Considered a genius in his own country, he earned a scholarship in a community where bullying was a common ground. He was not another refugee, some already purged by insults, abuses and death threats, others with no better option than staying. Yet he was a foreigner, introduced as an intruder into a gang, constantly harassed by the fang of a snake whose poison, if injected, was mortal.

“Where'd you get wheels, nerd?” He heard another student shouting on his way home. He didn't respond.

“Did you hear me?” He kept looking straight. He thought tough talk would stop as it usually did, and the guy would give up as long as he kept moving.

“You don't even know my language, do you, moron??” No answer.

“Why don't you get back to your country, if not by free will, by four wheels, or two wings, rather?"

He kept cycling. He smiled, for it was a beautiful sunny day and nothing would disturb his free spirit. All of a sudden, a vehicle hit his front wheel and he flew.

“Bullying is what we should bury,” said an eye witness amidst the crowd, while his body was taken by the ambulance. The police asked who had been victimized. But nobody knew his name. He was simply known as The Afghan.

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