My question today is: Where are we, as immigrants, actually safe? Where is our safe place?

In Pakistan, where a 16-month-old baby was raped by a 17-year-old boy last week and lost her life everyone can imagine this cruelty. That mother was screaming while her innocent baby was bleeding. When her diaper was changed, the baby's lips turned blue, and she died.

In Pakistan, where innocent little girls are raped and the criminals go unpunished. In Pakistan, where there is bribery, lies, sin, rape, and cruelty, where no ones mother or sister is safe. A few months ago in Sargodha, Pakistan, a 7-year-old girl went to a shop to buy something, and two boys raped and murdered her.

In Pakistan, educated youth holding degrees run around looking for jobs, facing poverty, unemployment, and many other serious problems.

After all this, we dream of coming to Europe, USA, UK, Canada, or Australia. We build dreams that we will make our future abroad, earn money for our families, build a house, find a job, and live a peaceful life in these developed countries because they have money, very low crime rates, and the rule of law.

With all of this in mind, we sell everything we have in Pakistan our life savings, our home, our car, our property. Then begins the long process of running after embassies ,first getting documents in Pakistan, getting them attested in offices, going back and forth, facing humiliation. Sometimes embassies don't give us appointments. After a lot of effort and spending money, when we finally get an appointment, things still don't go smoothly. Sometimes the embassy's system breaks down, their computers don't work, and they send us back. Then we have to book a new appointment and face more humiliation and running around.

After long wait and with a lot of luck we finally get a visa. Then we borrow money, buy tickets, and come abroad.

Only after arriving here, we realize that the dreams we saw are not real. Life here is even tougher than in Pakistan. At least in Pakistan, nobody tells you, "Go back to your country!"

When you come here, you face difficulties in offices and experience racism. People look at you with contempt. Just by the way we look from afar, they know we are Pakistanis. While many people are very kind and I am not saying everyone is bad there are some people who make fun of our clothes, our skin color, and our culture, and treat us as if we are inferior.

We are made to stay silent and told not to say a word, otherwise they will take away our papers and send us back to Pakistan.

Just because we want to stay, we quietly swallow all this insult simply because we have sold everything in Pakistan to come here. We burned all our bridges behind us, and now we have nothing left back home. And where we have come, no one lets us live with dignity.

So, the question is: Where is our safe place? Where are we safe? Is there any place in this world where we can live with our heads held high, with dignity?

Freedom, freedom, freedom! We hear so much about how there is so much freedom abroad. My question is: Where is that freedom for us? Where is freedom for immigrants?

We cannot even speak up against disrespect because we are desperate Pakistanis who sold everything to come here. We stay silent out of the fear of losing our legal papers. So where is freedom?

For Pakistani mothers like me, freedom doesn't mean being able to drink beer at a bar just to prove we have freedom. We need freedom where we actually need it.

Now, I don't know when the dreams we saw since childhood will ever come true. The condition of us immigrants is like being stuck between a fire and a wall. Its an idiom meaning we cannot go back, and no one is letting us live ahead.

Even through we are working here, giving taxes, renting house we are doing everything in the same way as others do but still we are scared.

Not everyone is the same. Some people are very loving, bow in respect, and help us overcome the language barrier. Many people here are very helpful. But when our children have to face racism in schools and hospitals, we just stand there and force a smile because we have to stay here at all cost since we have no road left to go back.

Where is our safe place? Does it even exist in this world, or not?

Yesterday, I went to the hospital with my two young children in their pram to get their permanent health cards made. At the front desk, there were three women. When I asked if anyone spoke English, one of them said no. I took out my phone to use a translation app, but she refused to look at the screen or help me that way.

I walked over to another woman at the desk for help, but she rudely said "No English" and turned away with a bad attitude. Upset and overwhelmed, I called my husband and asked him to speak to them on the phone. At first, they refused to even talk to him. With great difficulty, I finally got one of them to take the phone.

While my husband was talking to her on the phone, the first woman I had spoken to earlier started making rude comments in Spanish, saying "mi madre" (my mother) and gesturing toward me while making faces and mocking me in front of another patient. I felt so humiliated. I was standing there alone with my two small children in a pram, feeling like a criminal. My eyes filled with tears, but I held them back. After a while, one of them scribbled on a piece of paper that we couldn't get the cards made directly and had to apply online first. I understood and left immediately because I did not want to stay there any longer and be mocked.

