It is also etched in the corners of multiple pages of the notebook I am writing this draft in. It is on my passport, also on my pajamas. It is the word the world knows me by—my name. Specifically, my last name, Nuri.
We can’t just wish things away, we can’t disown parts of our culture and country because they don’t fit our particular ideal. That is a cop-out, an easy way out, that is claiming we are pristine, and the dirt lives elsewhere, claiming we are saints and that is not our sin.
Maybe I loved her so because we were daughters of the same soil, to some extent, at least. It made me smile. But I also sneered at myself a little bit, because her soil had also ripped apart mine for over 200 years.