When my book Love, Justice, Freedom was finally published in English, I carried the copies with both pride and trembling hands.
For years, these stories had lived only in my language, in whispers of memory, in the silent eyes of comrades. Now, for the first time, they were breathing in English.
I set up my small kiosk, not far from the busy streets of London. The wind carried the smell of coffee, of newspapers, of hurried footsteps. I placed the books on the wooden counter, arranging them as carefully as if I were laying out photographs of my past.
One by one, people stopped. Some curious, some hesitant, some simply passing by and catching a title that spoke of love, of justice, of freedom. Each time a hand reached out to pick up the book, I felt my heart tremble.
I signed my name on the first page, again and again. My hand grew tired, but my soul felt light. Each signature was not just ink on paper — it was a bridge between my past and the reader’s present.
Some asked me about the prisons, about exile, about the meaning of resistance. Others simply smiled, held the book close, and walked away. I saw in their eyes that my words were no longer alone.
By the end of the day, the pile of books had thinned, and my table felt empty, but inside me there was a fullness I had never known. It was not the money, nor the number of copies sold. It was the simple truth that my voice, once silenced in prison walls, was now walking freely through the streets of London, carried in the hands of strangers.
That evening, as I packed the remaining books back into the box, I whispered to myself: “This is not just a book launch. This is survival speaking. This is memory refusing to die.”
دیدگاهتان را بنویسید