Where Nomads Dare to Dream

Excerpt

Where Nomads Dare to Dream
Ildar Daminov © 2026
All Rights Reserved

Chapter 1

The Letter

A night, a street, a lamp, a drugstore,

A meaningless and gloomy light.

A quarter century outpours—

It’s all the same. No chance of flight.

You’ll die and rise anew, forgotten.

All would repeat as ever might:

The street, the icy rippled water,

The store, the lamp, the lonely night.

—Alexandr Blok

For weeks, the late spring in Yasilkent was flat and brought no news, only allergies and occasional frustrations. One dramatic change, however, began with something trivial. That afternoon, the school secretary gave me a white envelope adorned with a Gothic-style seal in the top right corner. A crowned woman holding a book in her hands stared at me from the seal with a dispassionate gaze. The envelope’s delicate paper concealed a message I had both dreaded and eagerly anticipated.

I resisted the urge to tear the envelope open that instant, though it would have been the most rational thing to do. Instead, I inhaled the library air tinged with a hint of chalk and polished wood, hoping that my brain would calm down. It didn’t help. I could no longer study or concentrate on anything else because of the damn envelope. My eyes darted around the room, looking to find someone to help me out of the situation. Most of the tables were empty, save for scattered notebooks here and there. The students rarely visited the library in the last days of the spring semester. The librarian, Mrs. Kalen, was also out for a lunch break, so I had the whole place to myself.

“Well, well, look who’s here!”

I couldn’t immediately recognize that drawling, malicious voice.

When I turned, I saw Ali, another senior from a parallel class. I didn’t know him too well. An overweight thug of average height with greasy hair, Ali didn’t look like anything special. When I’d bumped into him in a school corridor for the first time, I’d thought of him as a random passerby, like an NPC in a computer game strolling around. His looks were perfectly deceptive, but there was something deeply maniacal about his gaze that gave him away. Ali was one of the most notorious bullies in our school. He was known for being sporadically violent: throwing tantrums during classes, insulting everyone, including teachers, and getting into regular fights. I was fortunate enough to avoid him for most of my high school years, but many students weren’t as lucky.

“What do you want, Ali?” I asked him, doing my best to project confidence despite feeling unsettled. I had no idea what to expect from him.

Ali didn’t say anything at first, but merely looked at my neatly arranged study space, whistling quietly. I closed my notebooks as if trying to protect my work from him. A smirk spread on his face, confirming my suspicions.

“Working on that final project for the history exam, huh?” he drawled.

“Maybe. Why do you care?”

“I need to submit something too, you know.” Ali squinted. “Let’s make it quick. Give me your history notes before I beat the crap out of you.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Give me your notes.”

“Like hell I will!”

“Oh, we’re being cocky, huh?” Ali’s fake-calm voice changed in an instant, becoming livid. He pulled a wrench from his pocket. “Are you sure you don’t want to think it over?”

“What the—! Get away from me, you freak!” I yelled and took several steps back even though I didn’t fully believe he would do anything. Attacking someone with a wrench was too much, even for Ali.

“I told you to make it quick,” Ali growled and took several steps toward me.

“And I told you to get away. Or I’ll call for help!”

Ali guffawed. “Right, good luck with that! You know they won’t do anything to me, you whiny fag.”

I feared he was right. Ali was the nephew of the vice-principal, which gave him an unofficial special status in our school. No matter what he did, they never expelled him or even properly punished him. I eyed the wrench in his hand with caution. Was he capable of doing something truly awful though? I didn’t want to find out. Giving him my history notes was an insignificant price to pay.

“Fine, you can take my no—” I began. Alas, Ali got distracted in the meantime and was looking at my table more carefully.

“Oh, and what’s this here? Your secret love letters?” he asked and pointed at the envelope. My heart froze for a second.

“None of your business! Take my notes and get the hell out of here!” I shouted and threw my notebook in his direction. “Don’t touch it!”

My panic must have encouraged him to focus on the envelope. Ali didn’t even bother to catch my notes. The notebook flew past him and fell on the floor with a thump.

“Why so jumpy? What are you hiding there?” Ali launched himself forward and grabbed the envelope from the table. There was no stopping him. “This must be something good.”

“Give it back right now!” I attempted to push him away and snatch the envelope back, but Ali was too quick and dodged me.

“Let’s see. Let’s see!” he sniggered, taking several steps back, and tore the envelope open.

“No, don’t touch it. This is personal!” I cried. That was when the strong sound of footsteps from behind one of the bookshelves gave me a sense of hope. Could it be a teacher? Or the librarian?