Stepping outside into the harsh sun, my heart heavy, tears finally rolled down my face. Next, I had to visit social services for another matter. When I arrived there, the staff was wonderful. They noticed I was upset and asked why I was crying. I explained that I am from Pakistan, new here, my children are Spanish nationals, and I hold a 5-year residence permit, but I speak English and haven't learned Spanish yet.

They comforted me and brought me inside. The director of social services actually called the hospital to ask why they refused to help me. He told them: "She is a Pakistani mother who speaks English, not Spanish. I am the director of social services, and even I am using a translation tool to speak with her. Your desk staff could have done the same. Please talk to them so this doesn't happen again."

I left that office feeling much better, but all the way home, my mind was racing with thoughts of wanting to go back and leave this place. I felt so overwhelmed that when I got home, I developed a high fever. Some people might take these things lightly, but for me, disrespect hurts deeply. I am not a criminal or a terrorist; I am just a mother trying to care for my two small children.

Is our identity not enough? Do we have to change who we are and become just like them to be accepted? I don't think anyone can learn a new language, culture, and everything else overnight. I have my personal boundaries that I must follow—I cannot wear a bikini, I do not drink alcohol, and I live by my religious and personal values. I am not targeting anyone else's culture, but I have my own boundaries that should be respected. True freedom means allowing everyone space, not mocking and laughing at others just to feel superior in a multicultural country.

Ever since yesterday, only one question has been echoing in my mind: What is my identity? Who am I? I have 16 years of education and a Master's degree in English Literature—is it logical for me to be mocked and humiliated by front desk workers like this?

Is life really this cheap? Did God give us life just so others could control it and dictate our misery?

It breaks my heart to wonder why we value social reputation over a human soul. We only get one life, yet we suffer through so much pain. It feels like people don't care about you while you are alive, struggling and crying for help, but as soon as you die, they weep for a few hours just to show their own grief. Does it really have to come to that? Do we have to die for people to finally notice our suffering or to prove our worth?

Death is such a heavy, painful reality. We get so lost in our daily routines—the noise of the city, the music, the traffic—that we forget how fragile life is. When we drive past a graveyard, does the person inside hear us? We don't know. All we see is a deep, eternal silence. No one ever comes back from that place. Their voice fades, and eventually, even their memory starts to blur with time.

If death is the ultimate destination, why are we so obsessed with petty things? We pray to see our loved ones in dreams just for a fleeting second, yet when they were alive and standing right in front of us, we failed to give them the care or respect they deserved. It seems like death holds a strange, tragic power—it is only when someone is gone that they suddenly receive the attention and "honor" they should have had while they were breathing.

I keep asking myself: Is it really necessary to die just to be remembered or respected? Why is this world so cruel?

Living in constant pain, crying, blaming myself, and being separated from my loved ones—for how long and why? I feel like I have lost my ability to make decisions because of my past, and even when I try to make the right choice, I cannot. God, please show me the way. When I go through this pain and suffering, there is no one but Him who knows that this pain is real.

Does money and status really have that much power? Are only those who have money and power able to survive in this world? My whole life, I haven't been able to have my own home, my own car, or a stable career. I spend every day applying for jobs everywhere, and in the end, I receive the same email: 'After careful consideration, we have decided to move forward with other candidates.' Ha! Is this a joke played by life, or is it fate? I have seen so many people who get everything without even asking. Is asking wrong? Is this my test?

I think that even dying wouldn't bring peace when you have children behind you with no future. Even in death, you would be humiliated. Dying is only easy for those whose life was easy. The funniest part is that along with the financial crisis, people who are helpless also face emotional and social mistreatment. In our culture, there is a saying that 'the happy and the sad have no connection,' and perhaps only I can understand that.

I am spending my whole life facing failure. I feel like luck is also made by money and status. No one can understand this pain unless they are going through it themselves; for others, it just looks like 'emotional drama.' My prayer is that no daughter has to face such a fate or such pain where she can neither live nor die.

Then, as I turned once more, the air seemed to shift. For a moment, it felt as though you were actually there. I could almost feel your arms encircling me, pulling me into a familiar warmth. I imagined your fingers tracing gentle patterns through my hair, and for a second, I could swear the scent of you filled the room. The sensation was so intense, so real, that I stopped breathing. I leaned into you, hiding my face in your chest, letting your heartbeat drown out the world. I let myself drown in that intoxication, calling your name in the silence of my heart. My eyes finally began to heavy, safe in the world where we were still “us.”

But the truth is a cruel waker.

