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Northward
y November you already thought of returning, rubbing Vaseline into your palms and the crevices of your cracked heels. No napalm rained down in a foreign land, no birth dates streamed across the screen to push our brothers into war.
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Georgian Roads
After my brother’s ten-minute soliloquy on Karl Popper, I had lost track of his connection with George Soros or Georgia.
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Vignettes from the Hinterlands
On the seventieth anniversary of Ataturk’s death I was in the mountains between Van and Diyarbakir with a baby on my lap and her three year old brother stretched out on the seat behind me while their mother tried to sleep, the silk scarf slipping from her hair.