"There is a certain kind of abdominal pain felt only when a catastrophe appears at the door of the world you know and proceeds to bang on it. The sensation could be likened to a steel ball grinding your intestines. There is nothing like it: There were times when I thought I could hear it revolve. The feeling is simultaneously familiar and totally unfamiliar; it is unquestionably familiar as boilerplate fear, intensified though it may be, but it is also unfamiliar in its specificity: It is the fear of an unimaginable future as seen from this particular terrifying moment.
This is the feeling that possessed me during the time my daughter Isabel was sick and then died. This is the kind of fear that woke up, stretched and elbowed for more room in my stomach on November 8, 2016, as it became increasingly clear that Donald f**king Trump would win the presidential election. By two in the morning, drugged by my own adrenaline and disbelief, I was staring at the dumbfounded TV analysts groping for dumb things to cover up their earlier dumbness. The fear was settling in my stomach, kicking up its cloven feet."
— Alexandar Hemon, on the eve of Trump's inauguration, 2017
There is a certain kind of abdominal pain felt only when a catastrophe appears at the door of the world you know and proceeds to...