"Every airport is a test of identity — you either survive under your own name or lose yourself in another's."
Morning in Bethlehem was heavy with farewells.
The courtyard, once alive with children's laughter and the chatter of neighbors, was now filled with tears.
The whole family gathered around Dalal, who held a small travel bag, everyone believing she was heading to Jordan to continue her studies.
Only Samer and Nadia knew the truth.
Her mother gripped her hand tightly and said with a trembling tenderness:
"Take care of yourself, my daughter. Jordan isn't far… but exile is exile, no matter the distance."
Dalal smiled, forcing steadiness into her voice, pretending this was just an ordinary journey.
Nadia stood off to the side, her eyes shining with tears she dared not let fall, afraid the truth might spill with them.
As Dalal passed her, she whispered softly:
"From here, you are me… and from there, I am you. Don't forget."
At the border crossing, every step felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss.
She handed her passport to the officer.
Her heart hammered in her chest; her breathing quickened.
The man glanced between her face and the photo, hesitated for a moment that froze her blood —
then stamped the papers and said flatly:
"You may go."
As she walked away, her knees nearly gave out.
It felt as though she had been reborn.
For the first time in her life, she was officially Nadia Hanna.
The road to the airport seemed endless.
When the plane finally took off from Amman, it felt as if it was tearing her away from one life to drop her into another.
From the window, she watched the land recede beneath her — a patchwork of brown hills and light — and a single tear traced down her cheek.
She didn't know whether it was fear, longing, or the first breath of a dangerous dream.
Hours passed. Faces around her were unfamiliar.
She barely spoke, afraid her accent or hesitation might betray her.
Her hands clutched the small bag under the seat — the only thread still tying her to home.
Then the captain's voice echoed:
"We will begin our descent to Montreal International Airport."
Her pulse quickened.
Below her stretched a white world, a city blanketed in snow — cold, distant, and foreign, nothing like the warmth of Bethlehem.
As she stepped outside the terminal, a gust of icy wind struck her face.
She shivered — but inside her, a fire raged.
Looking up at the gray Canadian sky, she whispered:
"I'm here, Bahaa… on the same land where they brought your killer.
And from here… I begin."