in his own way, to ease Hamid's burden.
From time to time, he would take him out into the city, showing him its streets, its markets, its hidden corners.
"You have to live here," Aziz would say. "Not just study."
But for Hamid, the city was not a home.
It was a place he had to pass through.
The first year passed.
Then the second began.
And during those two years, something inside Hamid began to change.
The feeling of being lost did not disappear, but it softened. He began to understand people better. He learned how to speak with more confidence. Slowly, he formed a few friendships.
He no longer stood alone all the time.
He began to participate.
To smile.
Even to laugh.
Yet deep inside him, something remained unchanged…
A quiet longing.
A longing no one else could see.
One evening, he spoke with his mother over the phone.
The moment he heard her voice, something inside him trembled.
"How are you, my son?" she asked.
"I am fine… I am studying well," he replied.
But he did not tell her everything.
He did not tell her about his loneliness.
About the nights that felt too long.
About the way he missed home with a silent ache.
After the call ended, he sat quietly.
Then he cried.
At school, Hamid became one of the top students.
His teachers noticed his dedication and praised him.
One of them told him one day,
"You have a bright future, Hamid."
He smiled.
But deep inside, he thought of only one thing:
Would his family be proud of him?
The second year was not easier… but Hamid was stronger.
He had learned how to carry his emotions without letting them break him.
He had learned that silence could be strength.
He had learned that growth often comes with pain.
He began to notice things he had not seen before.
A boy who sold bread every morning, yet always smiled.
An old man who sat alone but greeted everyone kindly.
A woman who fed stray cats near the alley.
The city was not only harsh.
It was full of hidden stories.
Hidden struggles.
Hidden kindness.
And slowly, Hamid began to understand that he, too, was becoming one of those stories.
There were nights when he stood by the small window, staring at the narrow slice of sky visible between buildings.
He searched for stars.
Sometimes, he imagined them.
Other times, he simply closed his eyes and remembered.
The mountains.
The fields.
The warmth of home.
Those memories did not weaken him.
They grounded him.
They reminded him of who he was.
At home, his uncle remained a quiet presence—firm, practical, focused on survival. He did not speak much about feelings, but in his own way, he cared.
Aziz, on the other hand, became something like a bridge between two worlds. He understood the city, but he also understood where Hamid came from.
Sometimes, they would sit together in silence after a long day.
No words were needed.
Time moved forward.
Two full years passed.
Two years of learning, not only in classrooms, but in life.
Two years of distance, growth, struggle, and quiet resilience.
At the end of the second year, Hamid returned to his village for a short visit.
When he stepped off the bus, he did not run.
He walked slowly.
Looking at everything.
As if seeing it for the first time.
The air felt different.
The silence felt alive.
The mountains stood as they always had—unchanged.
When he saw his mother, he embraced her tightly.
This time, he did not hide his emotions.
He allowed himself to feel everything.
During those two years, Hamid had learned more than school lessons.
He had learned that distance does not erase belonging.
That strength is not the absence of pain, but the ability to move forward despite it.
That a person can live between two worlds, without fully belonging to either—and still find a way to grow.
He was still that Amazigh boy.
But inside, he had grown.
Faster than he should have.
One quiet night, back in his village, he lay beneath the open sky.
The stars were there again.
Clear. Bright. Endless.
He looked at them for a long time.
Then he smiled.
He had changed.
But he had not lost himself.
And so, his journey continued…
Between who he was,
and who he was becoming.