“When We Were Still Free”


 

“Ahmed… Fathima…”

The stretched voice of a mother drifted in from somewhere behind me, cutting gently through the sound of waves and my silent thoughts. I looked up from where I sat on the beach, toes buried in warm sand, heart somewhere else entirely. In front of me, four children were playing—a delightful chaos of laughter, sand fights, and tiny feet racing the waves.

Two of the kids—both dusky, bright-eyed—looked up and ran toward the voice without resistance. A few seconds passed before another voice, softer but certain, called out:
“Sai…”
And the third child, who had been digging deep into the shore with his tiny hands, paused, stood up, and ran back to his family.

Now, only one child remained—a small, fair-skinned boy with messy blonde curls, likely Russian. He was still giggling to himself, stacking sand like it was treasure, unfazed by the absence of the others.

And as I watched them, something inside me paused—really paused.
These children didn’t know each other’s names a moment ago.
They didn’t speak the same languages.
They didn’t share a culture, a country, or even a common word.

But they played.
They laughed.
They belonged—to each other, to that moment.

No introductions.
No boundaries.
Just being.

And yet, just a few feet away, I overheard murmurs from the adults. The Indian family, sitting a little distance away, spoke in Malayalam—one of them chuckled and said,
“Aa pillaru pachakala…” (meaning “those kids are greens”—a colloquial way of suggesting they’re Pakistanis).

On the other side, I caught a soft exchange from the Pakistani group. One of them asked,
“Woh Hindustani tha?” (meaning “Was he Indian?” or literally, “Was he Hindustani?”)

Even they hadn’t known who was who—until they heard the languages.

That hit me deep.

These children didn’t care. They didn’t ask. They didn’t wonder about nationality, religion, or roots. They saw only possibility. But the adults—like so many of us—were already measuring, labeling, separating. And in that moment, I felt something inside me ache quietly.

I got up, walked home slowly, and did something I hadn’t done in a while—I pulled out the old hard drive, opened the folder marked “Growing Up – Memories”, and pressed play.

There they were. My child.
In all their tiny glory—those first steps, messy hair, toothless grins, and the kind of laughter that bubbled from the belly and shook the whole room. I watched them grow before my eyes—from a baby to a toddler to a child to now—a young person on the edge of something new.

And I found myself wondering…

Where does that innocence go?

They once danced like no one was watching—and even if they were, they didn’t care. They hugged with their whole body, cried without shame, laughed without filter, and trusted without hesitation. The world was their playground. Every stranger was a possible friend. Every corner, a new adventure.

They weren’t afraid of the dark.
Not until someone told them to be.
They didn’t flinch at the idea of falling—they fell, got up, and ran again.
Even in water, they instinctively floated, kicking and moving without fear. Their body knew how to survive. It was life, untouched by doubt.

But over time, I saw the shifts.

The hesitation before speaking.
The fear of being wrong.
The comparisons.
The anxiety.
The subtle hiding of emotions.
The armor slowly forming.

Not because they chose it. But because the world started whispering its rules. Because we started teaching what to fear, who to trust, when to speak, and what not to feel.

And I realized…
It wasn’t just their story.
It was mine too.
Yours.
All of ours.

We were all once like that.
Fearless. Boundless. Unapologetically real.

We didn’t care about religion, race, money, language.
We just wanted to play. To love. To belong.

But we grew up.
And along with responsibilities and routines, we also picked up fear, prejudice, pride, insecurity, and silence.

We learned to hide parts of ourselves.
To guard our hearts.
To smile when we didn’t feel like it.
To hold back when we wanted to reach out.

And somewhere in this race to become “adults,”
we lost the freedom of childhood.

But maybe…
just maybe…
it’s not too late.

Maybe if we pause, really pause, and sit with our old memories—
or watch children with open hearts—we’ll remember.

That before the world taught us fear,
before it boxed us in and divided us up…
we were still free.

Maybe real growth isn’t about becoming someone new.
Maybe it’s about returning—to who we were before the world told us who to be.

SSP

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