I remember my last night in Beirut like it was yesterday.

I was fourteen at the time and a true daydreamer, with a vast imagination acquired through long nights of reading. My creativity blossomed into full fruition: I was always writing some stories or crafting narratives within my head.

Yet, whenever I thought of the future ahead of me, where I would be standing in two days, my mind drew a blank. I had no idea what America looked like, let alone south Florida. I didn’t know what my surroundings would entail, what color my bedroom walls would be, what shape the bathroom faucet would curve into, what the scenery outside held, or the scent of the sky.

But what I knew were my friends’ familiar faces, how we walked around Hamra chatting the day away, and the local bakery across my home with fresh bread. I loved Beirut and its winding roads, chaotic traffic, and historic buildings. I liked strolling by the Corniche and watching my hair stick up from the humidity, a love-hate relationship I had with the Mediterranean sea.

I was born and raised in Kirkuk, Iraq until 2006, when the sectarian violence erupted. The situation became more precarious by the day…