I’m on a trip to Melbourne from France. Living abroad comes with constant learning in almost all you say and think. Visiting home is a return to autopilot. In the supermarket, I don’t read the packaging – I reach for products without thinking. But if the checkout assistant wants to chat, I can’t say, “Je…
They say you become a New Yorker when you cry on the subway for the first time. Or when you get flashed on the subway for the first time. By both standards, I’ve been a New Yorker since 2010, and I’ve become a New Yorker many times over since then. Despite the tears and testicles,…
Every night my father awaits news on Afghanistan. He listens to Al Jazeera report that western troops have withdrawn their occupation of the country. He interchanges between news stations. He turns off the TV and switches on our Afghan Satellite box to find out what’s happening directly.
In front of the hills of Arthur’s Seat, Margherita Nerini-Garcia stands before the Mornington Peninsular shore. Margherita, my nonna, pulls off her dress and throws herself into the water like a puppy without a lead. She lifts her feet, kicking the buckle of the current from underneath her. It is here, in the surge of…
I have no other choice. Since the war ended, my life has been miserable. The communists have confiscated our house, our money, our belongings, everything. The 10 of us live in what used to be our kitchen, which is now our only space. Every time any of us leave the house, we’re body searched in…