Your Name is Jerusalem Mekonnen

You have lived in Kore all your life, just as your siblings have and just as your parents did. You're unsure of when your grandparents arrived (and only one grandma is still alive), but you think most of them were born and raised here, too. Your grandmother tells you frequently about how it used to be – both better and worse all at once. She points out where the landslides have changed the landscape and where her friends lived, died, and were buried. She points, too, to where she buried her own children. She's outlived them all now … even your mother. Such is life in Kore. But it's the only life you know, so while you feel the sting of grief, you haven't questioned your lot, nor have you dreamed of a grander future. People don't leave Kore. You and your whole family will live and die here. While it doesn't always seem fair or right, it does seem inevitable. Your father's death when you were sixteen was similarly inevitable. Its inevitability didn't make it hurt any less – in fact, you wonder if its slow approach made it hurt more, with the way leprosy broke him off piece by piece until you prayed for God to grant him peace – but it did make you prepared. When he passed, you were thankful at least for all the years that you were given together. Many of your peers were orphans already, especially when it came to your peers with parents who were lepers. You and your two older siblings grieved your father, celebrated his life, and then numbly began your next chapter.