I found myself in a dark, fragile, and vulnerable space. My new home was a precarious construction of poorly fitted planks, a weak barrier against the whims of the outside world. Cracks adorned the worn-out walls, while the wind, like a mocking spirit, slipped through with a persistent whistle.
From my limited perspective, I observed the remnants of our possessions: tattered blankets that barely managed to keep us warm and a pair of brass bowls, their shine extinguished under layers of rust. The walls, damp and peeling, were the domain of dark and diligent insects, their march resounding like tiny drums of war. Mud dripped from the ceiling at an irregular rhythm, a constant reminder of the fragility of our shelter.
The air, dense and stale, clung to my lungs like an invisible weight. However, I had no choice but to adapt. I had learned to accept the incessant chorus of creatures that shared this space with us, a grotesque symphony marking the passage of my days and nights.
When hunger became an unbearable pang, I burst into tears. It was an instinctive cry, my only way to announce my need to the world. As always, the response didn’t take long: my mother’s warm and comforting voice broke the silence.
—Oh, it seems our baby is hungry again.
Her arms, soft as a blanket on a cold night, wrapped around me delicately, and my crying stopped instantly. Why keep crying, exhausting myself, when I had already obtained what I needed? Crying was a draining task, and in my state of hunger, it only made me feel weaker.
—Jojo, I think you recognize mama —she said with a laugh that lit up the heavy air surrounding us.
How could I not recognize her? Even though my body barely responded to my desires and my world was a chaos of blurry shapes, I had memorized every line and curve of her face. A timid smile crossed my lips as I heard her say “mama.”
I watched her unbutton her blouse with an almost ritualistic gesture, and when she offered her breast, I accepted it without hesitation. The first few times, a shadow of shame—a remnant of another life—had clouded the act, but now it was the most natural thing in the world. The warm, comforting breast milk slid down my throat with the smoothness of a spring brook, filling me with calm and well-being.
I surrendered to that feeling of completeness. My eyes closed slowly, not from exhaustion, but from pure satisfaction.
As the days turned into weeks, I noticed how my perception of the world gradually sharpened. My mother’s voice, once a distant echo, became clear and melodic, like a song someone was carefully tuning. The blurry shapes gained more defined contours, though they were still a partially deciphered mystery.
My mother, a tireless woman, spent her days weaving baskets with rough but skillful hands. Each fiber she intertwined was a testament to her strength and perseverance. In her free moments, she became a gatherer, an ungrateful task that barely kept us afloat.
I accompanied her for the first time to the place she called the “refuge.” She carried me on her back in an improvised harness, and from that position, I observed a somber world. The underground tunnels were a labyrinth of perpetual darkness, illuminated only by faint lamps that flickered like stars on the verge of extinction.
The ground was a barren expanse of pure dirt, riddled with potholes and rocks, devoid of any trace of plant life. Above us, there was no sky, only an unfathomable blackness that seemed to devour any hint of light.
The narrow, winding streets were crowded with people dressed in tattered clothes, their faces etched with the relentless cold. The homes, small and frail, rose like silent witnesses to the daily struggle for survival, their makeshift walls bearing the scars of a precarious existence.