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People, animals & the land: an Irob love story

I use refer to her as the daughter of farmers. Nah. She’s the farmer and I’m the daughter. That misconception I had is so telling of how little I know about my moms life in Ethiopia, in her birth country, in the wild. As children our narrative of our parents start with our earliest memories of them as our parents and nothing else. It doesn’t occur to us that they were someone before that. That they went through puberty, that they didn’t always have the breast that nourished me, that they were once insecure about their hair or body type. Watching her in the wild, at home, made me realize just how much of her has been erased since migrating...

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