I remember when, as a little girl, you would twirl, eyes closed and skirts flashing, and fall, laughing, into whoever’s arms were closest to you, knowing without doubt, that you would be caught.
I wish I could tell you with the same certainty now that you’re beginning your new life that you can have that same, abiding trust in the people around you – but honestly, I cannot.
It seems like all of your life we’ve been searching for a place where we would be surrounded by loving and supporting people. The closest we’ve come is when we lived in Yemen, where we found the most solace in the villages which were themselves nestled in the loving arms of ancient mountains. Knowing that if we had no food, someone would share whatever small amount they had. Knowing that, while no one could stop the bombs from falling, they would undoubtedly help sift through rubble and cry over those who were forever lost.
I thought for awhile we had found something similar here; a place where you, so loving and trusting, could understand community beyond the arms of family. I had hoped for shelter and acceptance, and I first I let myself believe. When it came down to it, though, it became clear that difference is always difference, and people incline towards what they know, what is familiar, what is safe. No matter how much we try, we will always be the outsiders.
But you, my daughter, know love. You know support without condition and trust without pain. You know that rain gives way to sun and that each has its time and place. Build the walls you must, but always have the courage to look outward while holding tightly to truth. This is family. This is home.