When my husband and I first moved to Kuwait, we lived in a fantastic new house located in a Shiite neighborhood.
None of the guys I’d talked to — reckless roughnecks, seasoned veterans who’d ridden out the boom-and-bust cycle before, clean-shaven company men who exuded a corporate coolness — could describe what it was like to approach every day of work not knowing if it’d be your last.
I ran downhill as the wind took up my hair, and I felt, at the last second before it all stopped, only the lightest touch of sneaker to pavement. I was as close to flight as I would ever be.
The Imnaha store is still on the way somewhere; it’s a hard way, but once you’re on it, that’s it.
And as we watch, we cannot help but think in certain moments that we look in a mirror, that we not only watch but are watched and then we simply are.