My mother's grandmother, Shahira, died and asked: What if the locusts came back, ate our supplies and killed our children?

Yasmine, my grandmother, suffered from internal bleeding and was lifeless after my mother was born.

My mother Laila lived her life in novels and then disappeared like a grain of salt in the sea when I was nineteen.

I, Asmahan, live without my son Karim. His father tore him from my arms on his seventh birthday.

So we, the women of the Dali family, go away, become silent, go mad or simply die prematurely like cherry blossoms.