Personal Taste Kurdish -

“Yes,” Hewa said. “It’s supposed to.”

His neighbor, Frau Schmidt, knocked on the door. “Everything all right? It smells… very strong.” personal taste kurdish

His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number, the area code Syria: “Hewa. It’s Rojin. I am in Athens. They say I can apply for family reunion. Do you still remember my cooking?” “Yes,” Hewa said

Hewa smiled for the first time in four years. He covered the remaining kuba and set aside a bowl for Frau Schmidt. Then he went to the window and looked east, toward a city he could not see but could taste—on his lips, in his throat, in the stubborn, wild herb that no border could season away. in his throat