There was an entire system in place that revolved around disposal. It was an act of letting go that was deliberate and methodical, an active and almost festive act of losing, antithetical to how I functioned as a person.
Over the past three months that I've lived and traveled in the United States, I've thought of my homeland and imagined it the way that Americans have described it to me, not the way that I've known it.
TO THE ROHINGYA WOMAN WHO SHOWED ME HER BULLET WOUND
“She is precious,” I say. “Do you have any other children?” Normally, this would be an innocuous question. Here, in these close, human-crammed camps of families fleeing unspeakable horrors, it’s the kind of query that unlocks a story.