Part I: The decision
Thursday, March 12
I received the email last Thursday. We all did. The professor, with an indifferent look on his face, settled us down. He said things are escalating but we’ll manage through it, if anything does happen. While my classmates rejoiced at the idea of the university closing, I had this hollow feeling at the pit of my stomach that this was going to be bad.
I’m not psychic. I’m just not Canadian. As an international student from Egypt, university closing for me means the only reason I have to be there no longer exists. While many miss their friends and family, those who are in my shoes can understand the turmoil of living between two worlds, or what I usually call, “stuck in transition.” It often means living two different lives and only one of them captures who you are—or none do.
I swallowed that feeling down. It’s just one case—maybe two, it doesn’t matter. The world can still go on and I can still be here.
I called my mom shortly after class, to test the waters: what would happen if classes were online?
It meant my worst fears, going back home indefinitely.
I’ll skip the whole narrative of how hard I worked to get here and what it means to abandon it—after all, most international students have a story to tell regarding that journey—but I will say this.
We all came here to live a life we know we couldn’t get back home. Whether it was through the friends we made, the networks we built, the connections we nourished, the lifestyles we exchanged, the opportunities we forged and the difficulties we faced in making a life outside our comfort zones.
We experienced freedoms that weren’t attainable back home, cultures that were new, ideologies that could be voiced, and social performances that could be practiced. We had a world of possibilities to look forward to, but then it was all suddenly plucked away.
Friday, March 13
Everything that morning felt out of place. I felt displaced. The universe shifted from its “normal” position and I already felt like we all transitioned onto another timeline.
I was glued to my phone, and instead of coffee, I drank up the weight of the world. Case after case, I felt crippled and bound to the current state of things. I suddenly didn’t want to leave my house.
Then that email rolled in, crippling me even more: classes have been moved online.
Another phone call to my very worried mom, one that I was hoping not to make to save us both the extra layer of fear and anxiety. I told her to wait a bit, until Wednesday at least, but little did I know I was asking for time I didn’t have.
Saturday March 14
I woke up to a message confirming my flight was booked for March 21— my mom’s hyper-planning had taken effect, along with the gradual loss of control over my life. I had about a week to inform my professors, say my goodbyes, find a new apartment and pack up the old
one (my lease was ending).
I didn’t want this. I couldn’t help it. I refused to accept it, so I did what every young adult would do at that point: the whole basket of sins coupled with procrastination.
Saturday night, March 14
After careful consideration that did not include me, my family decided that putting me on a plane right now wasn’t the smartest idea. They gave me 48 hours—by Tuesday morning—to make my own decision: to stay or leave.
For the next 24 hours, my life became that decision. I lived it entirely in haze, shifting in and out of reality, trying to enjoy the moment while trying to decide on the future.
I suddenly wished they made the decision for me, at least then I could blame anyone else but myself if I had made a regretful mistake. My family, unfortunately for me, were playing it smart this time.
Let’s look at it this way: if I stay, I stay alone with only my health insurance to protect me. If I go home, I have the comfort and care of my home.
It sounds simple until you consider the “what ifs”: What if I can’t come back? What if borders close? What if this is the end of my career at Carleton? What if something happens to my family and I’m stuck in Canada? The “what ifs” were endless and the uncertainty hammered me down, until I myself broke, too.
It felt like I was trying to hold onto water that kept perpetually slipping through my fingers, sending me back to square one, empty handed.
Then I decided to just let the water flow. Something tugged on my chest and urged me to go home. I fell into a deep sleep, thinking I was going to be safe and everything was going to be okay.
Sunday, March 15
Egypt announced it will close its borders on March 19. My flight was booked for March 21. Then only an hour later, Canada closed its borders too.
Everything was spinning. Time suddenly multiplied. One day was now one week’s worth of events, and minutes wasted were hours lost.
The only flight available was a transit through Turkey, a country with only five reported cases then. Not so bad, I thought. That flight was to take off on March 17.
Three hours later, Turkey closed its borders too.
I sat on the floor surrounded by a pile of clothes, half outside the suitcase and the other half waiting to be unpacked, before one final attempt was made.
I was going to transit through Germany, a country with the number of cases surpassing both Egypt’s and Canada’s combined. Despite every part of me feeling like this was not going to go smoothly, I began mechanically packing, trying to process the last 48 hours.
