When I was young, my dad would take me to the hospital, usually on weekends, mostly on Saturdays. He was visiting his patients, the ones he’d operated on earlier that week, when he’d replaced their hip or their knee. I remember these mornings quite well because I knew, even then, that they were not normal.
By the time we finalized the layout for Ara Oshagan’s photo essay about the Armenian diaspora in Lebanon, his decade-long project comprising memoir and documentary, Russia’s invasion of Ukraine was underway, with horrific consequences.
Now that I’m dead too, just like the living dead on TV, fat chance that the merely living will be saved by doing what they did when I was merely living— nailing their doors shut against me, hurricane-proofing the windows, positioning snipers at the embrasures.