“What the hell is going on here?” someone said in an assertive baritone.

And then the situation escalated so fast I couldn’t follow. To be fair, neither could Ali. He barely managed to turn around before a fist hit his face with a loud crunching sound, making him collapse on the floor and drop both the wrench and the envelope. A massive sand-colored work boot kicked the wrench away, then stepped on Ali’s palm. Ali cried in pain and cursed loudly.

“Aman, don’t!” I exclaimed.

Aman’s cold, sapphire-like eyes gave me that defiant look I knew all too well. My savior didn’t intend to listen to me. Instead, he stepped on Ali’s hand even harder, making him howl and convulse on the floor.

“Shut up and stop squirming, you piece of shit!” Aman thundered, ignoring me, and kicked Ali twice. “What do you think you were doing?”

“Aman, please, stop!” I pleaded once more. In all honesty, I had little sympathy for Ali but feared Aman could get into trouble if someone came in.

Although Aman’s eyebrows were hidden by his long bangs, I could see how he frowned. He didn’t respond. This meant he must have been frustrated with me.

“Let him go! You don’t want to get into trouble!”

After several seconds of tense silence, Aman spat at Ali and kicked his leg again but released him.

“Okay. Get the hell out of here.”

The defeated bully growled in anger and frustration as he rose to his feet. Ali might have been reckless, but he was still rational enough not to mess with Aman.

“I’ll show you,” he growled quietly after he got himself together.

“What did you say, you dumb fucker?” Aman taunted him.

“Nothing.”

“Out! Or I’ll shove that wrench up your disgusting ass!” Aman barked at him, and Ali stormed out of the room, limping and tripping twice. A comically pathetic sight. I could hear him curse several times before he disappeared for good.

Once Ali was gone, Aman faced me again with a frown.

“Are you injured?” he asked in a softer tone. “He didn’t hurt you, did he? If he did, I’ll tear off his crooked hands.”

“No, no, nothing happened. I’m fine.” I looked up at him. “Thanks for saving me.”

Aman was one of my closest friends at school. We were an unlikely pair, being different in every possible way. A shy geek and a carefree bad boy. He was lean and broad-shouldered. I was much less fit, on the verge of being considered plump. He dressed casually: torn jeans, wrinkled shirts, and old leather jackets. I never showed up to school without an ironed shirt, trousers, and polished shoes. He never cared about linguistic formalities. I used the most formal and polite forms of speech, even when addressing my peers. He skipped classes and would go to the gym or parties instead. I attended every single class. He liked playing football outside with his friends. I spent hours playing chess or reading books. He was rough and impulsive. I was indecisive and borderline shy. It was as if our images were taken from a poster of some cliché 90s comedy film.

Befriending Aman wasn’t easy even though we sat together at the same desk for the last three years of high school. I could vividly remember the horror of the day I first had to sit next to him. Having heard all sorts of rumors about Aman, I was petrified. In my mind, he was nothing but a scary bully.

“Hi,” I remembered saying in a shaky voice. I didn’t even want to imagine what he could do to me if I annoyed him. Aman stopped chewing his gum and stared at me dispassionately as if deliberating whether my squeak was even worthy of a response.

“Hi,” he answered, at last. This response came with the kind of indifference that implied I should never open my mouth in his presence again.

Fortunately for me, I did.

We were so different, yet we complemented each other. His academic performance wasn’t impressive, so I helped him of my own free will, without any bullying. When I offered help for the first time, Aman brushed me off angrily. I persisted, though, and saved him several times during math and history tests. After a while, he realized my efforts were genuine and even asked for a couple of tutoring sessions. We met in private at first. I suspected Aman might have been ashamed of being friends with me publicly. But that changed with time as we started hanging out at school too.

“What were you doing here anyway?” Aman said and swiped his bangs to the right, revealing his stern blue eyes.

“Nothing. I was minding my business until this lunatic showed up.”

“Well, you were damn lucky I was around!” Aman came closer and put his arm around me. My heart stopped for a second. Like always, he smelled of chewing gum and cigarettes, my favorite combination of scents.

“Yeah,” I admitted faintly, my legs trembling.

“Dude, you should learn how to protect yourself from freaks like him,” Aman continued. “You know I won’t be there for you all the time, right?”

I looked up at his stern expression. I was completely disarmed. Whenever Aman got protective, I had to suppress my instinctive urge to be affectionate with him. The risk of being instantly punched in the face deterred me from that. Aman might have liked me, but he was as straight as they come. He had dated three different girls in the last year of high school alone, all of whom were drop-dead gorgeous.

