Children of the Jacaranda Tree

by Sahar Delijani

Although it had been menial work, Leila had never been happier. She had never felt so liberated as when she punched the time-sheet after arriving every morning, the click of independence, of security, of finding a foothold in a country that was crumbling, hammered down by war and the soured ecstasies of a revolution. It was punching into shape a life that had felt like molten lava. (p. 69)