Boston University was never merely a
stop along my academic path; it was a space where new layers of awareness took
shape and where experiences accumulated with a depth no less profound than what
I learned in lecture halls. Ah, Boston—a city that knows how to leave its mark
on the soul, how to plant in memory shadows that do not fade with time. There,
among the venerable buildings and quiet corridors of the university, I was not
only a student in pursuit of knowledge, but a human being rediscovering himself,
learning to see the world with wider eyes and a more attentive heart.
In those years, I lived in one of
the university’s imposing wings—a residence modest in appearance yet rich in
human encounters. I shared it with Si Ahmed, a Palestinian for whom Palestine
lived in the chest long before it could ever be reduced to a place on a map.
His talk was never mere political commentary or passing news; it was a daily
confession of pain, memory, and a right that does not expire with time. He
spoke of his homeland as one speaks of one’s mother—with raw sincerity and a
loyalty that never runs dry. I listened at length, sensing—without his having
to spell it out—that a homeland may be occupied in land, but it is never
defeated as long as it lives in the hearts of its people. As the old saying
goes, home is where the heart is.
The name of the building we lived
in—Ignacio Hall—stirred a quiet curiosity in me. Who was this “Ignacio,”
immortalized on a university wall? One day I asked a professor about him. She
did not know the details, but she spoke of a well-rooted tradition in American
academic culture: that students who find success return to their first
university to give back, building a wing or endowing a facility that bears
their name, in gratitude to the place that helped shape them. Her answer was
less a lesson in history than in gratitude—a reminder that one good turn
deserves another, and that true loyalty often speaks in deeds rather than
slogans.
Beyond shared housing, Boston also
gifted me a rare friendship whose warmth I still carry. Nasser, an Algerian
from Kabylia, was my closest companion and daily confidant. Quiet and sparing
with words, his presence was as reassuring as a clear morning. He faced life
with a steady gaze, loved its simplicity, and lived in harmony with himself, as
if calm itself had chosen to dwell in him. His Amazigh identity flowed in his
veins without affectation or the need for proof—proof, after all, lies in
being, not in saying.
I recall a day when we were
strolling through downtown and came upon a large bookstore. We entered out of
curiosity, perhaps also out of nostalgia for paper in an age when screens were
beginning to elbow books aside. Silence ruled the place, until suddenly the
strains of a Kabyle shatḥa drifted from a hidden speaker, breaking the
stillness and awakening memory. In that instant, Nasser changed; something lit
up in his eyes. He grasped the edges of his jacket and burst into the
traditional Kabyle dance with pride and joy, oblivious to the surprised glances
around him. I stood there, captivated, applauding, and understood then that
true identity does not wither in exile—it often shines more brightly. You can
take a man out of his land, but you cannot take the land out of the man.
Yet the deepest—and simplest—lesson came to me from an unexpected place: a glass door in the university library. One day, as I pushed it open, I felt it scraping the floor and wondered how such a flaw could go unattended. I remarked to Nasser, with mild disbelief, how Americans could overlook something so small. No one answered me that day. But the following morning, at precisely seven-thirty, we passed by the same spot. The door opened and closed smoothly, as if nothing had ever been wrong. I saw no maintenance worker and heard no tools—only the result. And then it dawned on me: progress is no magic trick, nor the child of chance; it is the quiet fruit of conscientious work done without fanfare. As the proverb has it, actions speak louder than words.
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