It only began to sink in when I stepped out to say goodbye to a city that has been my home and witnessed my growth for the past three years.
It was a ghost town. Everything was revoltingly beautiful. The air begged to be inhaled, the streets were painted in molten rays, small animals scurried weariless across deserted pavements and the world was silently at war with an invisible enemy.
That was the last look I got of that city. With the way things are progressing, I wonder if I’ll ever see it again.
Ottawa, you’ve been good to me.
Part II: The flight
Tuesday, March 17th
12:30 p.m.
I cried … A lot.
Looking at my room, so empty and desolate from the bits of me that made it mine, reminded me of the first day I moved in. It was early spring, and I felt like I’d finally reached the horizon of new beginnings.
Despite being accompanied by my roommate and our friend, both Egyptian students, I felt lonely. While they were taking photos and TikToks of the journey, I was trying to keep my fortitude and swallow down the tower of grief and fear that neared its tipping point.
5:30 a.m.
When we finally landed in Toronto for our first transit, my heart sank and it hit me.
What if I get stuck in Germany? What if, in the next few hours, their borders close too? What if I contract something? What if I go home and endanger my family?
Every unanswered question, every heartbreak felt, every fear suppressed, rose to the tip of my throat until it choked my insides and I couldn’t breathe.
One hour in and I was already having a panic attack in the middle of the airport.
My friends tried to calm me down, but I only broke out of anxiety’s chokehold when I heard my name being called. We were due to board our flight to Frankfurt in 10 minutes. I remember thinking if something goes wrong now, it must be a sign from God.
I presented my passport to the flight attendant. She scanned the barcode and without even looking up, she said, “You’re not allowed on this flight.” The airport, to say the least, was chaotic.
Several people were denied boarding to that flight. Apparently, a rapid decision was made and anyone without an EU residency wasn’t allowed to transit anywhere in the EU. While many were angered and panicked, I let out the first sigh of relief of the week.
I just mercilessly avoided my worst fear. I soon found out three flights from Germany to Egypt were cancelled and that route was now out of the question.
11:30 p.m.
For six hours, I was stranded in the hotbed of the coronavirus. I was stuck in an airport, with no idea where to stay, what to do, or where to go. Two airline representatives were pulling every string to get us back home, but no passport, document or even desperate sweet talks could get us on a flight.
They had relinquished all responsibility after they booked us two hotel rooms for the night. It was now up to us to find a way home or back to Ottawa.
Sitting near the luggage zone, I remember feeling indifferent and tired. Both Cairo and Ottawa felt miles away and my life in both felt like they weren’t my own.
All I did from that point on was laugh. Recalling the events, I was stranded in an airport, with no idea where my bags were, no idea which way to go, which city to land in, and on the verge of failing at least one course because of my spontaneous travels.
I lived in transition and now I am lost in transition.
Amongst us were two other Egyptians who were equally stranded. She was a first year at Carleton who radiated both innocence and independence. She evacuated her dorm room and if she were to go back to Ottawa, she had nowhere to stay.
He was in his late 50s or early 60s, an Egyptian embassy representative who came to inspect Canadian universities for prospective Egyptian students.
Thursday, March 19
1:00 a.m.
To say we bonded is an understatement. I remember one of our first nights at the airport hotel, we gathered in his room and ate takeout pizza, because even the hotel’s room service was unavailable due to the coronavirus. By the end of the night, he told us to skip the formalities and call him by his nickname.
We stayed up till dawn, sharing stories as well as reflecting on this once in a lifetime experience. Laughter echoed and so did sighs of relief.
That night, we found a direct flight from Toronto to Cairo, scheduled to land after border closures and the only flight allowed to land on Friday morning, taking a stranded Egyptian airline crew back to Cairo.
By the afternoon, our bags were found, our flight was booked, and for the first time this week, I felt relaxed.
Friday, March 20
5:00 a.m.
We landed in a hollow airport, with only the echoes of our footsteps to greet us. Yellow “quarantine” signs were placed at every checkpoint along with airline and medical officials.
While I held my breath and prayed as they checked my temperature, I had only hoped they would inspect me thoroughly before I saw my family.
Beyond the airport gates was my finish line, the end of this hectic and frantic journey. It felt like finishing first in a race with no prize trophy.
But when the Egyptian sun graced my skin and its misty air embraced me, I knew I was safe, and I was glad to be home.
Graphic by Sara Mizannojehdehi.
