“Some people talk to animals. Not many listen though. That's the problem.” - A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh Another memory, another moment. When I was a child, my father looked down on me, ever so often. From an early age, he’d be disappointed in what I looked like, how I spoke, how I moved, how I behaved: every time I didn’t understand something, he’d call me, in a non-loving way, “ حمار “ which means donkey. It’s akin to calling someone “stupid”. Here I stood, in my father’s land, probably unconsciously reflecting on this with a young, beautiful, actual donkey. The irony would have my dad most probably took this picture of this pair of donkeys, without realising how deep his words could cut and would shape my sense of self. These wounds would stay open for years: words, in my childhood at least, mattered so much to me, I was trapped in them. So many more similar insults would come to me around that age. Some Flemish people would call me a “Makak” : like the monkey -a typical racist slur used against North African immigrants in Flanders- others would call me “varken” which means “pig”, as I was chubby... and god knows what I’ve called others to try defend myself. Words to diminish, to criticise, to put someone down. I think in the journey it took to find a way to love myself - for lack of not being loved by others - I had to start by loving what the words referred to. I think after all those stabs, I never looked down upon donkeys, monkeys, pigs or any animal for that matter. And animals have consistently shown me curiosity, kindness, care, generosity, intelligence and depth, which a lot of people, in my experience at least, lacked. Animals don’t “think” of themselves as good and then behave hurtfully. Animals never insult you, they would play with you. But hey, I’m sure there’s good people out there. Anyway, I’m fine being a donkey. And actual human words, I don’t like to read, hear or trust them so much anymore. x