"Exile does not begin when you leave your homeland… it begins when you are forced to wear a name that is not yours."
Montreal's streets lay thick with snow, a cold so sharp it felt cruel — the opposite of the warm courtyard in Bethlehem. Dalal walked among tall buildings and signs in French and English, feeling as if she'd stepped into a colorless painting. Everything was strange: the language, the people, the weather, even the smell in the air.
At the university she was officially registered as Nadia Hanna. Her student card carried her face, but the name beneath it was not hers. She sat in large lecture halls among dozens of students from many cultures, hearing voices speak in tongues she had never learned. She took notes quietly, smiled shyly when addressed, and avoided long discussions for fear her accent would give her away.
During breaks she watched groups gather and laugh; she sat alone with a tasteless cup of coffee and thought:
"Maybe this is the price — exile and a borrowed identity in exchange for the truth."
She would not allow sorrow to swallow her. Every night she returned to her small room, opened her laptop, and began to search: names, institutions, conferences… anything that might lead her to Billy Mark. She discovered that he presented himself as an "expert on Middle Eastern affairs," giving occasional talks at universities and think tanks. This was her chance.
Quietly, she started to make connections on campus. She joined the "Middle East Studies" club under the name Nadia and attended discussion sessions. She listened more than she spoke, trying to build a place for herself among them.
One evening, while reviewing her notebook, she wrote with a trembling hand:
"I am not only Nadia, nor only Dalal… I am both. And if I am to reach Billy Mark, I must play the part to the end."
She turned off the light, lay down on her narrow bed with the cold pressing at the window. Inside her, however, a plan was slowly taking shape: to reach Mark through this university… through this name… through this exile.