Refugee The Diary Of Ali Ismail -

I have to close the notebook now. The water is getting higher. Tarek is handing me his left shoe.

I write this to tell you the invention .

First, you lose the sound of church bells (or the call to prayer, depending on your street). Then you lose the specific smell of your mother’s stove—lentils and cumin. Then you lose the ability to walk down a street without looking up at the rooftops. refugee the diary of ali ismail

We are not asking for your pity. Pity is a hand that stays closed.

Today, I stopped being a number.

Tonight, the stars are very bright. The coast guard’s light is a white dot on the horizon. It might be rescue. It might be return. I don’t know which is scarier.

War exported me. Bombs exported my neighbor, the baker. Fear exported the girl who sat in front of me in chemistry class (she could name all the elements, but she couldn't name a single safe country). I have to close the notebook now

We don’t run away from death. We scoop it out with our finest possessions.