I know a man who did not talk with his small daughter, son and wife for 29 months. His family live on a dry land on the border of Pakistan and Afghanistan. I talked with him in Manus Prison when they took us during the hunger strike and put us in that dirty jail. He was crying and when I put me hands on his shoulder and asked him why he was crying. He looked at me and said: ‘I am not crying for myself. My heart is heavy for my small daughter and son’.
Read Crying on a remote island by Behrouz Boochani in full.