Yara had just started to understand enough Swedish to get her through ballet class without exasperated looks from her teacher, and she could finally relax enough to not continually fuck up their routines. It had made her self-conscious at first to see herself in the mirror, the way her shoes shone bright pink while theirs blended seamlessly into their skin tones. She would rather have black shoes, but only the boys were allowed those - and besides, where would she find black pointe shoes on her budget?

She got into position, her toenails pressing into the box. She felt her muscles tense, her posture lengthen.

'That's it,' she thought, 'forget about your classmates. It's just you and the music. Aaand, 5, 6, 7, 8 - go!'

She did forget, for just a moment. Not just her classmates, but everything else. She forgot that she wasn't in Syria, she forgot that her house was rubble, she forgot that they hadn't found her mother yet, she forgot that her brother was dead, she forgot that she didn't have a home, and she forgot that she didn't know if she would be able to stay or not. Then she reached the barre by the mirror and as her hands caught on it to stop her from crashing into the glass reality washed over her, and she walked back to do it again.

"How was dance class?" the immigration assistant asked as Yara sat down, still sweating.

"Good," Yara replied, a little stiffly. "What news?"

"We've made the decision to move you to another town..."

"No," Yara interrupted angrily, "not again! You said I could stay here, I am good here, right?"

"You still don't have a home. There is a home for you in Sollefteå."

"Where?" Yara frowned. "What home?"

"Sollefteå," the assistant said slowly, as if Yara hadn't heard.

"I have room here! I have friend! Dance class! I don't want Sollef-tå, I want school. Dance school!"

"The decision is final," the immigration assistant sighed, and despite Yara's continued protests she was instructed to go and pack her things. Yara's growl grew into a shriek as she left, holding her ballet bag scrunched in her hand.

'Almighty God,' she prayed under her breath as she left the building, 'I only want a good place, where I can dance.'

"Fuck off back to arab-country, you cunt!"

She didn't even look up, just kept walking.

'Almighty God, let me find a place where people will not hate me.'

"I'm talking to you, monkey!"

She walked faster, but the man grabbed her by the arm.

'Almighty God, help me.'

"In this country we speak SWEDISH!" He pushed her against the railing of the bridge. Cars were swooshing by, but no one stopped.

"I learn Swedish," she mumbled, but she knew it was not going to help. He was already pulling at her hijab, and she closed her eyes on her tears.

"Soon you'll be dead like the rest of your terrorist friends."

'Almighty God,' she whispered one last time, 'I have had enough of death and hatred.'

The pins ripped her hair as the fabric left her forehead, the tight bun below smelling of hairspray in the misty rain. She pulled hard to step away, but his leg was in front of hers, and she fell. He laughed. More cars swooshed by. He kicked her several times, and when she rolled below the railing and into the water below he left, as if nothing had happened.

She could feel her body hitting the icy water, but as it closed above her she felt nothing. There was no cold, no current, no roaring sound of water rushing. All was warm, and smooth, and dark. She thought she saw a glimpse of her pale blue hijab floating next to her face, and then nothing.