He narks in my ear all day, moaning about his problems.

Siege, jacques, bogard, or draught, latrina.

Spending hours in a “stink" morgue, being called “Taliban”, thinking of getting shot in the head by officers—memories of Venezuela that have left Hamza Mohammed, imam of the Montrose mosque, still trembling today.

I never cared about the Union. Nor the South, neither, if you want to know the truth of it. I just wanted to get off the farm, and I had me a gaysome time of it. …