“You’re here for now, right?” I asked quietly.

“You’re damn right, but I won’t—”

“Hug me,” I interrupted him.

Aman raised his left eyebrow as if asking me whether I was insane. I had learned by then that if I kept my demanding face on for long enough, he would eventually give in. It worked without exception. After a couple of seconds, the scent of chewing gum mixed with cigarettes engulfed me, an ephemeral moment of happiness and warmth.

“Man, you’re hopeless,” he patted me on the head, messing up my hair. “What did that jerk want from you anyway?”

“My history notes. But then he attempted to steal my university application results, so I freaked out. I didn’t even have a chance to take a look at them myself.”

“Damn!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean the application results from that fancy foreign college?”

I nodded. Indeed, this was what had been hiding in the envelope for so long.

“I really should’ve beaten the shit out of him,” Aman grumbled.

“Aman!”

“Whatever! Now that this asshole is no longer bothering you, nothing stops you from opening the letter. Do you wanna open it now?”

“It’s already open, thanks to him.”

I looked at the torn envelope in my hands. The unsettling feeling of indeterminacy, which briefly disappeared because of all the mess with Ali, came back to me.

“Well, let’s find out,” Aman patted me on the shoulder.

His comforting presence made it easier to face the fear of possible rejection. I mentally prepared for whatever was about to come in the letter and pulled out the paper from the envelope. Before unfolding it, I hesitated. He noticed this.

“Come on, dude. No one in this universe can out-nerd you, I’m sure you got in.”

Even with Aman by my side, my heart was still racing rapidly, as if I were about to jump out of a helicopter. I unfolded the paper.

Dear Mr. Tuqay,

Having carefully considered all of your application documents, we are delighted to inform you that you have been admitted to our 112th class of the sociology program with a full tuition waiver. Please accept my congratulations on your outstanding achievement. The university will cover tuition and administrative fees, while you will need to cover the visa application fees, as well as travel and residence costs.

Please carefully read and fill in the attached forms needed for your academic registration. If you decide to accept our offer, post them no later than May 31. Moreover, as a non-EU national, you will require a visa to travel to Vienna, which is why we also attach an invitation letter for the embassy.

Do not hesitate to contact the admissions office by email if you have any further questions. We are looking forward to seeing you in September.

Sincerely yours,

Professor Bellers

Head of Admissions

Disbelief, excitement, fear, and hope swirled within me, with hundreds of questions racing in my mind. Was it real? What should I do now? And, most importantly, what would my family make of it?

“Well, what does it say?” Aman asked me impatiently, hovering over my shoulder. “You know I don’t speak German.”

“I got in,” I whispered in disbelief.

“Hell, yeah, that’s my man! Congrats!” Aman shook me by the shoulders and then patted me on the back.

“Thanks! This is crazy, I can’t believe it!” my heartbeat was spiraling out of control.

“I’ve never doubted you. So what now? Are you going to Europe then?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. First, I have to talk to everyone in the family,” I answered, still in disbelief.

“Do you wanna call them?”

I thought about it. “No, I’ll go home and talk to them in person.”

“All right. Let’s head out together.”

The afternoon sun was merciless as it always is in the South of Kazakhstan. When we left the school building, I lifted my right hand to shield my eyes from its blinding light. Unsurprisingly, the schoolyard was empty. Only a lone cicada buzzed from a tangled mulberry tree, its leaves curling at the edges like paper scorched by fire. Even the shade beneath it seemed reluctant, offering little respite from the oppressive sun that dominated the cloudless sky.

“You know, it’s also kind of sad,” Aman suddenly said as we were passing through the schoolyard.

“What is?” I asked, looking up at him.

“You leaving. I guess we won’t be able to see each other all too often then.”

Aman’s words pricked me. Until the last year of high school, I tried to convince myself that my infatuation with him was merely friendly affection, since I was quite ignorant of all things queer. Over time, I had to acknowledge my feelings were much more than friendly. My persistent attempts to spend as much time with Aman and suppressed urges to kiss him would not go away. For me, Aman became the literal definition of hotness—along with more minor figures like Matt LeBlanc. I liked fantasizing about the possibility of telling him about my feelings one day. But in a place like Yasilkent, the idea remained in the realm of fantasies only. Yet, in all those years, I never thought about how we would have to go our separate ways. After all, he was my best friend, so even when I applied for an undergraduate program abroad, I couldn’t even imagine we would eventually have to part ways. Now, the prospect suddenly became terrifyingly realistic.

