Occupation means that every day you die, and the world watches in silence. As if your death was nothing, as if you were a stone falling in the earth, water falling over water.
“We can’t stay here any longer,” T’s father said in desperation,”We have to find somewhere less dangerous to live than the rue de Lyon.” Continue reading
Home is where you can always return, no matter how long you’ve been gone.
Returning to their village after their bankruptcy in Fouka, T’s parents felt as though they were retreating into their shells. For them, the house that they’d built during the years of plenty was a sanctuary, a cocoon, a place where they could rest —where they could heal. This was their ancestral land. Nobody could tell them to leave. Continue reading
The death of a mother is the first sorrow wept without her.
“Acu? Amek ? Acu? Tamɣart-iw?” (What? How? What? My mother-in-law?)
My father-in-law was shouting down the telephone, holding the receiver in one trembling hand, and repeating every word the caller was saying as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Shot in the head, you say? Dead? Allah yarhamha.” (God have mercy on her soul.) Continue reading