What About You? Where Are You From?
A few months ago, on my last flight, I sat in the departure lounge watching the world go by. Amidst the monotonous hum of the airport, a vibrant scene caught my eye: a youth football team, clad in matching jerseys, carrying their bags with infectious enthusiasm. They were led by two young men, and the air was filled with the rhythmic calls of “Coach!” from the boys.
Our paths didn’t diverge at the gate. On the plane, I found my seat right next to a twelve-year-old boy and his teammate. They were part of a group ranging from eleven to fourteen years old. From the moment we took off, they shattered the usual silence of the cabin. They didn’t wait for a social cue or a polite opening; they simply started.
With immense pride, they told me about their football academy and how they were returning from a spirited regional competition. Throughout the flight, the conversation flowed effortlessly. One of them reached into his pocket, pulled out a bag of chips and some chocolate, and shared them with genuine generosity. When the screen in front of me malfunctioned, he leaned over and fixed it without hesitation, before turning his pure curiosity toward my world:
“What about you? Where are you from?”
As the wheels touched the tarmac and it was time to say goodbye, they reached out to shake my hand warmly, saying, “This was the best trip because of you.”
Those moments still echo in my mind. What is it that gives children this audacity and innocence to open up to someone so different from them — in age, gender, and even skin color? Where does this social simplicity vanish as the years go by?
I confess, with a hint of caution in my heart, that I have often chosen silence. I have stepped back, avoiding situations where I should have been present. I admit to taking side paths just to avoid a meeting — whether with an old friend or a passing stranger. Now, I find myself wondering about the scale of the opportunities lost.
Was it a double loss? I lost the possibility of a radical change or an idea that could have opened a new horizon. Meanwhile, the other person lost my humanity, my perspective, and perhaps the comfort I failed to offer.
How do we rebuild the muscle of innocent curiosity and unlearn the caution we’ve accumulated over the years? How do we return to that version of ourselves that saw the world as a playground rather than a minefield?
Children don’t carry the “ledger of accounts” we adults fill to the brim — pages dense with anticipated rejections, fear of misunderstanding, and calculations of gain and loss before every simple “hello.” They move driven by curiosity and love. We move driven by the need for protection.
But I think we can find our way back. Not in one grand gesture, but in small, deliberate ones.
- By observing people on public transport or in cafes — without labeling or judging them.
- By allowing ourselves to be genuinely amazed by the stories of ordinary people.
- By offering a candid admission of ignorance, without the reflex to pretend we know.
- By searching for those common human intersections where the differences — so magnified by our ledger — simply melt away.
- By being kind without an agenda.
Is it possible? I believe so. And I think the twelve-year-old boy on that flight already knew the answer.
Sara
Citizen of our Earth 