My father named me Inida after the homeland he never saw. He was born in the fifth year of the Great War, the year they burned the seaport. When he came out, his eyes had clouds in them. This was a sign of bad luck.

For three weeks he stayed this way. Never seeing, never crying, while around him the seaports burned. He was given to his unlucky uncle, then only thirteen, and they were both sent away on the last remaining ship. The family hoped that either the gods would take pity on them or that they would carry the bad luck to another shore. The moment they reached this shore the clouds left my father’s eyes.