I have come across book titles from which your soul was missing, Salma!
As the One Keeping the Sand, Writing for the Truth, Alzheimer, and The Olive Trees in the Streets. I felt conscience pangs and returned to the book The Light Fighter.
I swear, Salma, I have read the foreword more than 10 times. Each day, the child returned to the same beach. In every reading.
I wavered between demonstrations and the calm and the self-portraits and the naivete, to some extent. I searched in people's faces for the traitress, even though this label exasperated me. I repeat in in my heart: traitor, not traitress.
Six months later
In the streets of the great big underground world, where there is no reception, I find myself dealing with questions irrelevant to the truth.
How does gray turn to green?
The way I can see that gray is my favorite color, while it is the one I hate the most.
I wanted to escape, but the screams of a nameless girl stopped me. I lifted my head to heaven and said, how could a father not name his daughter?
Salma, in my cell phone's memory I keep a recently published book titled Hunger, by the writer Roxanne Gay. I read it whenever I am really hungry.
This hunger is almost completely different from its usual names. We starve when being abandoned, and we starve when we are afraid, or when we encounter a certain memory.
I avoid thinking about these complex issues. I wonder about springtime, as if I'm noticing I for the first time, and almost believe that we require nothing but flowers.