The Wind Knows My Name by Isabel Allende weaves the threads that unite refugees down the ages

Good literature has an uncanny ability to echo your own life, no matter how different your circumstances. Last week, I was brought to tears watching a video from my homeland, Ukraine. The video is taken by some kids in a train carriage, who are filming their father on the platform. It soon becomes clear that the kids and their mother are leaving towards safety, while their dad stays to fight. The kids are crying with pain. The father, while obviously being torn apart inside, does not — he is completely focused on making his kids feel better. He makes faces and jokes, and then, as the train starts moving, he runs along the platform, waving as they pick up speed. The next day, I started reading The Wind Knows My Name by Chilean author Isabel Allende, and it somehow felt like fate.