[b]Svetlana Alexievich
No one had taught us what freedom means. We’d only ever learned how to die for freedom.[/b]
My guess: The State’s rendition.
No one knows what’s in the other world. It’s better here. More familiar.
The devil we know best and all that crap.
According to Abkhazian custom, the time you spend with guests around the table doesn’t count toward your lifespan because you’re drinking wine and enjoying yourself.
Come on, he thought, what do they know?
“He’s going to die.” I understood later on that you can’t think that way. I cried in the bathroom. None of the mothers cry in the hospital rooms. They cry in the toilets, the baths. I come back cheerful: “Your cheeks are red. You’re getting better.” “Mom, take me out of the hospital. I’m going to die here. Everyone here dies.” Now where am I going to cry? In the bathroom? There’s a line for the bathroom—everyone like me is in that line.
They endure it. Though, for some, they pray to God.
He knew that in order to survive, you only needed three things: bread, onions, and soap.
Well, that and water.
At first, the question was, Who’s to blame? But then, when we learned more, we started thinking, What should we do?
And then: What are our options?