Groceries that disappeared from the shared fridges. Women waking up hysterically from their nightmares: was it the fear, sadness, and despair that haunted them? Children still wetting the bed. Women manipulating and bullying other women and their children—probably because they knew no other way. And men tracking down the address of the house, posing a threat to all the residents. You could write a book about life in a ‘Safe House.’
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A suitcase, a cheerful weekend bag, snacks for the journey, and loose toys or a book in your hand: in and out of the car, and “mind your step” on the way to the departure halls. You might recognize this scene from your own childhood—those butterflies in your stomach from the adventure ahead. But my mother wasn’t in a vacation mood that day. She was nervous, gloomy, and absent-minded. But she had been like that ever since she’d met our new father. I was eight when she met him, and my sister was thirteen. He was from Egypt, the city of Alexandria.
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