When you are in a cage made of family papers and locked doors, those rights feel like a story told in a language you don't speak. A writ of habeas corpus is meant to ask why you are held, to bring you before the law's own eyes. But here, my uncle's lawyer is a thicker wall than any jail, and the law's eyes seem very far away from our house with the blue tiles. It is my clay that knows real freedom—it answers only to the pressure of my own hands.
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