Why does the world always assume that running away is a solution? That there exists a mythical place called ‘away’ in which disheartened people can find refuge. The truth is our challenges are written in invisible ink inside our bellies and over our skin, in our very bone marrow and in the blood that speeds through our vessels. Everywhere we run to, they run with us. If my own brothers could not tolerate my flute playing, free-spirited ways, and plotted to take away my land from me and drove me out of my village, what kindness could I expect from strangers? Why would a world which valued
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