I have seven photos from my childhood, and once I saw myself in a video as a two-year-old in my auntie’s wedding. It was only a few second or so, a quick glimpse of littler me watched. Quite bizarre really, to watch yourself as a child when you’re a kid. In half or so of my photo collection, it is my second birthday and I am celebrated. Adorned. I bet I lapped it all up, who knew that that would be the last bomb-less year? I’m wearing a white dress (or was it ivory?) with matching ankle socks with tulle frill. Tulle. Isn’t it odd that only your childhood and the day you become a bride is the only time that tulle comes out of hiding? Both times meant to depict innocent joy, I suppose. The falling into the unknown before you get burned and everything around you is torched. It wasn’t made for this cruel world. In my current favourite photo, I am being held, comfortably, resting on my mother’s right hip, my white patent Mary Jane’s look bulky and glossy. This is how I will be described as an adult. Seven little sad photos lying on top of each other in an envelope tells a tale of being a refugee far better than I ever could.