I needed to be happy, to be hopeful for an hour or two to recharge my batteries or I’d go mad. I wrote stuff down as it came to me, little things, everyday things. I wrote that Aunt Sakina and Uncle Ali would be happier here in Aïn Deb. The air is fresh, the silence is peaceful. Living on the tenth floor of a tower block on the estate, they never go out, except when Aunt Sakina goes shopping with Maïmouna, the old woman who lives along the corridor. They always go together, they always buy the same things, pasta, rice, tinned tomatoes and a nice white baguette. In Aïn Deb they’d have the whole countryside, neighbours to look out for them, they wouldn’t have to deal with all the noise, the hassle of living in a city. They could get a couple of chickens, a few goats, and the rest would come naturally. The years would go by, they’d get used to things, adapt to the seasons, and one day they’d die and it would not be a tragedy but they would not go unmourned. And the cemetery is just down the road, they would be buried with their family, with their people, and go into the next life with them.

I remembered my mates and I thought, now that it was my turn I’d tell them everything. I’d tell them all the things I’d been hiding. They’ve lived in silence and ignorance long enough. Maybe it’s too late, maybe they’ll be hurt when they find out, but maybe it will give them hope, the sort of hope that gives you wings and the urge to fly. This was what I needed, hope, to live and to be happy to wait for tomorrow.

I thought about the estate, and I knew now that we could change it. It would be easy – all we had to do was talk to each other and tell the children everything. The rest would come naturally. Despair would scuttle away having nothing left to cling to. The authorities would have to listen to us, they would see in our eyes what we knew, what we wanted: truth and respect. The jihadists wouldn’t dare come near us, they’d run away – heads down, tails between their legs, beards at half-mast. The devil would take them home and devour them. And that would be that. We’d turn the page and throw the party to end all parties.

I thought about Rachel and I promised myself I’d visit his grave and tell him everything. Tell him that I knew everything, and that, thanks to our diaries, the whole world will know who we are, what we suffered, that we will no longer need to hide, to be ashamed, to lie.