A beautiful flower. almeen bano

this the real you?” he continued, his disappointment mingled with a hint of compassion.

      I was relieved that he had taken the first step to address the situation, even if his self-interest drove it.

      “You're a smart kid, and seeing you like this… it's embarrassing,”

      His words hung in the air, and for the first time, I found the courage to speak my truth. “I can't do this. I just can't. Not with Staci around. I can't take my eyes off her. You may think that changing my section or putting me in a different class will help, but it won't. I'll still look for her. I tried my best, and this is the result I got. She performed better because somehow, this didn't affect her."

      There was a moment of silence as my dad absorbed my words, “Give me a few days.” Then he left the room, leaving me to wonder what he had in mind.

      I couldn't help but entertain the notion that my father might be planning a vacation for me. That idea seemed absurd because he was not the type to allow a vacation, especially when my grades were less than stellar. However, a few days later, what he revealed to me was surprising.

      He motioned for me to sit across from him at the kitchen table. I sat down, and my mother joined us. I waited for him to begin.

      “Son, I have a friend in Jordan, Dr. Thomas Johnson, overseeing a hospital in a Syrian refugee settlement. I believe this is a good opportunity for you to divert your focus from Staci.”

      My mother nodded, but I could see the sadness on her face.

      “Sounds interesting. How long would I be gone for—a month or two? I guess I’d be home in time to start class again in the fall.”

      “No, son, you will be gone for one year.”

      As I looked back and forth at my mom and dad, My mind and body froze. One year! How could I possibly survive for one year in a Syrian refugee camp surrounded by thousands of Sunni Muslims?

      “What do you mean one year? That means I’m going to miss a whole year of school, which means my graduation from medical school will be postponed.”

      My dad showed no emotion; he simply stared at me. “Yes, one year. The internship will also be valuable for your future.”

      It was ironic and somewhat cruel. This was the same person who had opposed the idea of me joining Yale or Harvard so I could be close to home, and now he suddenly endorsed the idea of me living thousands of miles away for an entire year.

      I couldn't help but wonder what had prompted this change of heart. If only he had allowed me to go anywhere other than NYU, perhaps none of this would have happened.

      “Dad, can I refuse this? I mean, I’m twenty-four years old and capable of making my own decisions.”

      “Yes, you are twenty-four, and yes, you can make your own decisions. However, if you decide not to accept this internship, you can pay for medical school and all your living expenses. So now you have a choice to make.”

      “My mother butted in. “Joe, I know you don’t want to go to Jordan, but your dad has told me so much about Dr. Johnson. Your dad and he were very close years ago when they did their residency together in the Philippines. You will learn an incredible amount of surgery, as that’s what they do mostly there. Plus, you really need to get your mind off Staci. If you go to class with her next fall, that will never happen.”

      My mom was right about the part about Staci. I still thought about her every night.

      “OK, so, if I accept this internship, when will I start?”

      “July first.”

      “That gives me a month to have some fun at home and see a few friends.”

      “Yes, we will help you get ready for your trip and spend some fun time together.”

      I put my hands over my eyes. Shouldn’t I have gone somewhere close to home in the United States? I don’t know a word of Arabic. How will I communicate? I put my hands down on the table.

      “OK, dad and mom. I’ll go to Jordan for a year like you want. I have no idea how this will work out, but what the hell.” Then, the three of us hugged and went our separate ways for the day.

      I thought it was the right decision. Perhaps the distance could solve my problems.

      A month later, I boarded a plane embarking on a grueling ten-hour flight to Amman and then to a Syrian refugee camp in Za'atari, Jordan, where I hoped to find a new beginning.

      Chapter 2: Welcome to Jordan

      I boarded the plane bound for Amman, Jordan, and was stuck between a woman sitting with her baby and a tall, heavy male. I turned to the man beside me and said, “So, where are you from? I’m Joe.”

      The man replied in Arabic. I guess all conversations with him on this trip just ended.

            After five or six hours stuck in the middle seat in economy, a sensation akin to poison coursed through my bones. My legs had gone numb; my back felt like it had borne the weight of an elephant. I desperately longed for some inhumane force to twist and crack my body, to break the relentless grip of my physical turmoil, not being able to move.

      A more profound concern gnawed at me. I was supposed to be with Staci, teasing her while we studied our medical books. But here I was, stuck on a ten-hour flight to a Syrian refugee camp in Za’atari, Jordan.

      I had time to reflect on the events that led to my breakup. How could this have happened? Everything had been going so well. I’d been so happy. Was God punishing me? I felt terrible and lost. God, I didn’t want to wake up anymore.

      Staci, the girl of my dreams—the only one I’d loved—was the reason I was floating l in this misery. I hate you, Staci.

      A whole bunch of random thoughts entered my brain. Was I scared to fly thousands of miles from home to a place ravaged by war and death? Or was my confusion stemming from the very reason I was leaving home? Had my heart truly been shattered to this extent? I couldn’t help but question my father’s decision. Yet, simultaneously, I felt a restlessness, as if something awaited me on the horizon, something that could offer solace—enough of Staci. I needed to wipe her from my mind and focus on my future.

      Perhaps this journey to the refugee camp holds more than physical displacement. Maybe it’s a quest for solace, redemption, or a chance to redefine my purpose.

      My mind swirled with questions as I pondered my one-year stay in Jordan. What would the people be like there? Were they just like us, or had the media painted an entirely wrong picture? How long would I last in this unfamiliar place? Perhaps my father had sent me here as a test to force me to confront my current reality. If that were the case, I must admit he was as astute as everyone believed.

      But would a father truly go to such lengths? I’d long understood that my dad had his way of showing affection. Instead of hugs and expressions of love, he molded me into a responsible and successful person. It was a thoughtful gesture in his eyes, but a child was still a child. All I wanted was for my father to demonstrate empathy when I needed it. I wanted him to tell me that the world hadn’t ended when Staci broke my heart instead of sitting there and watching my Mom blame me for everything.

      I understood my father might not have sent me to Jordan as a punishment or to make me long for home but rather to teach me about life and people and foster my growth as a medical practitioner. Or maybe he was trying to show me, after seeing life in Jordan, how much better I had it in New York. However, he never considered what I wanted.

      I needed to prepare myself for whatever lay ahead. The place I was exiled to was administered by an individual my father knew and trusted. What of Dr. Johnson? He was someone my dad believed in enough to entrust with my guidance.

      So why was I complaining? Ever since Staci bared her heart to me, all I’d been doing was whining and griping. As we were nearing Amman, I texted Dr. Johnson, informing him that I would land at the airport in an hour. His response indicated that he knew and would be there to pick me up personally.

      As the plane