I still remember the first time I set foot in London.
The air felt different — heavy with history, yet light with the promise of freedom.
For years, I had heard of Hyde Park: the place where voices rose without fear, where strangers could speak their hearts under the open sky. To me, it was more than a park; it was a symbol.
When I finally walked through its gates, I carried with me not only my small bag but the weight of exile, memories of prisons, and the silence of loved ones left behind. The grass stretched wide, the trees stood tall, and for a moment I wondered: could this ground really hold all the words, all the cries, all the laughter that history had poured into it?
I wandered slowly, touching the iron railings, breathing the damp air, listening to the footsteps of people from every corner of the world. I thought of my mother, who had stood for years at the gates of prisons. I thought of my comrades, whose voices had been cut short. And here I was, in a land where a soapbox in the park could carry a voice to the sky.
I did not speak that day. I just listened. An old man recited poetry, a woman spoke of injustice, a young boy shouted about love. The freedom of their voices was more powerful than any army I had known.
As the sun sank behind the trees, I realized that Hyde Park was not just a place on the map of London. It was a mirror. A mirror where I could see both what I had lost and what I might still find.
That evening, walking back through the city streets, I carried a quiet smile. For the first time in a long time, I felt that perhaps my words, too, would find a place to live.
- اکتبر 2026
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