Later, when I finally earn their trust, they tell me nothing of Lampedusa, the Libyan coast, or any of the places in between where men like them tread water for hours while watching women and children with the same dreams as theirs drown. They speak little of these terrible moments because they would rather tell me about the joys of home. The sounds that bounce off bustling street corners in Bissau. The curves of women dancing Azonto in Accra. The once-beautiful cityscape that used to be shown on postcards labeled “Love, from Aleppo.” They tell me that sometimes it is better to remember these
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