The Tale of Two Arctic Terns Who Flew Across the World and Found Home Again
By Abdullah Usman Morai | Sweden
High above the glittering silence of the North Pole—where the wind whistles like a tired old flute and the snow sparkles like sugar dust on a dream—two Arctic terns stood on a gently swaying iceberg. Their names? Tikki and Noko.
Tikki was wild-hearted and wonderfully peculiar. He once tried to create feather gel from fermented fish oil, claiming it would revolutionize bird fashion. Noko, on the other wing, was contemplative and calm, a quiet map-lover who read cloud patterns like poetry and preferred stars over stories.
The sky was their only home, their playground, their compass. They had flown farther than most birds dared and dreamed even deeper. But lately, something in the wind had changed.
One morning, Tikki landed beside Noko, feathers ruffled and eyes stormy.
“They’re fighting again,” he said, voice barely louder than the wind.
Noko looked up from a frost-bitten weather chart. “Humans?”
Tikki nodded. “Borders. Maps. Flags. Even the sky isn’t safe anymore. I nearly flew into a drone yesterday—it had a camera.”
Noko sighed, soft as snowfall. “The sky is wide. How can anyone put a fence around the wind?”
“They’re trying,” Tikki whispered.
That night, atop an abandoned satellite dish, listening to the static hum of human ambition, they heard sirens howl and bombs fall in distant lands.
“We should do something,” said Noko.
“Like what?”
“Show them. Show them that the sky belongs to no one… and to everyone.”
Tikki looked up. The stars blinked in quiet agreement.
“Let’s fly,” he said, wings half open. “From the top of the world to the bottom, and back again. Across cities, deserts, oceans, festivals, war zones, and peace gardens. Let’s understand how humans live, love, and lose. Maybe then…”
“…we’ll learn whether peace is just a feathered dream,” Noko finished, “or something real they build with their hearts.”
And so, with kelp-thread pouches strapped to their backs and sky-colored courage in their bones, the two birds took off—awkward, determined, and beautifully unprepared—for the greatest journey ever attempted by anyone with wings and a heart full of questions.
A Year and a Half in the Sky — Wings Across the World
Their journey began with a graceful leap from their iceberg home, turning into a chaotic tumble thanks to a slippery seal. Tikki and Noko, curious birds, spread their wings and set off on a year-long flight across the globe, witnessing life’s vivid tapestry unfold beneath them.
In Canada, autumn sets forests ablaze with fiery reds and golds. They watched a grandmother knit on her porch, a sleepy cat resting on her lap, and marveled at the quiet beauty. An eagle mistook them for odd snowflakes and chased them briefly.
Over Greenland’s ice cliffs, fishermen braved icy waters, and a boy’s flute song echoed near resting seals, captivating the birds with melodies carved from glaciers.
Across the United States, they dodged taxis and pigeons wearing bagels like necklaces in New York City. They found solace in Central Park, watching an old man feed birds with whispered stories only they could understand.
They flew westward over the Grand Canyon, Yosemite’s waterfalls, and Alaskan glaciers groaning with centuries of wisdom.
Over the Panama Canal, they marveled at metal ships inching through green mountains — a strange river carved by ambition. “Man split the continent,” a toucan remarked from a mango tree, “but the frogs still sing together on both sides.” In Panama, they watched sloths smile slowly from treetops and iguanas sunbathe on ruins older than flags.
They flew westward to Cuba, where the music in the air was thick enough to ride. Street pigeons danced to the beat of drums and told tales of revolution, resilience, and endless rhythm. “Freedom feels different here,” one bird mused, “like a song half-sung but still soaring.”
In Latin America, Mexico’s Day of the Dead candles flickered in alleyways, Peru’s Machu Picchu was cloaked in mist, and Brazil exploded with carnival rhythms where Tikki twirled mid-air.
They soared over the sacred Amazon rainforest, home to scarlet macaws and distant tribal canoes. Chile’s Atacama Desert cracked under the sun, while Peruvian women wove ancient stories into fabric. Bolivian children offered flowers not for sorrow but love.
In the sub-Antarctic islands, penguins dressed like kings, elephant seals bellowed mighty duels, and albatrosses whispered sky secrets. An old albatross said, “The farther you fly from people, the closer you come to truth.”
Braving furious seas, they reached Antarctica’s white silence. Emperor penguins taught patience, snow petrels drifted like whispers, and a humpback whale’s breath echoed beneath frozen skies.
