These sentences have a shake in them, a tremor, a flashback. There are so many words I can’t arrange on this screen because lips that would speak them are sewn shut.
To come this far, for an extraordinary rendition to purgatory.
We wait, for the blood to flow. Wait for hunger strikes. Wait for riots to start, for beds to burn, for a man to jump from the roof, for a body to hang from bedsheets. Wait for first words from babies that never come, because their whole family is mute with depression and trauma. Over and over and over again.
The siege of waiting.
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