But the Syrians,

The driver didn’t know where he was going. Beirut is like that. The streets wind until only the sun can tell which way is north, south, west. I do know west. It’s towards the Mediterranean. We stopped once, twice, maybe thirteen or fourteen times. I’ve never wished harder that I spoke Arabic or that my phone would find a signal. But then I sat back. The taxi driver had a small wooden cross on a string with wooden beads hanging from the mirror. “I feel safe with him,” my mom said from the seat next to me, “You don’t just display that in this country unless it means something to… Read More

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