This book is not a map, though it moves through mapped places.
It is not a chronicle, though it follows the pressure of events.
It is not a memoir, though a witness stands at its center.
It is an attempt to describe what happens when human lives are pressed against the machinery of power-when borders harden, when cities speak in contradictions, when language becomes insufficient to carry what is seen.
The chapters that follow are fragments rather than conclusions. Each scene is a window that refuses to close cleanly. Together they form a geography of instability: political, emotional, and moral.
There are moments in the world when events accelerate beyond explanation. In such moments, writing becomes less about explaining and more about holding-holding onto details before they disappear, holding onto voices before they are reclassified as noise.
This is that kind of writing.