I write this to tell you the invention .
We are not asking for your pity. Pity is a hand that stays closed.
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.
Note to the reader: This entry was found sealed inside a plastic bag, wedged between the inner and outer hull of a deflated dinghy washed ashore on Lesvos. The ink is smeared, but the pencil marks are legible.
"These are Italian," he said. "I saved three years for these. My father never owned leather shoes."
I realized something strange:
Today, I stopped being a number.
We are asking for your .
