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...
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