Just as I began to drift, a sharp realization pierced through the fantasy: you are everything to me, but I am nothing to you. This love was never a bridge; it was a lonely, one-sided road. I had been foolish. I had given my soul to someone who never truly held it.

I remembered then how you didn’t just leave—you destroyed. You took my love and crushed it under your feet as if it were nothing. You turned my most sacred feelings into a joke, dragging my heart through the dirt for the world to see. How can anyone forgive that? How can you forgive someone who insults the very essence of your love and makes a spectacle of your pain?

They say time heals, but I don’t believe we ever truly forget. The memory of being betrayed doesn’t just vanish; it stains you.

I lay there, the bitterness rising in my throat, but the pain was too much to bear while awake. So, I did something desperate. I reached back into the darkness and pulled the “old you” toward me—the version of you I loved before the lies, before the betrayal, before I knew who you really were.

I closed my eyes tight, shutting out the person who hurt me so I could embrace the person I thought you were. I crawled back into that hollow embrace. Now, I am drifting off, tucked away in a corner of my mind where your treachery cannot reach me.

Please, let no one wake me. I would rather live in this beautiful lie than face the cold, empty truth of the morning. I am sleeping now, hidden from the world, and hidden from the reality of your betrayal.

Leave me dreaming; reality is far too harsh.

Support me

First, we are busy chasing our own desires and dreams.

Then, we start looking for a life partner.

Once we find them, we spend our energy trying to make them happy.

Then come the children.

When you have children, the desire to live becomes even stronger.

You start to worry: “If I die, what will happen to them?”

Having children forces a person to become afraid of death.

Then, the children grow up and get settled.

But the worry doesn’t stop; we start worrying about their future.

We want them to get married, to have good jobs, and to find good partners.

Even when all of that happens, we are still afraid to die.

The wish for more life never stops.

We say, “Not yet, just a little more. Give me a little more time. I have finally found some peace and relaxation in my life, I want to live it for a while.”

But why aren’t we preparing for death?

Is death that scary?

Even if it is, it’s the truth.

Great kings, the wealthiest people, the most powerful figures—death came for them all.

It means we all have to die.

Nothing in this world can stop it. Not money, not status, not resources.

There is no way to tell God, “Not right now, give me a little more.”

Death is inevitable.

But we still want death to happen on our own terms.

“Not now, not now.”

Then when?

The time of death is already written. It will come when it’s supposed to.

So, what are we actually preparing for?

Every night we wait for the morning.

That means we have hope.

But is that hope for the morning, or is it hope for more life?

Today, I am forced to think:

In every prayer, I ask God, “Please let this happen, please let that happen.”

By asking for these things, am I giving God a “deadline” to meet?

Or is God the one giving me a reprieve and more time?

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Every time I see a mother with her children,

When a school-going girl says goodbye to her mother at the school gate,

When a little girl comes to the park with her parents.

In the mornings, when mothers wake up to send their children to school,

I miss you all so much.

Those summer days,

Those winter nights,

The way you all used to fight with each other,

And then my scolding you all,

And then, how we would all make up.

I remember how my youngest daughter, Yashfa, used to sleep beside me,

I remember her tiny, little hands.

At night, while sleeping, I hear the sound of “Mama,”

As if she is right here with me, right now.

I miss you so much.

What should I do?

My children...

Your mother is so helpless.

Please, come to me.

Now I understand—when I used to fight with my own mother, she would say,

“You will understand when you become a mother yourself.”

Now, I finally know.

The distance is vast,

The pain does not lessen.

My eyes do not dry,

My heart does not find peace.

I cannot even look at your pictures; it hurts too much.

It feels as though

The separation written in our fate will only end

The day my life ends.

When I lie in my grave,

Straight,

Face toward the sky,

Unknown,

Anonymous...

Only then, perhaps, will I find peace.

Please forgive me, my daughters

.

Support my daughters' education

In my country, it is very hard for a single mother to rent a house. Many people refused me. Finally, I found a beautiful two-story house. I rented the lower portion. It had two bedrooms, a living room, and a garage with a big grape tree.

I was working at an educational company called ERN. My job was to help students go to the UK for university. I worked 9 to 5, five days a week. My salary was not very high, so I was happy to find a house with low rent.

It was December, and Islamabad was very cold and rainy. One evening, I came home from work, offered my prayers, and went to sleep.

In the middle of the night, I woke up to a loud noise. The ceiling fan was spinning at full speed. It sounded like it was going to fall down. I was terrified because I had locked the room from the inside. I ran to the switch and turned it off. I was screaming, “Who did this?” but no one was there. It was only 2 degrees outside. I stayed awake and prayed, but I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid they wouldn’t believe me.

