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“It’s my first year out of college. I’m new, but I’ll move up. It takes time.” I do graphic design for a non-profit and nobody in my family is happy about that decision, but I don’t want to bust my ass for some capitalist regime. I don’t expect my boomer parents to understand though.

“Have you thought about asking Faisal for a job with his company?”

“No, and don’t you dare say anything to baba. I don’t want to be a nepo-baby, and I definitely don’t want to end up the CEO of an industrial equipment company. I’m underqualified and uninterested.”

“You could learn, sweetie,” she says and takes a sip of her water.

“No, thank you,” I reply.

I love my parents, but I don’t want to work where they work or do what they do. I want to forge my own path. And frankly? I just want to exist sometimes. My parents are so absorbed with their religions, their jobs, and their subscriptions to the idea that you have to leave a mark on the world or that you have to die wealthy—I don’t want any of that. I would be perfectly content painting pretty pictures in a cabin in the woods somewhere, never to be seen or heard from again.

Vibrations come from underneath my seat, and I peer down the aisle to see everyone’s chairs are shaking. There’s a rattling sound coming from the overhead bins.

“Hello everybody, this is your captain speaking. We are experiencing some unexpected turbulence right now, but I want to assure you this is a normal part of air travel. We’re in communication with traffic control and are taking the necessary precautions. Please stay seated with your seat belts buckled at this time,” she says, her voice calm and steady. A flight attendant moves towards the microphone and repeats the message in Arabic.

All the seatbelt signs light up, and the flight attendants make their way towards the front and back, strapping themselves in.

We seem to drop, and my stomach lurches, the feeling much like being on a roller coaster. Ihateroller coasters.

“Dear heavenly father,” my mam begins a prayer. She takes my hand, and I intertwine it with hers, if only to bring her some comfort.

I don’t believe in God. I think being raised in two different religions can do that to a kid. I never knew whether to follow the words of the Quran or the Bible. There’s so much overlap, but so many differences too.

The plane is shaking more violently now; luggage slings about the overhead compartments as chairs squeak and shrill.

“This is your captain speaking once again. We are experiencing more turbulence than anticipated, and, as a precaution, we are performing an emergency landing. You must remain calm and seated with your seat buckle tightened. Please ensure all tray tables are secured. If at any point you feel the need to use your oxygen mask, don’t hesitate to use it,” she says and pauses for a brief moment. The entire airplane is quiet—so quiet you could hear a pin drop—before the flight attendant comes on through the speaker and repeats everything in Arabic.

My mam squeezes my hand tightly now, pulling it towards her lips and planting a gentle kiss. There’s fear in her pools of blue, and I try my best not to think about what’s coming next.

“I want to remind everyone that our crew is trained to handle these exact kinds of situations,” she begins, but I can’t hear over the sound of my racing heart.

I close my eyes and force myself to take a deep breath.

“Remain calm and listen to the instructions of our flight staff,” she says, her voice a little shakier this time. Our pilot being scared is not a good sign.

Everything happens so incredibly fast. Window covers are opened so the flight attendants can see where we’re landing. The plane’s vibrations and shakes turn into outright jerks in different directions.

Mostly everyone is calm, but there is a woman praying loudly and a distressed-looking man who keeps darting to the bathroom to vomit, much to the flight crew’s dismay.

He makes his way back towards his seat, but the plane jerks again, sending him on top of another passenger. He apologizes in Arabic, but the other passengers reply in what I think might be Farsi.

I’m okay. Scared? Sure. But I’m not freaking out. Planes emergency land all the time, and everything turns out fine. It’s rare that everything goes down in flames.

I watch as a piece of the plane—an exterior wall, I believe—flies off. My heart is racing, the thumping reaching up my throat and threatening to take my oxygen. All masks are now deployed, and although it’s the opposite of what we’ve always been taught, my mam helps me into mine before putting on her own.

The changes in pressure are so swift, our bodies don’t have time to adjust. A piercing, tightening pain makes its way into my ears and head. I want to cry out in agony, but my body is too shocked.

“Keep the heid!” my mam whispers in my ear.

I don’t even register what’s happening as we come down, pieces of the plane tearing off with the thud of our landing. People are cheering and crying and praying, but I’m catatonic. I can see everything happening around me, but I can’t move or speak.

I think the pilot makes one last speech. I think the flight attendants escort us out an emergency exit, but I’m not really sure.

My body and brain don’t reconnect until we’re sitting on a large log on the ground, the crew passing out bottles of water and aiding the injured.

“It’s a miracle, Dalal. Not one person is critical,” my mam says, her pale, slender fingers reaching to rub my shoulder.

I look around, and it’s a mess. “There are people bleeding, mam. We are in the middle of a forest.”