“Anyway, we should celebrate this! Do you wanna come over on Friday?” Aman continued, and I came back to my senses.

“Yeah, I’d like that. I have theater practice in the afternoon, but I can come after that.”

“Ugh,” Aman rolled his eyes, indirectly signaling his opinion about my theater practice sessions. “See you in the evening, then. I have to roll now. Stay safe.”

“I will. Take care, Aman.”

“Take care, Tim.” He went for a firm, shoulder-slapping embrace before parting ways.

As Aman walked away to the left side of the school campus, my gaze followed him for a while. For now, the mere possibility of me ever leaving Yasilkent and heading abroad didn’t feel real. I didn’t have to stress too much about things changing. But what if it worked out? What if I really had to leave for good? Would I have the courage to confess my feelings to him? Would it even make sense?

Then the harsh sound of a familiar voice—more a snap of a mousetrap than a voice—cut my reflections short.

“Timur!”

Miss Ulbolsyn Zakariya, our class teacher, was approaching me with lightning speed from the other school entrance on the right, her eyes emitting electric sparks of anger. Seeing her disgruntled expression, pursed lips, and crossed arms, made me think of an angry eagle swooping down to catch its prey. In a few seconds, I also spotted Ali behind her back, smirking at me with a triumphant look.

“Oh no,” I protested, gradually realizing what was about to happen. I could hardly believe Ali would retaliate by complaining to her.

Miss Zakariya was our class teacher. A woman with a strong sense of justice, she was one of the strictest teachers in the entire school. If she wanted, she could make the whole class fall silent with the snap of a finger. Her name, Ulbolsyn, which directly translated as “let it be a boy,” was a sad remnant of our society, where having a son was a great reason for joy while having a daughter was a mild disappointment for many families. Paradoxically, there was something latently masculine about her—the rough spirit of authority she commanded, her assertiveness, and most of all, her sharp features, which aligned with her fashion choices. On this occasion, she wore a tailored gray blazer combined with a long-paneled skirt, which more than accurately reflected her rough and straightforward nature.

“Timur Tuqay, to my office! Now!” Miss Zakariya thundered as she approached me.

“Miss Zakariya?” I was about to protest but didn’t even get a chance to finish the sentence.

“No questions! I said, office, now!”

Her tone was so harsh that I immediately followed her order. Miss Zakariya’s swift pace made it hard to keep up with her, so I had to run after her.

“Look who’s in trouble now, you turd!” Ali hissed at me. I gave him a scornful look but didn’t say anything back. While trying not to fall behind, I wondered what did he tell her? That I attacked him? Miss Zakariya was too smart to believe this nonsense. Still, I braced for the worst.

When we arrived, the door to her office was already open. The room was a reflection of Miss Zakariya herself—neatly arranged, to the point, and with an air of strictness. The walls were decorated with mathematical charts and diagrams, each labeled in neat handwriting. The desk was a massive wooden structure, polished to a high shine and completely clear of any clutter. A must-have object for all public servants was there too—a single portrait of the president with what looked like at least a hundred different medals and honors, the ludicrous weight of which skewed him slightly to one side. The only other decoration was a grumpy plant, wilting on the windowsill. A collection of canes and rulers in the corner of the office served as a reminder of the consequences of misbehavior.

“Timur, why did you get into a fight with Ali?” Miss Zakariya asked me with a sigh, after closing the door. Her voice changed. There was not a single trace of anger in it anymore. She was much calmer and way more reserved compared to a minute ago.

Why, I asked myself? And then it struck me. Was she trying to…?

“I did not look for any fights, ma’am! It was Ali who attacked me for absolutely no reason!” I attempted to defend myself.

“How quaint. Ali says the exact opposite,” Miss Zakariya replied with a scoff.

“It is not just me. Aman was there too! He can vouch for me! He saw all of it!”

“I’m afraid, Timur, this does not help your case. You know what kind of reputation Aman has in our school,” Miss Zakariya said. “And even if someone vouches for your version of the story, I do not think it would go your way.”

“Him being the nephew of the vice-principal does not mean Ali gets to do whatever he wants, does it?” I asked her, frustration breaking through my voice.

Miss Zakariya gave me an irritated look. “Of course not, Timur. But you should be aware of whom you are dealing with. This is a good life skill to have in the future. Don’t forget what country we live in.”

