The world is tethered to cataclysm. Racked by virulent microorganisms, stupefied by war in Eastern Europe that may cause a global conflagration, this is an age terrible and terrifying. It will end anticlimactically, “Not with a bang but a whimper,” as predicted by T S Eliot in his 1925 poem, The Hollow Men. But for now, its aching heart heaves with questions: And what of freedom? Of democracy? Of geographies — country, city, village, homeland? Of the certitude that home is a place of safety and comfort? Of the right to cross borders and live unfettered, elsewhere?
Our notions of what
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