I write in a language that is not mine. The sentences falter; an abyss opens between the words. I stumble over shards of letters. Each time I write, the same painful question clouds the act itself — is this still me?

The fog lay heavy over the city that cold December morning in 1992, when the three of us made our way to the train station outside town. The cold bit sharply, the darkness felt threatening. The town had been without electricity for weeks. The streets were empty — only a stray dog and an occasional passerby on the way to work. From a few chimneys, smoke rose and mingled with the fog, thickening it further. I felt sick from the metallic stench, from the smoke of the cellulose plant that each winter spread its grey haze over the city. I felt sick from what lay ahead. They walked me to the station. After that, I was to continue alone.

In my single bag, besides a few warm clothes, I carried a handwoven Palestinian scarf from Ali, a Palestinian exchange student in Banja Luka, and a workbook in Mathematical Analysis, Part II. I packed the workbook for a reason only I understood. In the early days of the war, Enes and I would sit with Tom Waits and a few bottles of wine, open the book at random, choose a problem, and race to solve it first.

And then the war began.

Mathematics has always been an essential part of my life. At times, a refuge. It gave me bread, intellectual joy, and a kind of existential shelter. Its language has accompanied me through everything — a continuity across cultural borders. I love it as I love poetry and music. It carries a truth unlike any other human construction. It has its rules and limits, yet it touches infinity with elegance and ease.

As Smilla puts it in Peter Høeg’s novel:

Do you know what lies beneath mathematics? Beneath mathematics lie numbers. If someone asked me what makes me truly happy, I would answer: numbers. Snow and ice and numbers. And do you know why? Because the number system is like human life. First there are the natural numbers — whole and positive. The numbers of early childhood. But human consciousness expands. The child discovers longing, and do you know the mathematical expression for longing? Negative numbers. The formalization of sensing that something is missing. And consciousness continues to expand, to grow, and the child discovers the spaces in between. Between stones, between moss on stones, between people. And between numbers. And do you know where that leads? To fractions. Whole numbers plus fractions give rational numbers. And consciousness does not stop there. It wants to go beyond reason. It adds an operation as absurd as extracting roots. And produces irrational numbers. A kind of madness. Irrational numbers are infinite. They cannot be written down. They force consciousness out into the boundless. And when irrational numbers are added to rational ones, we get real numbers. It doesn’t end. It never ends. Because now, on the spot, we expand the real numbers with imaginary ones — square roots of negative numbers. Numbers we cannot imagine, numbers ordinary consciousness cannot contain. And when we add imaginary numbers to real ones, we have the complex number system. The first number system capable of adequately accounting for the crystal formation of ice. It is like a vast, open landscape. The horizons. You move toward them, and they keep receding.

A vast landscape opened when the fog lifted a few hours later and the train rolled somewhere through Hungary. The compartment was cramped and worn; there were three of us inside.

Beside me sat an elderly woman in a dark blue coat, with eyes both alert and unsettlingly clear. She spoke almost without pause, telling strange stories — among them how each evening she would sit on her sofa, put on Schubert, and knit.

“Nothing grounds me like that,” she said, as if she knew something the rest of us could barely sense.

Across from us sat a man wearing headphones. He said nothing for hours. His gaze was distant and sorrowful — like a bird’s eyes behind wire. I thought he looked like a man who listened to Arvo Pärt.

The conductor entered and asked for tickets. That was when it struck me — my ticket was only valid to Szczecin. A cold fear spread through my body. I suddenly realized that I did not know where I was going. I looked out the window: endless, empty fields. I closed my eyes.

The screech of metal and the jolt of the train pulled me from sleep. For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was. The light had changed. Had I slept through the night? Outside the window stood the sign: Szczecin.

I stepped onto an almost empty platform. The air was grey and still. The cold cut through me. I opened my bag and took out the Palestinian scarf. The fabric was rough against my cheek, and I sensed the smell of home.

The train remained for a moment, then slowly moved on. I stood there for a long while, watching it disappear.