Knowing what she implied, I couldn’t say anything back. And this was exactly why the situation was so frustrating. In Yasilkent, people like Ali could always do whatever sort of crap and get away with it. Their family would always step in and cover up for them.

“I know ma’am.”

Miss Zakariya sat down at her table and massaged her temples.

“Look, Timur, if this goes public, it will be your word against his. And Ali’s family is one of the most powerful in town. They can create a lot of trouble for you if they choose to do so. The brother of the vice-principal is the local police chief.”

“So, do you want to punish me then, ma’am?” I asked dispassionately.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she shot me another annoyed look. “I know you and your student record too well. You would have never attacked this spoiled brat. This is precisely why I asked the vice-principal to deal with the situation and get you out of this mess.”

My initial suspicions were confirmed. I experienced a mixture of relief and a deep sense of gratitude.

“Thank you so much, Miss Zakariya.”

“Don’t get used to it,” she replied with a barely noticeable smile, but then corrected herself as if remembering what her teaching persona was. “And do not even think about telling this to Ali, understood? You have been punished and punished severely. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“And make sure you won’t get yourself into more trouble until the end of the year.”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“And one last thing.” Miss Zakariya lowered her voice.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I heard from the secretary that your university application results came in today.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you get in?”

I hesitated for a second, then gave her a slow nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Ah, excellent,” the corners of her mouth drew upward. “Now that you have a chance to study abroad, make sure you use it wisely.”

*****

By the time I left the school building, it was three o’clock in the afternoon, and the sun’s glare had become even stronger. The schoolyard was now full of students heading home after a lunch break. It was a tumultuous day. I wanted to get back home as soon as possible, so I quickened my pace and headed in the direction of the school exit. Fortunately, there was no trace of Ali anywhere.

As I ventured downtown, my mind was preoccupied with swarming thoughts. Apart from the admission offer from Vienna, I recently received another letter from a prestigious school in the capital, from the New University of Astana. They offered me both a tuition waiver and a generous scholarship. This looked much better than the Austrian offer, where the university only waived the tuition costs but didn’t promise to cover my living expenses. Yet the idea of going to Vienna was more tempting. Like for most of my classmates, studying abroad was a matter of social prestige. Receiving a foreign degree was seen by many as a pinnacle of educational achievement. But, much more importantly, for me, it was an opportunity to run away from the stifling conservatism of Yasilkent. Europe, which had previously been an unreachable dream—a distant, comforting neverland that beckoned me from afar—was now within reach.

I was so busy with my contemplations that I didn’t even notice how I accidentally stepped into a gigantic puddle in the middle of the road and smeared my sneakers.

“Ah, damn it, not this again!” I grumbled. Such puddles regularly emerged in random parts of the town due to broken sewage systems and never-ending issues with rotting water pipes. Messiness had long become an annoying but integral part of Yasilkent’s scenery for me—ranging from cracked roads with potholes to randomly scattered trash. Even our most important cultural sites were not well-kept. The minarets of the central mosque were covered in light traces of soot after a long-forgotten fire, while the local museum’s façade was falling apart.

After getting out of the flooded street, I entered Republic Avenue, one of the central streets of Yasilkent. There, I walked by a familiar banner depicting a family of four. All of them were smiling happily at me: a woman, a man, a boy, and a girl. The dark-haired woman was depicted wearing a flowing silk dress draped gently over her lithe frame. Embroidered with delicate threads of gold and silver, her dress boasted intertwining patterns consisting of floral ornaments and flowing lines that mimicked the gentle sway of a cradle. Upon her head, the woman wore a headdress intricately crafted with vibrant silk fabric and adorned with precious jewels, echoing the floral motifs in her dress. The man was dressed in an exquisite shapan, a traditional long, loose robe in hues of deep azure with elaborate patterns of shimmering gold that imitated the shape of a ram’s horns. His deep, almond-shaped eyes were laughing kindly. A well-groomed beard framed his tanned face, giving a hint of rugged manliness. The children, placed in front of their parents, wore blindingly white shirts with colorful vests on top: a dark-blue one for the boy and a crimson-red one for the girl, also decorated with traditional patterns and ornaments.

The banner loudly proclaimed the following:

MAINTAINING MARRIAGE, THE SACRED UNION OF A MAN AND A WOMAN, IS A CIVIC DUTY OF EVERY CITIZEN!

—from the Annual Address of the National Leader of the Republic

I scoffed at the hypocrisy every time. The people in the streets of Yasilkent were nothing like the family on the billboard. No one in our town could afford traditional dresses. Torn jackets, battered toque hats, T-shirts with poor-quality prints, and forged brand-name pants—those were the real faces of Yasilkent.

