Literature offers us many answers to the dilemma of victorious warriors: the lucky, like Achilles, die; the unlucky, like Paul Atreides, go quite mad. Agamemnon is murdered, Odysseus turns feral; this is the way the world ends, never all at once.
I, too, am a native. Saying this aloud, a mere whisper lost to the the deep night, is terrifying. The quick phrase feels like the slow stripping of all agency, a rape of my right to speak of the world and its concerns, forced to leave them to ‘better men’. To be native is to…