When I was six, I moved. Not to a new state. Not to a new city. Not to a new school. No, I simply moved houses. Although I knew I was supposed to feel lucky to be staying in the same community, the move was still terrifying. Our new house was much bigger than our old one. Because of this, I got my own room, as opposed to sharing one with my sister. I loved it. But sometimes, at night, lying there alone in the darkness, I would be scared. Scared that someone would enter my bedroom door and take me away. I spun wild tales of who–or what–could be lurking in the dark, just waiting for a moment of weakness. I felt so far from my parents and thought the worst during those nights. And I admit it, sometimes those irrational fears creep back despite having lived in my new house for almost ten years. Moving away from a place you have always called home is tough. Even a move as small as mine. But imagine if it was not small. Imagine if you were forced to move away from your own country, aw...
It's not pronounced the way you think