Janine di Giovanni opens her diary
Back in Paris, where I now live, I set out on the first morning run. I notice that the other mothers are looking more concerned than usual. There is lots of double-cheek kissing. Then one mother approaches me near the school gate. ‘Are you insane?’ she screams. It turns out that my son had blurted out, ‘Someone shot a pistol at my maman today!’ That’s not technically true — no one was shooting at me directly, and it was an AK-47, not a pistol. But to this anxious mother, war reporting is evidently a form of dangerous madness.
‘Will you be OK?’ Stephanie, the teacher, asks me later, observing me for signs of post-traumatic stress. I am fine. Everything is going to be fine. So fine that I find myself writing to an officer I know, asking if I can go back to Forward Operating Base Jackson in the spring, when the warm weather comes.
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