"Your identity," I said as I looked at my friend.
"Everything!" Her voice shook with emotion.
I nodded in silence.
"We have writers like you," she said. "We have writers who write about my country. But they kill them."
"We've had that happen too," I bit my lip. "Throughout our history, we have writers who have been killed. This is why we remember. This is why I write and want to write."
"Your country is good to have a leader. Your people know what they want." Her eyes looked ahead. "Mine? We don't. My people are lost. So you asked me if I miss my country?"
"Yeah?"
"I don't."
And I understood her for I heard parts of her story, her life back in her country.
We started to walk away from the park where two figures holding an Olympic torch stood.
"Maybe one day Haiti will be like the Philippines. Maybe there will be someone who's gonna be brave enough to be that leader for you."
"I don't know. The world is going backwards for us."
"Maybe this has to happen because your people need to wake up."
"Maybe." She sighed.
"Maybe it'll happen generations after us," I said. "I still have hope for my country. That is why I am here. That is why I cried that day, remember?"
She nodded.
"I want to help myself first so I can go back and help more." It was the Eternal Optimist in me talking again. "When the time comes."
"I didn't want to leave my country," she said. "Because it is a part of me. It'll always be a part of me."
"Yes!" I understood what she meant because it echoed precisely how I felt.
"But I want to live," she said with deep conviction. "I want to live."
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