SCARS OF WAR

Do not speak to me of martyrdom, of men who die to be remembered on some parish day, I don’t believe in dying though, I too shall die. — Sonia Sanchez

The dawn in the Mudug region was crisp, the kind where fog settled low and stubborn, refusing to lift until the sun forced it away. Inside a small aqal, a woman nudged her son awake for Fajr. Outside, the village held its breath. Beaded curtains clattered softly in the breeze, sounding like distant rain, and the bleating of goats marked the thin boundary between night and day.