Everytime you tell me a story, you add a new window into my house of being.

You wanted to help the women in the kitchen. The gas canisters were heavy. But your care left you scared for life. Fire first made you invisible and then all too visible. After the explosion you disappeared. One operation followed the next. And then you came back to work at the same place.

Disfigured and alone. It is impossible not to give, when you ask me, in the middle of the night, always at the same crossing, exposed to the same cold and old winds.

You never stopped mourning the loss of your land. The grief burried you alive. Earth to earth, dust to dust, and ashes to ashes. You believed that your soul would find its way back to the soil of your beginnings.

To you it felt as if someone kept holding a gun barrel to our head. And your son became one of them. The trauma made its way to the next generation. And you could not stop him.