A human face is molded over a long time. The soul is slowly traced on it. But the war quickly created its image of people. Painted its own portraits.

I build temples out of our feelings…out of our desires, our disappointments. Dreams. Out of that which was, but might slip away.

I was happy … I was happy that I wasn't able to hate.

My fearlessness came from an ignorance of life.

It's not a woman's task-to hate and to kill. Not for us...We had to persuade ourselves. To talk ourselves into it...

More than once afterward I met with these two truths that live in the same human being: one's own truth driven underground, and the common one, filled with the spirit of the time.

What keeps us from remembering ? The unbearableness of the memories ...

I believe that in each of us there is a small piece of history. In one half a page, in another two or three. Together we write the book of time. We each call out our own truth. The nightmare of nuances.

War kills time, precious human time.