Mirrors aren’t complicated: whether in Cleveland or in Kabul, a mirror reflects what the mind sees, no more, no less.

It would’ve been hilarious if it didn’t hurt so much.

There’s no such thing as a young refugee; every migrant has a past they’ve fled from, and how can you be young when you already have one life behind you?

The books were the background of my little world, and seeing them carted away by friends and relatives was like watching someone dismantle the sky.

This undying vigilance is such a part of the Jewish psyche that it might as well be genetic. Nomads we are, and nomads we remain. Cars replaced caravans, tents calcified into houses, yet the wanderings of old course through us, simmering under the surface.