March 2024 Student Spotlight: Nazamuddin Mohammadi
After emigrating from Afghanistan to India, Nazamuddin Mohammadi arrived with his family in Rochester, NY in the spring of 2023. He joined MCC in the fall and is studying computer science. His hope for the future is to start his own website design company so that he can help his family. In this essay, Naz revisits strong memories of his childhood in a war zone and the journey that ultimately brought him to the United States. Through his recollections, Naz explores what role fate plays in our lives as well as what we can control.
You Will Never Walk Alone
Every year more than a hundred million babies are born around the world, but no one is born in the same situation. We are born in different countries with different cultures and different religions. Also, no one chooses where to be born, and not everyone is lucky. In the summer of 2003, I was born in a county in the middle of a war, where you could hear the gunshots and smell the sharp smell of gunpowder in the air, unlike millions of other kids who are born in peaceful, comfortable countries, where you can hear the birds sing and smell the fresh air around the neighborhood.
It’s me Nazamuddin, with a long name that my grandparents chose for me, meaning discipline and order. We had a big family, and we all used to live in a big five floor house with a nice interior, a garden full of apples and grape trees that my grand dad took care of, and a big play yard for me and my cousins. Our house looked like a big stone castle from the outside with tall walls and a big heavy door. I was always playing in the yard with my funny cousins, but we didn’t have permission to play outside the walls of our yard. Often, we were scared during the night when we heard gunfire and sometimes explosions. As kids, we didn’t have any idea what those sounds were, and we talked about it together one day. One of my bigger cousins told us they were fireworks and people were setting them off when they were happy. However, as we grew up, I realized that it wasn’t the fireworks, and I understood why we didn’t have the permission to play outside the house. I felt strange.
As a kid about to start school, I barely saw my father as he was always at work. He didn’t tell me that he was in the military until school started. I used to talk to him on the phone every night for a couple of minutes. When I repeatedly asked him when he would come home, I could feel the silence in his voice when he said “soon” every time. I started out at the best school in the county called Amani High School. Unlike other students, I didn’t take the bus to school. Instead, my uncle drove us to school and back home. One day I asked my dad on the phone, “Hey, dad, I want you to take me to school!” He replied, “Son, I can’t” with shame in his voice. I said, “Alright” as I hung up abruptly. Mom said, “Disrespectful!”, and then I went to bed.
In school, I found a new friend named Ahmed. We were in the same class in the first grade. We used to play in school, but I didn’t have permission to play with him outside the school. Nevertheless, he could come to our house to play. We went to school together from first grade to sixth grade, and we made many memories of happiness and sadness. He became my best friend at the time. I loved him like my brother. Unfortunately, one day an explosion happened right next to our school which was located between the U.S. and German embassies. The explosion was like a powerful storm with a strong wind. At the time, I didn’t hear or feel anything besides the wind. Still, I can remember my classmates’ cries and feel their pain. The classroom became a box of blood. After the explosion, the only thing remaining in the classrooms were the broken walls and we students. I didn’t feel anything at the moment other than sleeping in the darkness. I woke up in the hospital, and Ahmed’s mom was right next to me, but not my own mom. She whispered in my ear, “Naz, don’t worry son. You are fine.” Softly, I replied with a broken voice, “Where is Ahmed?” She was deeply quiet. She tried to hide the tears from her eyes, but the tears were coming out slowly like the first season of rain after winter. She didn’t say anything. She just kissed me the same way she kissed Ahmed. Then, she left. I never saw her again, but I got a letter from her. Enclosed in the letter was Ahmed’s drawings with a picture of us together. Ahmad died in the explosion, and I lost my brother.
Eventually, my dad left his job, and we said goodbye to our life in Afghanistan. Before I left Afghanistan, I returned to my school, and I put Ahmed’s mom’s letter in our favorite spot, which is all the way down the soccer field, and I left without looking back.
On our way to the airport, my dad was telling me about where we were going to start our new life. After a while, we saw a military group of cars passing by. His eyes went wet, and he went silent. He didn’t say anything else after that. We flew to India, the first country in our long journey. We all started a new life in a new country where I could go outside alone and play outside the home. However, nowhere feels likehome, I said to myself all the time. I started school like other normal kids, and I walked to school instead of going in a big heavy car that even I couldn’t open the doors by myself. I found so many friends, but none of them were like Ahmed. I played soccer with my new friends, but most of the time we had to study hard just to pass a class. After our time in India, we continued to travel to different countries that gave us different lessons and memories. Everyone has difficulties in life that only they can solve on their own.
Finally, after arriving in the United States a year ago, I thought it might be our last destination, but who knows. I eventually found myself in Rochester, sitting in a green park with fresh air and the quiet feeling that I had been looking for many years. At that moment, I said to myself, life is full of highs and lows, but you must be strong. It doesn’t matter how, where, or when you were born. If you were born with problems, it’s not your fault, but if you die with problems, you never lived.
ESOL Voices is a collection of stories written by ESOL students at Monroe Community College. This publication highlights our MCC students who come from all over the world. Look for new stories in the Tribune. We hope you enjoy our students’ stories as much as we do.
Pamela Fornieri & Bridget Dee, ESOL Program, March 2024