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The Life of A Refugee, Immigrant & Writer
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The street was unusually quiet, considering it was early afternoon on a sunny September day. None of the usual noises from pedestrians or moving vehicles were audible, all windows were shut and not a single face peered from behind drawn curtains. In the middle of the street was a traffic isle, almost completely covered by a big pile of beige sand. The only sign of life was a little girl, who discovered the latest spot for her to play. Being at home by herself without toys, except for one doll she had received for her 5th birthday over a year ago from her godmother. Unfortunately she was not al...
The street was unusually quiet, considering it was early afternoon on a sunny September day. None of the usual noises from pedestrians or moving vehicles were audible, all windows were shut and not a single face peered from behind drawn curtains. In the middle of the street was a traffic isle, almost completely covered by a big pile of beige sand. The only sign of life was a little girl, who discovered the latest spot for her to play. Being at home by herself without toys, except for one doll she had received for her 5th birthday over a year ago from her godmother. Unfortunately she was not allowed to play with that doll, because it was made of porcelain, with real hair, From parental tyranny to communist control and, finally, freedom in a new world-what a life! I am glad I do not have to go through all that again.
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