This is for the refugee mothers whose second name became I-yearn-to-die post-flight.
This is for the refugee mother who could never become a mother because she died too early in transit. This is for the refugee mother who saw her children swallowed by borders. This is for the refugee mother who had a miscarriage because of the stress of fleeing.
« in these moments i always feel vulnerable and over cautious about the words i pronounce and the languages i use to do so. there was no more language intimate and foreign enough to communicate with freely without being understood by others. we were suddenly and temporarily visible, audible and understandble. in this moment, one of these rare moments in diaspora, the other was no more us but the outside: the white world that hardly permeats the indian ocean store’s glass door. »