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Quote by Meir Ezra

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Meir Ezra

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“When I think of him now, I see him in a way I couldn’t as a child. I see what a big brain he had. But I’ve lost the awe I had for him then. I held him simultaneously in awe and contempt when I was a girl. It was confusing and made me conflicted, just like he was. My awe has since turned to sympathy, even empathy sometimes, as I navigate the world as an adult and try to find my place in it. He always seemed to be trying to find his place in it. Even having lost the weird veneration that clashed with my disdain and hurt, I grieve for him. I grieve for what he, and we, could’ve been.”

LossGrief
Book:Blood: A Memoir
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“A memory unearthed itself: the way his wife had looked in the weeks following the news, the way she looked at things but never really saw them. The way she always seemed to be staring at something he couldn’t make out. The broken-down pits of her eyes, high on painkillers, opiates, staring at the wall, silent tears streaking drug-slacked cheeks. Maybe that had finished them off even before the divorce papers. Neither of them could live with what happened and neither wanted to watch the other one die so slowly.”

LossGriefFailureAddictionMourningGrief And LossCoping
Book:The War Beneath
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“The story always starts in the same way when people ask me the simple, yet most difficult question to answer: “where are you from?” I often wonder why of all questions people start with this one that has become the hardest for me and countless other exiled people to answer. The question is especially hard when asked in crowded and fast-paced places, or during quick encounters which make a short answer inadequate and a long one potentially uncalled for…I thought to myself: why is it that the first thing people want to know about me is where I am from? If they only knew where I am from, they would perhaps know that where I am from—Iraq—happens to also be the deepest wound on the geography of my body and soul, and so they would tread gently on my wound by not asking that question in the first place. Is there something in my eyes, something written on my forehead, something in my looks, or some marks inscribed on my other body parts that immediately tell people that I am from a place that lost itself and lost me to exile on a cold, dark, and sad winter night? Why don’t these strangers just start with the more common and safer usual remarks about the weather being nice, dreadful, or whatever? Of all questions, “where are you from,” is the most delicate and complicated for people who have lost their home and all the things they loved.”

LossRacismImmigrationBelongingExileAlienationRefugeesRacial ProfilingOriginProfiling
Author:Louis Yako
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“I lay in bed, feeling the champagne tide retreating and leaving me beached, like some unfortunate sea creature. In its absence the Thing--heavy, black, suffocating--returned, as if it had been waiting all evening for the two of us to be alone. It slid oil-slick over my skin, filled my nostrils, pooled at the back of my throat. It whispered in my ear, stories about loss and loneliness and little orphan girls.”

LossGrief
Book:The Ten Thousand Doors of January
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