She used to say: death does not exist, when a beloved of my own dies, I imagine her on a long trip, somewhere around the world...

She was a pagan: after the bombings and the invasion  of Iraq, only the natural world could placate her pain.  We wrote for four years and made a long book of small talk:  numerous questions with obvious answers
to which nobody paid attention.

She used to say she was not a writer...
I used to answer: we are women who write... She promised she would come to Barcelona to meet me,finally, this September, notwithstanding her serious illness, her tiresome battle with therapies,  her political struggle and humiliation with visas...We both understood these things, for my mother died as a  belated victim of the sanctions and bombings in Serbia, and a few days ago, Nuha too... The killer has no face, THEY JUST DO IT...
I used to say: we should be enemies, you are a Muslim,  I am a Christian, you are dark, I am blonde...
Now you are gone, and I am still  alive,
defending the name and the space we managed to snatch  from the   Big Non Face of wars,sanctions, dicatorships, military globalization. A small safe place made of words, emotions, friendships without boundaries, without constructed enemies... I still remember your laughing voice singing in my phone: my dear J, where are you J? The only time we spoke...
My dear Nuha, my dear N, we never found a real world in which to meet and talk: we met through internet, and we stayed there...our virtual world was not only possible, but real...and your voice will always be there for us who  fight with words for  a better world.