A few days later, at 4:00 AM, someone knocked on my front door very loudly. I rushed to open it, but the street was empty.

I went back to sleep and had a terrible dream. In the dream, someone was pulling my hair and hitting me. Then, a very tall, pale man with no eyebrows walked into my house. I woke up screaming again.

When I told my friend at the office, she said, “You are just tired. Your past memories are making you imagine things.” I tried to believe her.

One day later, while I was sleeping, I felt something touch my foot. I woke up and saw a small boy, about 6 or 7 years old, standing by my bed. As soon as I looked at him, he jumped out of the window and disappeared.

I called the owners of the house and asked, “Is this place haunted?”

They got angry. They said, “We gave you this house when no one else would. We even gave you a low rent. Why are you saying these things?”

I felt bad and apologized. I had no other choice but to stay. I couldn’t afford a more expensive place.

After that, it became a daily routine. Whenever I tried to sleep, something happened. Sometimes I felt a very tall man sleeping next to me. He was so long that his feet went past the end of the bed. One night, I felt him trying to be close to me. I could hear his breathing. I was so scared that I spent the whole night sitting in the garage.

Soon, I started finding dark black bruises on my arms, back, and thighs. I was always tired at work. I couldn’t focus. My friends thought I was just looking for sympathy.

Finally, a friend of mine who is a lawyer came to stay with me. She thought I was imagining things. She slept in my bedroom, and I slept on the sofa in the living room.

In the morning, she asked me, “Was there an earthquake last night? My bed was shaking so hard.”

We checked the internet, but there were no earthquakes in Islamabad that night. She was so scared that she left and went back to her village that same day.

Shortly after that, I left that house. I moved into a small apartment. It was more expensive, but it was not haunted.

I still don’t know what was in that house or why it happened to me. I hope you guys understand. It was a very difficult time.

What do you think it was? Have you ever had a scary experience like this? Let me know in the comments.

The picture is the real one its the garage of that house.

Today, everything feels artificial. Our thoughts, our pictures, and even our solutions are generated by AI. Expectations are rising every day, but actual human effort is disappearing.

I still remember my student days. Back then, AI didn’t exist, and even mobile phones were rare. Competition was tough because we had to do the work ourselves. When we had a presentation, we visited libraries, searched through newspapers, consulted teachers, and built physical models. We didn’t have a “generate” button; we had research and hard work.

Now, I see people just typing a quick prompt. They don’t even care about spelling or grammar because they know the AI will fix it for them. In the past, we took English classes and learned how to write for ourselves. During debate competitions, we spent hours rehearsing and finding our own facts. Even school functions were decorated by hand. There was a sense of pride in what we created.

I see this most clearly in the workplace. I once worked at an educational consultancy. A colleague told me my emails were too short and simple. My style was direct: “Dear Team, the application is submitted. Screenshots are attached. Let me know if you need more info.”

Later, she sent an email that was pages long, filled with complicated words that made no sense. The only point of the email was to say some students were waiting to see the CEO. She proudly told me, “It’s AI-generated!” Sadly, the CEO loved it and gave her promotions.

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The world is becoming lazy. It’s all just copy-paste, edit, and repeat. While technology is useful sometimes, we are losing our ability to think. We are trading our skills for convenience, and I’m not sure where that leaves us.

Being loved by you made me more romantic, more poetic, and more playful than I had ever been. My laughter was constant, ringing out for no reason at all. I used to hide my feet, thinking they were dull and plain, but suddenly, they felt like the most beautiful feet in the world. You even adored my teeth—the ones that were crooked and misaligned, overlapping and uneven. Because of you, I believed I had a wonderful smile. I felt beautiful, imagining myself in your arms, addicted to your praise like a drug.

But now, the admiration has vanished. Am I no longer beautiful? Or was it all just a dream? You say you never spoke those words of praise. Then what were those whispers I heard from your mouth? Was I just hearing what my heart wanted to believe?

The scene has changed. I look into the mirror again and see only the rough skin, the blemishes, and the dark complexion. I rush to the washroom, staring at my reflection under the harsh lights. My teeth are just as they were always —crooked and crowded. My smile doesn’t feel good anymore.

Why did everything change so fast? Was it magic, or just the passage of time? Was it a lie, or were you just “available” until you weren’t? Whatever it was, it felt beautiful then. But looking at it now... it is not beautiful at all.

