Refugee The Diary Of Ali Ismail ❲2024-2026❳

We are not asking for your pity. Pity is a hand that stays closed.

The engine dies. The sea is black and greedy. refugee the diary of ali ismail

I drew a map in the condensation on the window of the bus heading to the coast. My mother thought I was drawing a cloud. But I was drawing the olive grove behind our house in Homs. The one where my brother and I buried a tin box of marbles in 2011. The marbles were blue like the sky before the jets came. We are not asking for your pity