The plane was full of Dutch families. But, even with eyes wide open, I remained convinced that they were all speaking Arabic and in an accent more authentically Libyan than my own. I felt the shadows of my aunts’ and cousins’ hands, now round my wrist, tapping my shoulder, through my hair, then with a feathery touch brushing my ankle. I was twenty-two and my small London flat was crowded with old questions, more severe now than ever.
