How many countries I have seen in one lifetime; I have crossed oceans and stood beneath unfamiliar skies, watching people weave their dreams under the glow of foreign cities. My close ones left one by one for distant lands—some to snowy cities, some to the shores of blue seas, and others to places where the word future still holds the promise of hope.
The path abroad called out to me too, time and again. There was the allure of opportunity, the promise of a secure life, and the temptation to live with peace of mind under a clear sky. Yet, I did not go. How could I leave? After all, it was on this very soil that I cried my first tear; my childhood afternoons grew up covered in the dust of this land. Here lies my mother’s apron, my father’s voice, the stories of my paternal grandparents, and the affection-filled afternoons with my maternal grandparents—none of whom are alive today.
Yet, they remain—beneath this soil, in some quiet corner of this country, lying in the darkness of their graves as if waiting for my return. No matter how bright the lights of foreign lands were, the color of this soil always clung to my eyes. I used to think that a country is not merely a map; a country means roots, memories, and standing silently with a handful of earth beside the graves of loved ones. But today—reaching the evening of my life—I feel completely foreign to myself.
For so long I have watched—dreams being slashed, the voice of integrity silenced, and honesty locked out. How many faces change for the sake of power, how many consciences are traded for self-interest, and how many lies walk the streets dressed as truth! All around is a strange celebration—a festival of hypocrisy, pride, envy, greed, and deceit.
Good people gradually fall silent; the gentle voice of dignity is buried beneath the noise. Those who can, leave for foreign lands—to save their children’s future, to preserve their conscience, or simply to breathe a sigh of relief. But I did not leave. Because I believed that the country would change one day. I believed our next generation would see a more beautiful morning. I believed that a land steeped in so much blood, so many tears, and so much love would one day allow people to live as human beings. A whole lifetime passed in that hope.
Looking back today, I see that the age for dreaming has somehow slipped away. So many springs went by, so many monsoons came, and so many autumns quietly passed by my window—while I merely waited. For a beautiful day. For a normal morning. For a country where being honest would not be considered foolishness, and where a gentle person would not feel ashamed of their gentleness.
Today, I deeply wish to know—have we truly moved forward? Or has only time moved ahead? Cities have grown, high-rises fill the surroundings, and lights have brightened—but where has the inner light of human beings gone? Are we walking forward, or standing before a shiny mirror and mistakenly calling our own reflection progress? Sometimes it feels as though I mortgaged my entire life to a mistaken belief. Having seen a vast part of the entire world, I never settled anywhere—thinking, how could I live away from my country?
Today, I am in my country—yet it feels as though the country has been lost somewhere from me. What a strange irony! The soil I held onto all my life—standing on that very soil today, I ask myself: did I make a mistake? Even after everything, no answer comes. Only somewhere in the distance, near my parents’ graves, the wind seems to rustle. It feels as if my mother is saying, “You didn’t want to leave, my child… you only loved this soil.” I cannot say a word. I simply bow my head and pick up a handful of earth. For in this soil lies my childhood, my parents, my lost dreams, and all my love. Therefore, I cannot hate this country. I only feel tired now. Extremely tired. So tired that I no longer dream.
Yet somewhere, deep within, a faint lamp covered in dust has still not gone out. Perhaps that is the country. Perhaps that is humanity. Perhaps that is my final belief—that one day there will be room for honesty even within this soil, people will once again address each other as human beings, and no child will ever have to leave their homeland to build a home under unfamiliar skies in search of a secure future. Perhaps I will not be there on that day. Still—if a child’s laughter floats over my grave someday, I will feel that I was not entirely wrong. For people die, dreams die, but the love left behind for this soil—can it ever truly die?
