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for Ukrainian refugees

‘The Refugees’ Daughter ’is a novel I wrote to encourage refugees. If this sentence reaches Ukrainian refugees, I would like to translate and send the fragments little by little.

You're all children of one big family the refugees. Siblings, each with your own idiosyncrasies. You're the descendants of a people who spent much of their lives on the run,hoping for peace and avoiding conflicts.

But,' my grandfather continued, 'that's exactly why The Builders summoned you - because you're descendants of refugees. Those born without fists meant for punching... Those who are already hurting... Those are the people who will heal the world. Suffering women and children, the souls the those who fell in war that still echo in the trees, the spirits that inhabit our horribly polluted natural world - these are the hands that will join together to restore the planet...' "Okay...' Listen,' he said, lifting an index finger. In this world there is a single, neat, golden rule. It's a formal truth. And it is this...'-my grandfather jerked his chin up and loudly recited 'No long-lived civilisation that leaves its footprints on a far-flung planet tolerates violence. 'Really? 'Don't you understand? It's so obvious it requires no explanation. It's Prometheus's fire. Civilisation and military might are always correlated. The fate of a civilisation that can't overcome the instincts of belligerent discriminatory males is always - always destruction. Power is fragile and perilous. If ever a civilisation is able to escape the curse of male oppression,

those who inherit the planet will be descendants of refugees. The Builders knew that...' I had no words. I felt I'd learned something terribly important. This planet was entrusted to the weakest, the children... The voiceless will heal inherit the planet. Refugees are the true successors to civilisation... or at least that's what The Builders think, and they've chosen us... 'Am I enough...?I asked softly. Yes.'My grandfather nodded. It has to be you...’

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