We are made of salt and soil—the remnants of where we have been, the promise of where we are going. Every journey requires a choice: what to carry, what to release. Some things are left behind out of necessity, others because they no longer fit the shape of who...
There are places where the land meets the sky, where borders blur, and the world feels wide open. And then there are places where lines are drawn, where bridges are built, and where movement feels limited. Yet, it is in the tension between crossing and standing still that the stories...
There is a moment, just before crossing over, when you stand at the threshold—not fully here, not fully there. It is a space of in-between, of becoming, of questions that have no immediate answers. For those of us who have migrated, who have left behind one world in search...
A name is never just a name. It is a history, a responsibility, a prayer whispered through time. It is the weight of those who came before us and the possibility of those who will follow. Names shape how we are seen, how we see ourselves, and how we move...
A name is never just a name. It is history pressed into syllables, a story carried forward, a bridge between what was and what will be. To be named is to be claimed—to belong to a lineage, a people, a place, even if that place exists only in memory....
The river was never just water. It was a witness. It was a vessel. It was a song that carried our names beyond the shores of where we began. Some of us were pushed onto ships, some of us fled toward freedom, some of us followed the current in search...