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80 And So It Goes . . . In the dusty market beneath makeshift canopies, bodies captive in Baghdad’s summer heat, she tugs on her mother’s chador, holds up a copper coin in her tiny palm, asks where to buy bombs to attack the Americans. My child cousin often marched around the round mahogany table, fist punching air, chanting: Marg bar Shah. Death to the Shah. Months later, the Shah fled Iran. Drought-empowered beetles, hungry, killed countless old pines in San Bernardino mountains. Then came the fire, ruthless, sweeping . . . ...

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