Crossing into Africa, they saw women in Ethiopia singing strength as they carried water, children in South Sudan smiling through hardship, Nigerian rooftops echoing with drums, and a Sahara boy sharing water first with his camel—a simple act of kindness.
Somewhere in Africa, elephants lumbered through sun-cracked savannas with the dignity of gods.
They paused by Lake Victoria, where herons stood still as statues and flamingos painted the water pink. “The lake feeds us,” said a spoonbill, “but now the fish are fewer, and plastic flows like water.”
In Congo’s rainforests, mothers tied prayers to branches for missing sons, while Rwanda’s former enemies worked side by side in banana fields, showing that forgiveness frees rather than forgets.
By the time Tikki and Noko flew over Egypt, they had forgotten what it meant to be surprised. But then came the Nile — not a river, but a ribbon of time itself. It shimmered like a silver snake under the sun, winding through civilizations and tombs, whispering secrets to those who dared to listen.
Tikki dipped his wing toward the pyramids.
“Stone triangles?” he scoffed.
“Time pyramids,” corrected Noko, watching camels plod like punctuation marks in the sand.
A boy nearby drew an ibis in the dust. “Look,” whispered Tikki, “they still remember us.”
Europe revealed beauty and scars: Russia’s frozen landscapes, Ukraine’s sunflower fields stained by war, the UK’s foggy graveyards, Germany’s Holocaust memorials, Italy’s opera, Spain’s flamenco.
They hovered over green fields near the Black Forest, in Germany, where they watched humans gather around festive markets in winter, sipping warm drinks, while storks stood silently in snowy meadows. They listened to a robin perched on a vineyard fence, who sang about ancient castles, golden grapes, and a river called the Rhine that once carried both merchants and warriors.
Over France, they saw orderly rows of lavender swaying under a honey-colored sky. In Italy, the siblings glided past church spires and sun-drenched piazzas, picking up phrases from sparrows chatting over gelato crumbs: “Some birds never leave this square. They say everything they need is here — warmth, bread, and a place to perch.”
In the Swiss Alps, they marveled at the silence. Ice and rock, so still, so eternal. Yet even here, mountain crows muttered about disappearing glaciers and warmer winds. Sweden was sleepy with snow. Elks blinked at them, chewing as if they knew secrets of ancient trees.
Crossing into Eastern Europe, they paused at Lake Baikal, where the water was so clear, it felt like flying over glass. “Deepest lake in the world,” a proud Siberian gull told them, “and oldest too. Beneath its surface, time swims like a silver fish.” There, they slept in the crook of a birch tree and dreamed of underwater worlds.
In Asia, Pakistan’s wedding drums thundered, a bride’s hair caught a feather from Tikki’s tail—a sign of luck. India’s Holi festival painted the sky in rainbows; Kashmir’s meadows held soldiers and a boy playing quietly. Nepal’s Himalayas spun prayer wheels of peace.
Afghanistan’s resilience shone through a girl reading in a bullet-marked tent school. Iran whispered poetry through its domes. Iraq’s ruins bore flowers—hope planted in madness.
Uzbekistan’s children played under ancient madrasas. In Kazakhstan, eagle hunters soared beside dancing families. China’s neon cities blinked; Japan’s cherry blossoms floated like confetti.
In Mongolia, horses raced through endless plains like heartbeat and breath, unbridled and holy. A child with windburnt cheeks whispered to his mare before mounting her bareback. “He rides like he’s part of the wind,” Tikki whispered.
In Palestine and Israel, prayers were divided by walls. Gaza’s children played football beside broken buildings; one child drew wings on a wall, making Tikki cry.
From the skies, they followed the dry bed of the Indus, once a mighty mother river. Now, the cracked earth groaned beneath their shadows. Villagers stared at the sky as if it owed them an apology. Tikki wept quietly.
“Where did the water go?” he asked.
Noko didn’t answer. He just stared at the river’s bones.
Across the border, the Ganges carried both prayers and corpses — the living and the dead floating in uneasy harmony. Funeral fires whispered to stars while children bathed in the same water, giggling as if death were just another wave.
In Mumbai, the Dhobi Ghat stretched like a monochrome garden: shirts, saris, uniforms, sheets—hung like silent poems written by soaked hands. Below, men pounded fabric like drums. Tikki almost got caught in a sari. “Laundry ballet!” he yelled mid-air.
Then came Sindh — warm as memory.
They found charpais/khat under peepal/ pippar trees, grandmothers/fathers offering ajrak and Sindhi topi to strangers, and boys with mango juice stains on their shirts laughing at clouds. They were invited, fed crumbs of roti and goat cheese and fish by hands that had little but shared everything.
