When did it hit?
It wasn’t when we landed in the airport.
It wasn’t when we got through immigration.
It wasn’t when we fought through the crowds to get out of the metro station.
It wasn’t when a line of 100+ motorcycles trying to bypass a traffic jam stalled behind me on the overpass sidewalk because I refused to let them by and possibly bump Peregrine and our newborn daughter Sakeenah.
It wasn’t when we spent our first night awake in the hotel because little Sakeenah was too fussy with travel fatigue.
It wasn’t when we took the train back to our hometown or when our good friend met us at the railway station.
It wasn’t when I visited ~20 of our friends in the slum, or when my best friend in the slum brought me up-to-date on the progress of the literacy program, or when my friend’s mom shared the various trials that had befallen their family since we had left.
When did it really hit?
It hit that moment when I was taking public transport through the city and saw a young girl ankle-deep in trash, picking through other people’s refuse in the hopes of finding a token of value, anything she could sell, to help her family’s finances just a little.
No little girls should ever have to do that.
And that’s when it really hit me why I was back here.
Welcome home again.