It is more than twenty years that I can write!
I read a letter, a piece of writing. It was written by me. I had written it twenty years ago and had read it in the public of my family: aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandparents. I read it again today and I thought I was reading another person's writing.
In the letter I had explained that we had fled our cities to a safe place with the whole family. I had impressed how joyful it was to be with all the loved ones and how painful it was for me to think of other people who had not the luxury of a shelter like I had. I was not even 10 years old when I wrote the letter but I felt the ache even now when I read it. When I read what I had written as if reading another person's writing!