Trafika Europe 7 - Ukrainian Prayer

Faruk Šehić

Refugees

G randma Delva is a purple bird with clean, soft plumage. She walks tiredly, with a rolling gait, on our way home through Žitarnica. I take care not to trip her with my foot as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other, and I’m scared that the neighbourhood dogs and cats could dash up and pounce on the purple bird that talks.

I ask her if she’s afraid of dogs and cats. ‘I’m too old to be afraid of anything,’ Grandma Delva says and waddles on, the sun shining through her feathers like a comb through hair. Now we’re right in front of Grandma’s house. The front door is overhung with Mediterranean plants, some hardy, others luscious. Even now, that green rampart protects the three or four stone steps that lead up into the air, surrounded by black walls with weeds growing at acrobatic angles. Already during the war we noticed a new type of house that has a convertible-style roof.

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