I write this to tell you the invention .
We are asking for your .
But tonight, I am a cartographer.
I have to close the notebook now. The water is getting higher. Tarek is handing me his left shoe.
But I write this to you, future reader, not to make you sad. refugee the diary of ali ismail
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).
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. I write this to tell you the invention
When the water started seeping through the floor, Tarek took off his leather shoes. He didn’t throw them overboard. He held them up.