“Hospitality,” said Noko, “is a kind of sky.”
They soared across seas where whales hummed operas and steel vessels moved like lumbering giants. Tikki counted flags. “Why so many?” he wondered. “Aren’t we all going somewhere?”
In blue beaches off the Maldives, turtles and stingrays danced under coral cathedrals. In Indonesia, monkeys stole phones and bananas. Tikki almost lost a tail feather to one with sticky fingers.
Their wings carried them south through the India ocean, where the sky buzzed with monsoon joy. Then, over the jewel-toned waters of the Indian Ocean, they touched down on Madagascar. A hoopoe with an extravagant crown welcomed them, chuckling, “Here, forests sing in dialects you’ve never heard — lemur lullabies, baobab whispers.” They tasted the scent of vanilla and watched chameleons blink slowly at the sky.
In the Pacific, Fiji’s lullabies were sung to the sea, and a woman’s whispered “For love beyond tides” made the birds weep.
One long glide across the sea brought them to Papua New Guinea, where parrots wore paint brighter than any sunset. “Our humans here still dance with feathers,” a cockatoo informed them, “and talk to spirits older than language.” The terns nodded, unsure if it was myth or memory.
And then in Australia, kangaroos box-danced under moonlight while koalas snored like monks. One kangaroo asked Tikki for his feathers. “To impress a girl,” he said. Tikki declined but winked. Tasmania’s misty wilderness brought ancient forests and Aboriginal elders who sang to the sky, reminding them that flying and staying both carry sacred memory.
New Zealand brought shy kiwis, the bird, and the fruit. Mist hugged volcanic peaks like an old friend. They saw a Māori haka performed on a school field. The children danced like thunder.
In wide lands, they flew over quilted earth — rice paddies that shimmered like jade, golden wheat waving like greetings, sugarcane standing tall, cotton soft as clouds, mangoes, oranges, apples, melons, cherries, and guavas dotting orchards like children’s dreams.
They hovered over temples, mosques, synagogues, churches, gurdwaras, monasteries — where hands lifted not in division but in yearning. Bells rang, azans echoed, incense spiraled. Faiths differed, but longing was the same.
They saw humans drunk — some from sorrow, some from cheap liquor. And others are wide awake — holding IV bags, inventing cures, teaching children, kissing beloveds, praying for just one more day. Tikki and Noko circled hospitals and funeral homes, weddings, and protests.
On the banks of a quiet river in Multan, a Sufi dervish spun barefoot, singing verses older than war. “In the end,” he said to a blind dog by his side, “love is what remains.”
They dipped their wings over Malta, the ancient crossroads of the Mediterranean, where limestone cities rose from the sea like forgotten fortresses. Swifts welcomed them, saying, “We’ve nested in stone older than memory. Every migration writes a footnote in history here.”
In Tunisia, they skimmed over golden sands and date palms. A desert lark told them, “Here, the stars still speak — but the city lights are learning to shout louder.” In Morocco, they flew past markets scented with saffron and leather, watching falcons in the sky and carpets beneath.
In the olive groves of Greece and Tunisia, they rested among twisting branches, where a local dove shared olives and gossip: “Do you know? In some countries, humans prize these trees like sacred elders. In others, they tear them up for highways. One place calls it heritage; another calls it progress.”
Everywhere they went, they noticed this strange pattern. What was sacred in one land was forbidden in another. In one country, birds were caged as pets. In the next, that same bird was protected by law. They saw humans smoking something freely in one city square, then watched another be jailed for the same leaf across a border. They puzzled over markets where some animals were delicacies, and in others, holy. “So much depends on where your feet — or wings — touch the ground,” one stork said thoughtfully in Greece.
Passing through the Suez Canal, the human-made thread between two seas, the terns lingered on the breeze. “This is where oceans meet,” said a seagull from Alexandria, “but currents clash — just like people.”
High above the world, the terns often talked. But they also listened.
They listened to a weary crane in Ethiopia who whispered of drying wetlands and long migrations made longer by drought. To a cheerful finch in Barcelona, proud of how the city plants flowers just for bees and birds. To a skeptical crow in Berlin, who said, “Ah, but watch how easily humans forget.”
And yet, the terns also saw beauty beyond measure — forests healing, rivers protected, little girls feeding pigeons with open palms. They witnessed hope in the flutter of butterfly wings and in fields where children planted trees taller than themselves.
They passed celebrities and presidents — arguing over chai, scratching itches, swatting flies, picking noses, farting mid-speech, peeing behind trees, checking their reflections in spoons, laughing like children, and crying when no one watched.
