Catherine Bruton

“Mrs Massoud was always crying – for her son who had been taken by government troops in Damascus, and for her daughter, who had been killed by the bombs shortly after. She told Aya that a mother’s fountain of tears flows forever. But tonight there was also music coming from somewhere down the hall – a man’s voice singing a song in a language that Aya didn’t understand. It made her think of the girls in the dance class. The girl called Dotty who had grinned at her like she was just a normal kid. And Ciara, with the blonde hair and the haughty expression, and the mousey-haired girl – Lilli-Ella – who stuck her tongue out when she was concentrating. Aya’s limbs itched as she remembered. Just thinking about it made her want to dance. “Not really enough room for that kind of thing in here, eh, Moos!”
― Catherine Bruton, No Ballet Shoes in Syria