By Daniella Razzouk | Staff Writer

We often hear of the road not taken, but rarely of the roads we know. 

We often hear of the great adventures in lands unknown, but rarely of long walks under trees that watched us grow. 

We often hear of faraway terrains beyond our imagination, but rarely of the village where we grew, a stone’s throw away from a colonizer’s chateau. 

We often hear of capitals, new, modern and bustling with people, but rarely of the villages left abandoned, doorways and entrances left blocked by long fallen snow. 

We often hear of how our ancestors left cities, but rarely of how the choice was never for them, but for their children’s futures which they could not forgo. 

We often hear of better lives for our children outside of our borders, but rarely of how our mannerisms will become nothing more than something for our children to outgrow. 

We often hear of nothing but dire straits and those struggling to survive, but rarely of those who managed to leave and found nothing in the lands promised to overflow.