My name is Yassine. I was born in the countryside, where fields begin before the roads, and where a child learns to walk on the soil before learning to walk through life. There, the sky was not just a sky; it was an open ceiling filled with big questions that a small child could not yet understand.
I grew up in a place that looked peaceful from afar, yet carried the harshness of nature and the difficulties of life within. My childhood was not loud, nor filled with modern toys or endless wishes. It was simple… but it was not easy.
I used to wake up to the sound of the wind embracing the fields, carrying a school bag that sometimes felt heavier than my age, and walking a road nearly two kilometers long. There was no school bus, no paved street—just a dirt path that knew my footsteps well. In summer, the sun watched me from above, as if testing my endurance. In winter, the cold would creep into my bones until I felt my limbs go numb. Sometimes I arrived at school with wet clothes and muddy shoes… yet I smiled anyway.
I was young… but the road made me strong. As I walked, I wondered: Would I stay here forever? Would my life be like this road—long and exhausting? I didn’t have the answers, but I had persistence.
Home was a place my body returned to, but my heart was not always at peace there. I grew up in an environment dominated by strictness. Harsh words were sometimes quicker than kind ones. I felt early on that I was expected to be strong before I even learned how to be a child.
My grandmother was a strong presence in my life. Her presence felt heavy on me psychologically. I lived with a constant fear of her — a fear I could never fully explain. For long periods, I believed she was trying to harm me through sorcery and witchcraft. People may differ in how they interpret such things, but the feeling I lived with was real.
Amid all this, there was my sacred corner — a tree in the countryside. That tree was my parallel world. Under its shade, there was no fear, no shouting, no harshness. Only a gentle breeze and a silence that felt like peace.
In 2010, my life changed direction. My family moved to another village. The move felt like uprooting a tree from its soil. I felt like a stranger, lost, as if I were starting from zero. But that phase taught me that a person can rebuild himself wherever he is placed.
At fifteen, I started working in a small shop. I was not working for luxuries—I worked to buy my books and clothes. Work did not only give me money; it gave me identity. It taught me that dignity lies in striving, and that those who rely on themselves do not fear the future.
Then came 2021—the year that split my life into two halves. My father passed away. After his death, I realized that I was no longer a child. Responsibility became heavier, fear deeper, and questions more numerous.
From there, my dream became clear: immigrating to Europe. I wanted to start from zero without fear chasing me. I wanted to learn a new language, work hard, and become a man others can rely on.
But despite all the dreams, one truth keeps me grounded: my mother. She is the light that never went out. I want to be the reason she feels proud.
Today, I see a child who walked through mud and did not stop. I see a young man who faced loss and did not break. I am not perfect. I am simply a young man who decided not to give up.
My story is not over… The most beautiful chapter has not yet been written.
