I’ve read that trauma disrupts time. That violent events are recorded differently in the brain.
This was not the information I was looking for. This was not the truth I wanted.
A new period in my life started when Abu could no longer fast for Ramadan.
Before I visited the Partition Museum, I had a sense that all the years of self-erasure could be undone if I just heard, watched, read enough. Now I’m beginning to rethink that strategy.
“I realized I had to change or I was going to lose you,” my mother told me. “So I did.”
My father was missing. How could I put him back in the picture?
When my grandfather threatened to kill himself, I began to wonder if, as he sees it, he has effectively stopped living.
When fighting on behalf of the father you love, who do you become?
If cancer and trauma are hereditary, is it not my responsibility to do everything in my power to ensure neither my children nor I have to suffer?