I realize now that my beauty didn’t actually come from a bottle or a brush. It came from the way you looked at me. When someone truly loves you, they act like a mirror that only shows your best parts, and you finally start to feel beautiful yourself. But when that person hurts you or leaves, that mirror breaks. You start to see only the flaws and the shadows again. It’s a painful truth: love makes us feel like we are glowing, but heartbreak makes us feel like that light has been turned off, leaving us to feel like we aren’t beautiful at all.

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For nine years, I gave everything to a marriage. In a society where a “baby boy” is often seen as the only measure of success, I gave birth to three beautiful daughters: Mariam, Fatima, and Noor. They were my world, but the systems around us—the power of money, the influence of status, and the weight of a feudal society—began to tear us apart.

I lost them.

In the painful process of divorce, I was at my most vulnerable. I lacked the financial power and the family protection needed to fight back. Because of that, my daughters were taken from me. At the ages of 6, 11, and 12, they were forced to face a world without their mother.

I remarried, hoping for stability and a way to get them back, but life rarely follows the path we imagine. I found myself unable to help them, and even unable to help myself.

A New Struggle in Spain

God gave me the opportunity to come to Spain. I arrived with a single mission: to build a career, earn a living, and eventually bring my daughters here to be with me. But the reality has been a mountain of struggles.

Every day and every night, I am searching. I am on InfoJobs, LinkedIn, Glassdoor, and Indeed. I have reached out to British schools and international offices. But the language barrier is a wall, and the lack of resources feels like a constant shadow.

The trauma I carry is immense. Recently, I spoke to my sister, Hina, through tears. I told her about a phone call with my younger daughter. She told me she had seen her cousin eating a burger. She had offered 10 rupees just for a single bite, but she was refused.

Hearing that my child was begging for a bite of food while I am thousands of miles away broke something inside me. It is a helplessness that feels like death.

Why I Write

It was my sister who urged me to come here, to Substack. So, I have started to write. I write what I think, what I feel, and what I have endured.

My daughters have lost their father, and right now, they are living without their mother. I am the only one who can change their future. I tell myself every day: If I stay alive, if I keep fighting, I can fix this. I am here to work. I am here to make a life. I am here so that one day, my daughters will never have to beg for a bite of a burger or a moment of love ever again.

Every night is painful ,every breath is complicated, and yes i will fight till the death.

This is my truth. This is my story.

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Was it all because you didn’t want to live with me?

Were all these efforts just a way for you to leave?

The way you treated me, the lack of trust,

The shouting and the yelling...

Was it all because you wanted me gone?

The hatred you showed, the disbelief,

The abuse I endured, and the power of your money—

Was all of this just to push me away?

If it was your nature to be unfaithful and leave,

You should have told me.

Why did I make excuses every time you hurt me?

Why was I begging for your time, your love, and your care?

Why was I blaming myself?

Why was I trying so hard to change who I was,

Physically and emotionally, just to please you?

Do you think you are punishing me now?

No, my dear. You are innocent; you don’t even know what punishment is.

The real punishment is what I did to myself.

Choosing you was the real betrayal of my own heart.

I was the true tyrant to myself.

Do you understand now?

Now, I will give you the only punishment you deserve for your wrongs.

It is an announced punishment:

I am removing myself from your life forever.

An unfaithful person doesn’t need any punishment greater than this.

 My first morning in Spain dawned bright and sunny, but it wasn't the light that woke me: it was the aroma. A thick, irresistible scent of freshly brewed coffee beans floated through the air like a warm-embrace. In my first few days, I tried to escape this intense sensory greeting by closing the windows, but after a week, the rhythm ofthe roasted beans simply blended with my senses.

Now, I don’t just smell it; I live it.

In Spain, the streets are a labyrinth of bars. Every corner seems to house a small kingdom of kind people who greet each other with kisses on both cheeks. As a newcomer, I observe with a mixture of shyness and admiration, wishing I could join the dance. This social warmth extends to the parks, where the chirping of gray birds—anostalgic sound that transports me to my village in Pakistan—mixes with a sight that fills my heart.

Spanish grandparents.

In my home country, the elderly are often confined to their beds or a quiet corner of the house. But here, they overflow with energy. I often see elderly couples devotedly caring for their grandchildren in the parks, or even taking dance classes together! They don’t just grow old; they keep moving, dancing, and living with a vibrant spirit that is truly inspiring.

