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At the Hezbollah Recruiting Station Except for the posters of suicide bombers it could be a pup tent along the highway; the overblown painting of Nasrallah might pass for a kind of Cub Scout leader overseeing the preteenaged boys who hand out leaflets and little candies on the days scores die from a missile that could just as well be a harmless celebration like Eid-al-Fitr or Imam Ali’s birthday. It’s almost nap-time. The shutters, like everyone’s eyes (which, we learn from science, haven’t changed size since childhood), begin closing. Like dawn in the Koran, when light and dark threads become distinguishable, the time between dreams and strong tea becomes an unconscious recollection of the self: first the face, tired of masking true feelings, surrenders. The extremities follow. Across the region millions of husbands and wives make love as children sleep. This is how they were made, these boys; except for the posters above them, images of their future, this is who they remain. 34 You are reading copyrighted material published by Ohio University Press/Swallow Press. Unauthorized posting, copying, or distributing of this work except as permitted under U.S. copyright law is illegal and injures the author and publisher. ...

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