WHERE AM I?
I can no longer call myself 'a journalist'. I don't have my columns anymore.
However, looking from that kind of view licks my wounds. Staying in this camp with the vocational perspective.
Common toilet.
Common bathroom.
Common kitchen.
Thirty-five families, each one from different country.
From Syria,
From Afghanistan,
From Iraq,
From Somalia,
From Nigeria, all makes thirty-five stories.
Women, gave their children birth on their own in this country. Whom came from Nigeria, whom came from Somalia... They are alone like I am. Their spouses are in Italy.
Whom from Afghanistan, a huge family with ten children...
A place that breaking apart from tactlessness makes me question my intention.
Everywhere is dingy. So muddy!
I have no one to call 'my dear friend' around me, except my prayers.
Sometimes, even when I talk or text to people I get impertinent... Sometimes I take offense, sometimes I misunderstand, sometimes I get into unnecessary talks. As a conclusion, I withdraw into my shell.
Time, is time for obligatory retirement.
My feet are stable but my mouth is dumb.
Take root, giant plane tree.
Take root!