I am an artist, I get to be my home, my own language, my own culture.
We must welcome those who run away from hunger and war. Lampedusa’s people did it and sent a message to Europe. And Europe has to hear this message.
A woman walked out of Evin Prison in Tehran late one evening. Her face was pale from long confinement but her eyes shone bright.
I lay back in the grass among fallen trees and the heat of sun on my palm felt like a knife I could use to bleed myself dry with one swift cut to the jugular.
I am writing this in a prison cell. But I am not in prison. I am a writer.
This is how my imagination works, I suppose: mysteriously, the process of writing always begins with a place.