He indicated a solitary rose drooping against a cracked wall in which curious lizards cocked their heads, and then he swept his arms encompassing everything around us.
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“God bless the Free Syrian Army!” a boy cries on an overcast, frigid February afternoon, his breath as gray as his surroundings, “God bless the Free Syrian Army!”
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When he started walking, he would throw himself against walls.
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As the Jeeps rush down the highway, the old man, 73-year-old artist Alvaro Enciso, asks Alicia the names of the dead migrants.
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The cop climbs in the back seat and introduces himself, Naim. Like many Afghans he has just one name.
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