Short Story
By: Mohammad Ehsan Mohaya
The Price of a Passport
From the white of his hair, he looked to be around 49 years old, yet he was younger than that. He was always quiet, taciturn, and lost in his own thoughts, mingling very little with people. Sometimes he would say just a short sentence, but it carried the weight of a thousand words. Because he used to be a teacher, everyone respectfully called him "Ustad Ehsan."
For more than a year, he had been living with his family in a camp in our neighborhood. After all that waiting and anticipation for a passport, they had finally been issued one three days ago.
Previously, he had always dreamed: "Once I get my passport, God willing, I will go straight to my family, to my brothers and sisters, most of whom are in various countries." He would always say, "I won't delay for even a single moment."
This morning, while we were taking a walk after the morning prayer, I asked him:
"Ustad Ehsan, you used to count the seconds every day, saying that as soon as your passport arrived, you wouldn't stay here for a single moment. Why aren't you leaving now?"
Ustad Ehsan let out a deep sigh, his eyes moistened, and said:
"Sometimes, a person pays far more for something than it is actually worth, and they only realize it when nothing can be done anymore.
I, too, paid more than 20 years of my life and youth for this passport. Twenty years away from my mother, my brothers, my sisters, and their families. My mother wanted me by her side until her very last breaths, but I wasn't there—all in the hope that one day I would get a passport and go to them.
I spent several years in one country, but no passport was issued. I went to a second country; it didn’t work. I went to a third country, and finally, after twenty years, I got this passport. Of course, it came at the price of twenty years of my life, twenty years away from all joys, hopes, and life’s pleasures.
So this passport took from me far more than its true worth.
Now that I have the passport, I am no longer that young, energetic, cheerful, fearless, easygoing, and patient Ehsan.
Back when I was young, I would go anywhere I wanted with my brother, and we would always eat out. Yet, so that the family wouldn't find out, we would still eat a little bit at home so no one would suspect we had eaten outside.
Now, praise be to God, my brother himself has grandchildren.
I used to tease my sister a lot and play practical jokes on her. Sometimes I would leave her expensive phone right in the middle of the courtyard, pretending it was old and broken. The poor thing, after searching the entire house, would be forced to call her own number, only to find out that her phone was lying right there in the courtyard, and we would all laugh.
But now, she is married and, praise be to God, has grown, youthful children. I can no longer play such jokes on her because it would certainly upset her husband and children.
Sometimes, when another sister of mine was speaking, I would pay close attention so that if she mispronounced even a single word, I would immediately repeat it, embellish it, bring it up repeatedly, and for days we would talk about it and laugh.
But now that is impossible; she is married and even has grandchildren.
Those sweet times are gone, and with the issuance of my passport, they are not coming back.
I had a little sister; every now and then, I would take her to the bazaar and buy her whatever she liked in a restaurant, paying for it myself. When we got back home, as a joke, I would calculate all the expenses and say, 'You’ve gotten this much into debt with me.'
My little sister would be lost in confusion, her eyes growing wide, and the color draining from her face, wondering how on earth she could pay back so much money.
Then we would all laugh and joke around. But now she is married and, praise be to God, has several young sons.
Because of this very single passport, I missed my brother’s wedding. I missed my sisters' weddings. My nieces and nephews have never seen me and don’t know me.
Now, with white hair, a stooped posture, and a broken heart, where should I go, and with whom can I joke and banter?
Now that I have this passport—which I obtained at the price of twenty years of separation from all my loved ones—I am at a loss as to where to go.
If only, with this passport, I could simply fly twenty years back into the past, and nothing more."
These words of Ustad Ehsan had such a profound impact on me that it felt as though he were voicing the innermost thoughts of my heart and those of thousands of other refugees.
And thinking of the irreplaceable spiritual assets that I, too, had paid just for this passport, I sank deep into thoughts, and quietly and silently within my chest, I wept tears of blood.
By: Mohammad Ehsan Mohaya
