It was Nelson Mandela who told our leadership that the hardest negotiations are sometimes with your own people and how crucial it is to maintain unity.
Only when we all flourish can we hope for collective peace.
How are we affected as we witness the savagery, the carnage, this unbearable, ceaseless attack on an already deeply traumatized people?
We can’t understand each other’s words—I am a stranger she wants to welcome
into her wavering world...
This is an auto-fictional story. It is not romantic. No palatable packaging. Just a complex series of nuanced, semi-fictional, real and raw events.
When we're all in bunkers on Proxima Centauri b, who’s to say we won't destroy those oceans...?
That the burden of peace should lie with the occupied rather than the occupier is one of the great and absurd myths of the colonial age.
My fragile sense of peace was collapsing.
a path of olive trees filled with booming laughter now whispers beneath a barrage of bombs.
Aren’t crows sentient, intelligent, social and repenting? Why wouldn’t the first one be able to create the stars and the moon to illuminate the night, the darkness of the mind, its tenebrous ignorance?
God sits next to her in the playroom as I distribute plastic pizza slices detached at their Velcro hips.
Trans people are divine beings. Do not forget that.
Kabir cries now for the world has lost its mind
