If we’re fortunate, we imagine we “belong” as children; we belong to a family, a tribe, a tradition - and as young, vulnerable babes, we need that to feel secure, to grow, to explore. Babies sometimes cry just because they want to be held, as they know they can’t survive alone, and they need that reassurance, that touch, that tells them someone big and strong cares.
That “belonging” lasts...until it doesn’t. Some leave by choice, others by force majeure, others never had it to begin with - those who suffered a bad draw in the womb lottery.
These letters, written by very different, displaced, lonely souls, all connected by a war-devastated country, end up in each others’ hands without context, but with recognition; of the simmering rage, the hopelessness, the loss. They can discern another who is screaming into the wind.
“But is it life itself that does this, or is it poverty? Sometimes I feel that God created some people unnecessarily. Beings who live exhausting, useless lives, unneeded by anyone, just like the biting, stinging, harmful vermin the Creator made, who carry disease and lay their eggs on corpses….despicable creeping insects, like the man who wrote the letter: harmful and loathsome. Like me too.”