Adam Umarov

My shoes squeaked as I walked down the street, the early evening sky casting a gray shadow over Grozny, Chechnya. Tomorrow, I’ll be gone, and the thought doesn’t bring the relief I hoped it would. Instead, there’s a tight knot in my chest. My mother made me promise not to tell anyone about the plan. I haven’t even said goodbye to my friends, but what’s the point? They can’t know. No one can.

It’s been quiet lately at home. My father’s busy with his work, always in and out of government meetings. He likes to talk about “our culture,” “our traditions.” I pretend to listen, but every time he opens his mouth, all I hear is the ticking of a clock, counting down the hours until I leave.

I’m 18 now, old enough to understand how things work around here. It wasn’t always like this, though. When I was a kid, Grozny didn’t feel so small. Back then, I didn’t know what it meant to be different, or that being different here could get you killed. I didn’t know why other boys shoved me against the school lockers or called me names. I didn’t understand why my teachers pretended not to see.

A year ago, I told my mother everything. She didn’t cry, just nodded and hugged me like she already knew. She probably did. She always notices things. She’s the one who found people to help me get out, to sneak me across the border to Georgia. She handed me a small bundle of money this morning, her fingers trembling only slightly as she pressed it into my palm.

She’s risking everything for me. I don’t think my father will ever forgive her. Or me, for that matter. He won’t understand. He still talks about honor like it’s the only thing that matters. In his world, having a gay son would ruin everything he’s worked for. That’s why he can never know.

Tomorrow, I leave Grozny. I’m leaving behind more than just a city or a country. I’m leaving behind the person everyone expects me to be.