But I didn’t even mind the image as much as the text under it. Like a wretched eyesore, it rubbed my alleged “abnormality” in my face. Why did I have to marry a woman? And why was it a civic duty? I had no choice but to angrily clutch the envelope in my hands and march onward. This would certainly be one of the things that I wouldn’t miss if I were to move abroad.

Once I reached the center of Republic Avenue, I passed a maroon-colored rectangular building of the local government, akimat, which looked like an oversized aesthetically polished brick with absurdly large windows. The number of government banners with the president’s quotes in both Kazakh and Russian grew exponentially in the akimat’s vicinity:

MELONS ARE THE SOURCE OF YASILKENT’S PRIDE! 

OUR FAMILIES, OUR REPUBLIC, OUR PRESIDENT!

INDEPENDENCE IS OUR GREATEST TREASURE! 

BE FORMAL AND POLITE—A CLEAN SPEECH IS A SIGN OF A CLEAN MIND!

KAZAKHSTAN, A TORCHLIGHT OF DEMOCRACY IN EURASIA!

The last one was a particularly dubious claim, but all of them were equally ridiculous or tediously uninteresting. And, for some strange reason, all of them ended with an exclamation point, as if angrily shrieking at the reader. I wondered if there was anyone in Austria as obsessed with the quotes of their president. A part of me doubted it.

Other than the banners, the area right next to the akimat building was much nicer than any other district in Yasilkent. Surrounded by a well-kept park with a fountain, this was a misplaced oasis in the sea of concrete. The roads that led to the area were all recently renovated, and there was an entire fleet of expensive cars parked right next to it. Alas, as soon as I took a turn from Republic Avenue, the surroundings became way less glamorous. People called that district of Yasilkent “Peking” even though no one was sure why. It had nothing to do with China. My mother alleged there was a restaurant in that district called Peking during the Communist era.

In Peking, the decaying panel buildings towered over me on both sides of the street, all of them uniform, old-fashioned, and decrepit. A year ago, the mayor made a desperate attempt to give them a more presentable appearance by repainting the walls with unfittingly bright colors, after the president announced a visit to Yasilkent. Even after the renovation, the exterior of the buildings had holes and poorly painted patches, while the paint itself, in some parts, began peeling off. Their rear sides were stained and faded, while the concrete was pitted and cracked from years of neglect. Other than the center of Yasilkent, most districts resembled Peking, with some variations in the urban decorations the city administration set up there. This remarkable urban grayness was rather ironic. The town’s name, “Yasilkent,” literally meant “a green city.” There was a similar paradox with the name of our country. Even though “Kazakhstan” translates as “The Land of the Free,” ironically, freedom was scarce in our lives. Truly, a nation of contradictory names.

Despite its lack of architectural sophistication, Peking was a busy district popular with small businesses. Many people crowded the area, as they did every afternoon in their desperate search for cheap items. This district’s bazaar was the biggest in town and constantly operated at full capacity. Yet traffic was particularly bad that afternoon. At one point, I barely avoided a seemingly drunken taxi driver who nearly ran me over on the pedestrian crossing. I loudly cursed him, although the driver wouldn’t hear me anyway. I then saw, not without schadenfreude, a police car take after him.

When I turned onto our street, the noises of growling, half-broken buses slowly disappeared into the distance. The street was called Al-Farabi. Despite its important name, it was rather narrow and untidy but, fortunately, way less crowded than Republic Avenue. It didn’t have any apartment blocks like Peking. Instead, it was made up of privately owned houses as well as occasional shops and kiosks. Most of the houses were built there when land plots were distributed by the former Communist government in the 1960s. Once the Soviet Union collapsed, all the land with houses became private property of the families who lived there, including ours.

After another five minutes of walking, at last I could see our cozy little house nestled at the end of the street. How could I feel so differently when seeing the place that I knew so well? The same freshly repainted peach-colored walls, the same well-kept garden where my grandparents once grew their vegetables, the same old metal fence, I now saw with such different feelings. Soon, I reached my destination, opened the entrance gate, and stepped into the yard. Within seconds, I was already at the doorstep of the house. The black door stared back at me sternly, as if knowing I was about to bring commotion into our family’s life. I glanced down at the envelope in my hands one last time. Slowly, I grasped the worn, cold metal door handle, but then paused, afraid of what was to come. A tremor of trepidation ran through my fingertips. At long last, I gave in and opened it.