Chasing Metal Birds: From Waiting to Becoming

Chasing Metal Birds: From Waiting to Becoming

There is a silence in villages that is not empty—it is full of waiting. And sometimes, that waiting lasts a lifetime.

In a rural village, the sound of an airplane was never just noise. It was a signal—sharp, distant, almost sacred. Whenever it crossed the sky, a child would run barefoot through the fields, eyes locked upward, chasing something that never slowed down long enough to be caught.

“Abu! Abu!” the child would call into the wind, as if the sky itself might answer.

The elders had once said that the father had gone with those metal birds, travelling far away to change the family’s fate. That story became belief. And belief slowly turned into hope.

A family lived on the edge of survival. The decision to send the father abroad was not ambition—it was necessity. Their only source of livelihood was exchanged for a promise of a better future. In that place, leaving was often spoken of as destiny. But destiny, for them, became absence.

The Silence That Followed

Then came the silence.

No calls. No letters. No return.

At first, it was ignored. Then it was feared. And slowly, it became normal.

Hunger entered the home quietly, changing everything without announcement. Neighbours began to speak in lowered voices. Some said he had built a new life elsewhere. Others said he would never return. But inside the house, the silence was heavier than any rumor.

One afternoon, under a burning sun, a younger child fell severely ill with fever. A mother figure went from door to door, asking for a few eggs, something small to ease the sickness. Doors closed one after another.

“It is too hot. Why would you need help today?” they said.

She returned home without protest. The remaining chickens were gathered in silence. There was no time left for hesitation.

With the feverish child in her arms, she walked toward the distant road. The sun pressed down on her shoulders, and the earth beneath her feet felt longer than ever before. But she did not stop.

In that moment, survival was not a choice. It was movement.

The Return That Was Not a Return

Years passed.

The father eventually returned.

But he did not return as the man who had left.

The promise that had carried him across borders had collapsed into hardship. He had been deceived by fraudulent agents who sold dreams but delivered struggle. Life abroad had meant exhaustion, uncertainty, and the constant fight for survival. After years of suffering, he returned home.

But something in him had not returned.

Life continued, but differently. The family rebuilt not with certainty, but with effort. Education became the only direction that did not disappear.

And the child who once ran after airplanes slowly stopped chasing the sky.

Running in a Different Direction

In many places, similar stories repeat themselves in different forms. Families sell what little they have, hoping that distance will solve what poverty cannot. Migration becomes a dream, but also a risk that too often costs more than it gives.

Not every dream fails. But many are never given a fair chance to succeed.

Years later, the child who once ran barefoot through fields now walks through classrooms instead. Books have replaced the sky as a place of escape—but also of possibility.

The airplanes still pass overhead.

But they are no longer chased.

They are simply watched.

And understood.

Because some things are not meant to be caught.

Some things are meant to be survived.

And rebuilt.

The child who once chased metal birds now learns a different kind of flight—

One that does not disappear into the sky,

but stays,

and grows roots in the ground beneath her feet.

#Migration

#Rural Life

#Education

#Resilience

#Women and Girls