“So much power,” said Tikki, “but still so… birdlike.”
Noko nodded. “The feathers fall off everyone eventually.”
They saw farmers planting seeds while coughing from pesticides. Mothers were going without food so their children could eat. Children dreaming of becoming astronauts, even when their classrooms had no roof.
They watched two old men play chess in a bombed-out library in Syria. A girl on a skateboard in Palestine jumps over rubble and lands on hope.
They saw kindness in markets, cruelty in silence, resistance in music, and peace written on walls no one read anymore.
And each evening, they perched on electric wires or rusted towers and watched the sun spill gold across the horizon. In the morning, they rose with the light and rode it like a hymn.
After a year and a half, they returned — feathers worn, eyes wiser, hearts heavier.
Back to the Arctic.
Tikki sat on the edge of their favorite glacier and whispered, “The world is terrifying and tender.”
Noko added, “And so alive.”
They had seen what humans did with the world — burned it, blessed it, broke it, kissed it. And still, the world turned.
Above them, the aurora danced like the memory of all the stories they’d seen. Tikki tucked his head beneath his wing. Noko looked up one last time.
“Maybe,” he whispered, “they’ll learn.”
Maybe.
As they arced south again, circling the Earth like ink on parchment, the two Arctic terns carried all these stories in their wings. Their journey was far from over, but already, they had seen more than most hearts ever hold.
Throughout their flight, Tikki and Noko saw injustice—stolen lands, hoarded water, lies sold as truth—but also justice—neighbors rebuilding, judges freeing the wrongly accused.
They found kindness—children sharing food with stray dogs, women leaving water for birds, teens helping the blind cross busy roads.
Sharing the Sky- The Sky That Belonged to No One
Word spread fast in the Arctic that Tikki and Noko had seen the world. Young birds gathered every morning, wide-eyed.
“Did you really see penguins in bow ties?” “Did a camel sneeze on you?” “Is it true humans build walls between themselves?”
Tikki told stories with dramatic wing flaps. Noko corrected timelines and added quiet truths.
They taught the young birds:
- To fly not just high, but wide.
- To observe without judging.
- To understand that the world is full of opposites living together: sorrow and song, war and weddings, winter and warmth.
Tikki built a nest-theatre and called it SkyTalks. Noko printed maps on ice (which melted quickly, but the idea was noble).
Eventually, they were invited to join the Grand Migration Council.
Their recommendation?
“Let every young bird get lost once. It’s the only way to find meaning. And always, always come home—not because it’s perfect, but because it’s yours.”
The Arctic echoed with laughter, tears, stories, and new dreams.
Two birds had flown across the world.
And in doing so, had given their home something priceless — perspective.
They returned, not with anger but with the story.
They sang across continents—not just to other birds, but to dreamers, children, poets, gardeners, even tired guards at border posts.
Their song had no lyrics. Just wind, wingbeats, and memory.
Somewhere in Gaza, a child looked up and saw Tikki circling—and smiled.
In Ukraine, a boy sketched birds while sirens cried.
In Colombia, a grandmother tied a white ribbon on a tree, and Tikki landed beside it.
In Kashmir, a soldier lowered his gun when he saw two birds flying side by side.
Maybe nothing changed.
Maybe everything did.
But whenever someone looked up, they remembered:
The sky has no border.
No passport.
No flag.
Just flight.
Just freedom.
Tikki and Noko were never seen in cages.
They belonged to the sky.
And the sky belonged to them.
Final Message: A Feathered Hope
To those who read this—if two tiny birds can fly across oceans and mountains to understand the world, perhaps we too can cross our fears, prejudices, and indifference.
May we be more like rivers and arctic terns.
Ever flowing. Always returning. Never forgetting.
Read: The Overcoat and the Silence
__________________
Abdullah Soomro, penname Abdullah Usman Morai, hailing from Moro town of Sindh, province of Pakistan, is based in Stockholm Sweden. Currently he is working as Groundwater Engineer in Stockholm Sweden. He did BE (Agriculture) from Sindh Agriculture University Tando Jam and MSc water systems technology from KTH Stockholm Sweden as well as MSc Management from Stockholm University. Beside this he also did masters in journalism and economics from Shah Abdul Latif University Khairpur Mirs, Sindh. He is author of a travelogue book named ‘Musafatoon’. His second book is in process. He writes articles from time to time. A frequent traveler, he also does podcast on YouTube with channel name: VASJE Podcast.
