Jisan, you understand, I think, this country better than most born here. Heard more keenly its promise, seen more clearly its ragged delivery. We've both felt the itch of being inspected. The exhaustion of existing as They among We.

The way they reveal themselves, unrestrained, when they think the local language is their veil, a confessional—the like-mouthed public their confederate priests. I don't know the suspicion—the madness of questioning whether my worry is logical. I don't know the tyrranny of fearing my own home.