At the end of the 1960s, in the northwest, in the desert hinterland. A child who doesn't have enough to eat, a mother who never sleeps, and a kerosene lamp that stays on all night. This is the first half of my life - no legend, only living. The wind and sand buried the village, and hunger gnawed at the bones, but the days finally passed day by day. I am writing these words now, not to accuse or recall, but because my memory is getting old, and I don't want those years to disappear silently.
Intention: Looking back on the past