Selma 1

I was walking with Selma and suddenly she stopped.

“Here it is. Remember, I was telling you about it. This is where I got this.” She pulled back her sleeve and showed me the long scar she earned when she was a 9-year old girl living in a city under siege.

"My mother and sister were in front of me, and suddenly a sniper started shooting from over there.” She pointed to a distant high-rise. “They ran around the corner, and I don’t know what happened, but suddenly bullets were shooting up dust around me.” She started to re-enact the scene, but laughing the whole time as if it were on the same level as her telling some funny story about the time she got drunk and threw up on her friend’s face. “They were yelling at me to run and I sprinted, starting here.” She started jogging in slow-motion, exaggerating her movements, giggling. “I ran as fast as I could, but I slipped on some broken glass right here,” she pointed again, “and that’s how I got cut. The sniper was still firing, but somehow I got up and got away. I don’t know how. It was craaazzzy!” she exclaimed, laughing harder now. Then she sighed. “This kind of close call happened to me so many times. My family thinks I am their lucky charm,” she beamed proudly. I chose to laugh along with her, which seemed to be the right reaction, and we went on walking.