«Poor woman,» they said. «An impotent husband and no children, just the bird of ill omen.» The bird, that was me, and I showed all the signs of ill omen.

I had this great passion for studying and writing, which they explained in my household through the story of the umbilical cord. When I was born, and at my father’s request, my elder sister buried my umbilical cord in the courtyard of her primary school. My father attributed my brother Adel’s academic failure to the fact that my mother buried his umbilical cord in the garden of our house.

When you suddenly lose everything and snap like a bone, a door in your soul flickers open and closed as quick as an eyelash, a door that opens into the hidden self, the self that lies beyond pain.

There are only two kinds of sound that are good for bringing about peace: the songs of the forest and music. Yes, Beto, the forest is a sound. An ancient sound that renews itself like a river that never stops flowing. They have polluted the river. They have cut down the trees.