Perhaps the most touching observation is how Spaniards treat their pets. Dogs are not just animals here; they are pampered princesand princesses. They have schedules, fashion, and a seat at the café. Coming from Pakistan, where stray dogs roam the streets, seeing a dog in a sweater being told "I love you" by its owner is a beautiful culture shock.

But then, there is the wind. In Valencia, they call it "an air that cuts". It is a character that refuses to be ignored. When it blowshard, it seems to carry away my energy and desires, swirling them in the dry air only to return them a few streets away, gasping and startled. At night, when it howls through the gaps in the apartment blocks, it screams like a desert storm: haunting, yet captivating. Inthose moments, the wind seems to take on a mysterious voice; itsounds as if someone is whispering secrets directly into my ears, a ghostly greeting from the city itself.

The rhythm of life here is dictated by church bells and the sacred siesta. Between 2:00 PM and 5:00 PM, shops lower their metal shutters and the streets fall into a deathly silence. But perhaps the most fascinating display of the Spanish rhythm occurs on New Year's Eve. I watched with awe as an entire nation attempted the impressive feat of eating twelve grapes, one for each chime of the clock. They say it’s a sign of good luck, and I watched with deep respect as everyone transformed into an image of concentrated silence, cheeks full of fruit, all in the span of thirty seconds.

The streets also hold other mysteries. I noticed clear plastic bottles filled with water placed in front of doorways: a peculiar local superstition intended to deter dogs from urinating there. I am not convinced if the myth works, but I respect the silent, watery guardians of the thresholds.

Even discarded furniture on the sidewalk feels like a community gift; seeing a "Recogida" (Pick- up) sign is like finding a treasure waiting for a new home.

There is a deep sense of respect here. At crosswalks, drivers stoptheir cars as soon as they see my children's stroller, even from a distance. In Pakistan, the rhythm of the road is much more chaoticand unpredictable, where rules often seem like suggestions andeveryone is in a desperate hurry. Here, Spaniards are loud and expressive, but they deeply respect the pedestrian's space.

Perhaps the greatest gift Spain has given me is the sense of peace.As a mother of two children, with my husband currently away, I have found myself walking the streets of Valencia until twelve at night. In many parts of the world, a woman alone with two children at that hour would feel fear. But here, I only feel the fresh night air. If a woman can walk through the city in the middle of the night, with her children in tow, feeling completely safe... it means she is in Spain.

In just two months, Spain has conquered my heart. From the dramatic dresses of the Falleras to the kindness of the hospital staff , I have fallen in love.

 Pakiza Gondal

Valencia, Spain

Thank you for giving me life lessons.

Thank you for betraying me,

For cheating on me,

And for prioritizing others over me.

Thank you for giving me reasons to leave you.

For the times you ignored me,

For the slaps and the humiliation,

And for the lies you told me.

Thank you for telling me I was ugly,

And how other girls were more beautiful or fit than me.

Thank you for leaving my mind without any dreams,

And for showing me what I was worth to you.

For all the misunderstandings I had—

Are you really my ex?

Or is my mind just wandering?

Before you could betray me again,

I am betraying you.

The poison in my heart against you—

Yes, it is you. I can finally say:

The poison is you

In this new world, I am not a scholar. I am a woman who struggles to say "Hola" or "Gracias" without the sting of a "wrong" pronunciation.

The Mercadona Marathon

My daily life has become a game of charades. At the hospital or the supermarket, my hands do the talking. I point, I gesture, I perform a silent dance just to buy bread or explain a pain.

The most "literary" tragedy of my day? It happens at the checkout counter. I realize the person doesn’t understand me, so I reach for my phone to open Google Translate. But by the time my screen glows and the app loads, the person has already walked away with a sigh of annoyance. In the digital age, I am still too slow for a fast-paced world.

The Loneliness of the Park

I sit in the park—a great observer of a life I cannot join. I watch the elderly men and women chatting on the benches. I crave their company; I want to hear their stories, their wisdom, and the history of this land. But between their experience and my curiosity lies a wall of language I cannot yet climb.

Even in the bars, surrounded by bright lights, clinking glasses, and the roar of Spanish laughter, I am an island. I am in the center of the life and light of Valencia, yet I am completely alone in the dark.

Finding a New Voice

They say that when you lose one sense, the others become stronger. Perhaps, while I am "voiceless" in Spanish, my eyes are seeing more than ever before.

This Substack is my bridge. If I cannot speak to my neighbors in the park yet, I will write to you here. I am learning to trade my English books for Spanish streets, one "hand symbol" at a time.

Almussafes, Spain.