I had, undoubtedly, many insecurities and suspicions concerning Buddhism. Is it really a religion in itself, and what is this ambiguous designation of … Keep Reading
He looked at me from afar, and our eyes met yet again. I kept asking myself, who is he, what does he want and why is he smiling so intensely. It was a hot day in summery Firenze. Not the kind of heat you would want on you on a Wednesday.
He made his way and asked, “Where are you from?”
“I’m from Mozambique, in Southern Africa.”
“My sister!” He could have hugged me, but my mother was visible, “I am also from Africa! I’m from Libya!”
To visit Mozambique Island, the epicentre of culture and history, has always been a dream of mine. I remember being woken by the unexpectedly humid sun and venturing into the town’s market in search of airtime when the little child crossed my path.
It dawned on me that this child, though native as she may have been, was just as foreign as I.
After all, Mozambique Island is a UNESCO Heritage site, and it makes me uncomfortable to witness the preservation of a heritage that is not my own.