It’s 7.15am. My heart’s racing. I’m not sure how I’ve made it this far.

I clutch my Pangaean boarding pass. The Dubai flight boards at 7.45 and I’m pretty sure I checked in with my eyes closed. Focus Kurush, I tell myself. Half an hour. Escape is so close, just one last hurdle.

Head down, I avoid looking at anyone. Breathe in. Breathe out. One foot in front of the other. This is my mantra. I thought I’d be safe on an early morning flight. Fewer bodies crowding in, pushing. There’s more people here than I expected.

Kurush, I tell myself, this is a means to an end. It will be okay. All these people… you don’t have to remember. It is different. You don’t need to be swallowed by fear.

I walk at my own pace, taking my time. People don’t understand. I can hear what they’re saying about me, bumping and jostling past. I have different things to consider when flying. It isn’t easy for me. Not like them. And the more people, the less it helps.

This is the last time I will feel like this. No more fear. No more running. This is what it means to turn my back on the country I have called home all my life.

I hesitate as the sliding glass door nears. The crowd slows; the line grows, each waiting their turn to enter. On the other side sits security and customs. Suits and uniforms. Scrutiny. Things beeping constantly. A human supermarket checkout.

I stop. My legs paralyse, ignoring my mind forcing them onwards. I think of my brother Mihr and I’m terrified of the price check they’ll call on me. I look down at my boarding bass.

Kurush al-Zaidi.

“Our names might as well be highlighted red on boarding passes,” my brother Mihr said once. “That’s how they look at it.”

But our father disagreed.

“Your tongue is like a horse—if you take care of it, it takes care of you; if you treat it badly, it treats you badly.”

Our father, proud of the European Union, assured us our rights were protected. After all, Mihr and I were born here.

“It’s like a bad lottery for Muslims,” Mihr told me down the crackling line after they arrested him. “It doesn’t matter what country’s passport you travel on.”

I didn’t believe Mihr brought it on himself. His outspoken nature winning him the ‘no-fly jackpot’?

Mihr was flying to the US, I tell myself. You’re not. They’ll allow you to leave.

But I don’t know…

My legs turn anyway, steering me from the glass door to safety.

Time is ticking.

My window of escape narrows.

Don’t blow this, Kurush. There is no money for another ticket. This is what I tell myself over and over, shuffling up and down, crisscrossing no man’s land in slow-motion.

Time drains away.

Whenever someone meets my eyes, I stop and stare out the window, check my watch or boarding pass. Eventually I rest against a wall, try to look casual, but one knee jerks and dances on its own, allowing the rest of my body some normality.

My eyes pan across the concourse. The place is filling with people. I look beyond them, study the plants, the vending machines, the walls. I catch dark eyes mirroring mine. They stare through a gap in text on a glossy poster.

IF YOU SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING.

An older woman, walking by, spots the same poster. She looks to me, smiling, as if to say she’s not scared. Her crinkled brow a contradiction. I want to tell her I’m just as scared. I’m not guilty of anything except trusting this was my home.

I want the wall to absorb me, to disappear.

I clutch my beard. Wish I’d shaved it off and in the next moment I’m staring up at the sky apologising.

My brief prayer startles the woman and she scuttles past in her walking frame. I try to smile, reassure her, but she’s gone and doesn’t dare turn back.

I look at my watch.

7.35.

I have no idea how long it takes to move through security and customs.

Pull yourself together, Kurush, I tell myself. Be brave. Close your mind, not your eyes, and just walk through. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid. Do it quickly.

The hand on my watch jerks to 7.37 and I go.