turtlesad

[turtlesad]

Lying awake in the darkness, I stare at the ceiling, thoughts crashing over me like waves. What am I doing in this foreign land where every day is a battle—jobs, internships, money, survival? And now, even my voice feels stripped away. I see the comments online, dripping with resentment toward people like me—non-residents, outsiders. It makes me wonder: were the last four years in the U.S. just an illusion? A lie I told myself to keep moving forward? Should I have never come here? Do I regret everything?

And then, like a tide pulling me back, my mind drifts home. But home—was it ever home? I don't know what to feel anymore.

I was eleven.

Eid in my village was never just a celebration—it was tradition, duty, culture. As the daughter of the only "big shot" in the village, my presence was expected. It was customary for me to be taken from house to house, greeting villagers, seeking blessings, proving my "good upbringing." I never enjoyed it, but refusing wasn’t an option. So, with my aunt and cousin by my side, I smiled, greeted, and endured.

Until I heard the words that tore right through my flesh.

"Why are you so dark? Your mother and sister are so pretty. Who do you even take after?" one woman scoffed.

"At least her father has money," another added. "But Allah has been so unfair to him, giving him such an ugly daughter."

"My daughter is so beautiful, but she doesn’t have the same opportunities this one does."

I stood there, silent. No one defended me. Not my aunt. Not my cousin. No one.

They showered my father with praise—his generosity, his kindness, his success. But they conveniently ignored that I was his daughter, that my skin was his skin. When my cousin pointed it out, they laughed. "She’s even darker than her father," they said. "But he’s a man—it doesn’t matter for him."

After that, every year when we visited, I made myself smaller. I stopped stepping outside unless absolutely necessary. But even then, the words found me—in whispers, in taunts, in the way people looked at me.

It wasn’t just the village. It was everywhere. Relatives. School. Society. Their words haunted me.

I wasn’t even Black. Just a darker shade of brown than the girls around me. But that was enough. Enough to be labeled. Enough to be less.

So I left.

I told myself that in the U.S., things would be different. People here were educated. Open-minded. Not like back home.

And in a way, I was right.

No one here called me ugly outright. In fact, for the first time in my life, I heard people say I was pretty. At first, I thought they were mocking me. But they weren’t. And for a brief moment, I felt something unfamiliar—confidence.

But confidence is fragile when you’ve spent a lifetime being told you don’t deserve it.

I still struggle to connect with people. I smile, I laugh, I exist, but there’s always a wall between me and them. A wall I built to protect myself. And no matter how much I want to, I can't seem to tear it down.

People still judge me. Maybe not for my skin, but for other things. My accent. My silence. The way I withdraw when something hurts me instead of fighting back. Words have always been sharper for me than any weapon, and maybe the scars of all these years have turned me into something I never intended to be—defensive, distant, incapable of trust.

Maybe that’s why my relationships—friendships, connections—never seem to last. They are either too fragile or too filled with cracks. I didn’t even realize when I became this person.

A turtle.

Didn't realize when I turned into a turtle, going inside my shell if anyone hurts me instead hurting themselves and leaving the turtle in the dark sea.

And now, as tears slip down my cheeks, I wonder—where do I belong? Which country, which people, will hold me in their arms and call me their own?

Or am I destined to be a wanderer, forever searching for a home that does not exist?