For many years as a kid, I was upset with God. It was something in the way the priest gripped my cheeks each time he would come to bless our home after Christmas or Easter. It was something in the smell of incense that choked my throat when I entered the church. And, although my grandmother tried to build a halo of legends around God with whispered bed-time stories, the continuous gossip of old ladies in the church halls made my skin crawl. I was the constant target of this blabber, as I didn’t use to cover my head and as my 8-year old clothes were ridiculously regarded as too voluptuous. But most of all, I was upset with God because of the war in Yugoslavia. I used to spend several hours looking outside the window at night and imagining fires and violence, until I would eventually fall asleep, tickled by a childish despair and by the smell of dry rags. It was hard for me to believe God had his ways. I blamed Him for indifference and sometimes even for inexistence.
