Writing my memoir was like reliving the woe, the odious and utterly disastrous days all over again, a task that I had underestimated. During the writing period all became so realistic and many times I felt like a derelict reeling to escape falling into an abyss, just like when I was a young child during  WWW ll, when the war was raging through Europe, killing people, destroying everything in its path. My country had been subjected to many audacious times, but this was different, I was in the midst of that volatile turmoil. For many years I had tried to regain trust in people and stop being xenophobic. I needed some time to heal and  distance myself from the feeling that I have been forced back to the days when I was searching, for just anything of my happy childhood, amid the ruins to sooth the pain that had pierced my heart. For a while, I could not find words to write my blogs without hurting others or myself. My wish was to make my readers feel that happiness comes from inner self, who one becomes after surviving the abuse of an apoplectic intrusion in our lives.  It is important to be strong enough to toss anything acrimonious aside, to appreciate the profound beauty and strength of nature, believe in the good things that prevail. In those days it had become dangerous to communicate with anybody, all letters were censored, telephone conversations became a matter to avoid, they were controlled by the secret police. Most of the time, people were arrested just if there was a slight hint of opposition. It became difficult to locate family members, many of them deported or were in hiding. I missed my brother, he was kidnapped on his birthday and sent to the front against his will. We were waiting for any news from him. At that young age I could not conceive the perplexity that prevailed; the rectitude had become an allusion. One day I found  a note in our garden house, it was addressed to me. It was written by my brother,  how it had been delivered is still a puzzle to me. Brother wrote: “please help me, write a letter to my officer and ask if I could visit you for a few days”.  I was to keep it  secret, even from my parents. I wrote in a hurry and was going to send it. To my heartbreak our house was burned down and we had to start on our long and dangerous  track out of the city. My brother was trying to escape, somehow it was not to be. Many years have gone by, so many families have been ripped apart, the sorrow is embedded in my heart. The world is still in turmoil, people don’t learn from history. We must always place life itself as a thing we esteem above all else.