She set off, for university, with a suitcase, a heart full of hope, and a mind that doesn’t yet see life as a journey, but as a discovery, an invention waiting to be revealed, or a mountain to be conquered. Everything feels possible, like something destined to succeed. I call it “the butterfly moment.” I even bought her a coffee mug with a butterfly on it, so she’ll remember when she sips her morning brew.
My little butterfly will wander, hesitate, dive, test the wind, fluttering from flower to flower, tasting nectar, colors, and scents. Isn’t that what university is all about? Gathering the best of the world, learning from its wisdom and truth, discovering your superpowers.
Top news story alert pops up on the phone, in TikTok format. The caption reads “Genocide.” Gaza. Death, rubble, despair. Always the Middle East, always the same dust and grief.
The TV hums, half ignored: Trump’s historic visit to the UK. Artificial Intelligence tops the agenda. Billions of dollars for those who adapt.
The Household Division escorts the motorcade. The Prime Minister waits on Downing Street. Cameras zoom in on Melania’s hat.
Grandma walks in, full of advice: “Be careful”, and enough homemade food to feed a village, as if eating is the world’s balancing force.
Clinton, 1995, cheers in Belfast, adoration in London, a peace process celebrated with official dinners, the glow of hope…
One of the besties drops off a card and a framed photo of the girls.
Gaza, 2014, neighborhoods flattened, smoke reaching the sky.
George H. W. Bush, 1991, in London, while the Gulf War raged, flags and handshakes, Kuwait’s oil fields burning.
2002, Jenin is leveled, an entire refugee camp reduced to rubble, thousands displaced.
The doorbell rings nonstop, her friends hug her again, laughter hiding tears, jokes about dorm life.
Nixon, 1969, steps out of a car in London, speaking calmly while Vietnam burns, handshakes and bombs.
Beirut, 1982, Sabra and Shatila, refugees who survived the 1948 Nakba are massacred, the dates blur, the bodies do not.
She zips the side pocket of her bag and clips on her key ring.
John F. Kennedy, 1961, “Camelot” arrives in London, crowds ignore the rain, the Brits are captivated by Jackie’s white gloves.
She packs slowly, like a ritual, not realizing this isn’t a vacation, it’s her first move, the beginning of separations.
The screen goes dark, we all sit on the suitcase together to close it, we drive to the airport, I pretend I’m excited, smile like it’s all for the best.
I am certain I’ve just been struck by a new autoimmune disease. Another quiet war under my skin. I whisper to myself: this too will pass.
Maybe if I push her away, it’ll be easier, for her, for me. For a moment, she hates me.
She disappears behind the security line, backpack bouncing, hand waving one last time.
I let her go, to save the world, to believe that butterflies don’t just flutter, they carry life. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll find that one flower that changes everything.