as i was growing up (and i still am), i always felt that falling leaves signified something more than just the fall. how could leaves fall with such grace and such courage? how could leaves embody non-attachment with such ease?
fallen leaves constantly remind me of migrant-refugee journeys. in everyday lives of forced refugees and migrants - and on the paths that they follow to get to their spaces of (temporary) refuge - they live in parallel worlds: one of attachment with a place called home, and the other of the same place filled with woeful situated memories constructed sociopolitically.
how does fear, grief and survival shape migrant lives? when are fallen leaves not fallen anymore but spores of new freedoms and rekindled spirits?
prayers for migrants across the world - under tunnels, atop boats, along electric fences, under waters, above scorching sands, and a thousand miles away from humanity.