7 Shindagha: A Short Sojourn In the warmth of a March day in 1948, I sat with my father in our dwelling area, which we called the makhzan. The air was still, with the quiet promise of the day ahead. Suddenly, just before noon, the soft rustle of fabric announced my mother’s presence. She stepped into our space, her voice tinged with urgency and a touch of reverence.
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