“My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.”
We drive long, winding country lanes, empty of other cars, through rolling green hills, over model railroad bridges, trees stretching to the early evening sky. Our destination: an old 19th century hunting lodge deep in the countryside. A group of men stand outside smoking, surrounded by midges in the cool June air, looking out over the vast landscape….
J, Eritrean, wanders around with a thin stick, gently hitting volunteers and his friends with it around the legs. Ow! Ouch! We cry, pretending to be hurt. He laughs. “My friend. In Libya, we get hit with sticks very hard, you know? Some people die. This is nothing.”