It was one building. One building in the middle of the airport. I stayed in one room. One room with thirteen others. We ate (and shared) Ration Packs. We called home when we could. We were isolated. My survival mode was to write a weekly email to a group of friends, and hope they took the time to write back, either by email or an actually physical letter. Mail days were so important. 

My mother looked at these e-mails as a way to monitor my mental health. When the humour was lacking in the emails, she knew the humour was lacking in her only daughter, her only child – and she would intervene. 

Twenty two years later, I have decided to turn this story into a book.