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285 pages, Paperback
Published October 1, 2017

“My mother and father dug a huge hole in our garden, and buried in it all their books, magazines, and even their own un-Islamic pictures. That’s how memories and knowledge were preserved in my house. They had to be smothered to stay alive. When, due to her I was delivered from the womb of time, from an eternity of darkness to a reality of light, bombs and sunshine, of nightingales that travelled the skies freely, blind to borders while my people perished caged.”
“So what if she’s a little strange? All children have their own way of growing up!” my paediatrician said, offering me a lollipop that I unwrapped and began immediately to suckle on, throwing the orange wrapper on the floor. My father reached down and picked it up. He then gave me a reprimanding gaze which I ignored and replaced with the view of an apple tree outside which stood crucified like the letter T.