We're often told that we live in a globalized world, and we talk about it all the time, but people don't stop to think about what it means.

We were exiles from reality that summer. We were refugees from ourselves.

We leave it up to books and movies to talk about WWII on our behalf.

It is certainly impossible to imagine forgiving the enemy while their animus remains undefeated.

Our stories are the tellers of us.

The reason why I love people, and writing about them, is because they don't always respond with hate and anger. If they did I wouldn't have a story to tell. Who wants to know about someone who was brutalised and became brutal? I'm interested in the exceptions.

I am a woman built upon the wreckage of myself.