It was the sound of the dictator’s charismatic voice on the radio, talking and talking about nothing and talking that made the ice melt and the sea reach inland towards the coastal mountains. That was years ago.
I travelled home to search for Father amongst the debris. I found him floating with a rope around his waist, tethered to the front door of our house below. I pulled him out. We travelled in a small boat, and then a larger boat, and then a plane, to land here, a country above the rising water. Now we live together in a small apartment on the 41st floor of this building.
How do we maintain hope during times of crisis?