Her dark curls dance around her face as we both shake with laughter, as we relive memories of prison tales and what had been happening in the world beyond our prison bars, for the first time face to face. Do the decorations hanging on the wall above our heads, see what I see? Do they also feel the greatness of this long-awaited miracle?
We’re both here, out of confinement, and out of the country that had oppressed us. We’re both here, safe and free, sitting on the steps of the hotel stairs in Washington, D.C., at last meeting in safety, following years that never saw our paths intersect outside prison walls.
Sanaa pulls the sleeves of her jacket and tucks her fingers inside, even though we’re inside the hotel’s warm lobby. I watch her repeat the same habit every time with an absent look. I think of all the reasons and things that chill her, the weather not being one — the cold that touches Sanaa’s soul.. This is a cold that stems from within.