The morning Helin walked out to die, she dressed carelessly in a loose T-shirt and jeans. She did not brush her hair. The room she shared with three others in a Beirut tenement stank of sweat. Her daughter Lulu sang on the bed, small hands waving, weaving stories.
Raqqa Road: A Syrian Escape
‘My cousin is an artist. He says, You draw some good knives but you still need to work on your stab wounds.’
‘When I sleep, I dream of Will standing on our bed, flicking a whip against our faces. He draws blood.’