They ask where the money came from

I saved for months. Counted every rufiyaa, skipped meals when I had to, just to pay my tuition. The relief when I transferred the amount was like a cool breeze after a hot day. Then the email came. BML wants to know where I got this money from. This amount that feels like a mountain to me is nothing to them. Three times less than what he gets in his account every month, and they don't question him. It's not just about the money. It's about being watched, being doubted when you're trying to do the right thing. We're told to study, to build a future, but every step forward feels like walking through a gate that's meant to keep you out. The system sees us as problems to be managed, not dreams to be supported. They track our small transfers while bigger flows move unseen through different channels. Sometimes I wonder if they understand what it's like to be young here. The pressure to succeed when everything costs more than you have. The quiet shame of having to explain your own hard work to someone in an air-conditioned office. We're not asking for handouts, just for a chance to prove ourselves without having to justify our existence with every transaction. Maybe this is what they don't see—the determination behind that payment. The late nights studying, the family sacrifices, the hope that education might be the bridge to something better. They see a number that needs explaining. I see every reason I wake up in the morning.