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Conflict is a Compass

When I was three years old, my biggest frustration was my nine-year-old brother taking my toys or disrupting my ten-minute TV cartoon episode after school. It may seem fickle now, but when you are three-year-old, this is earth-shattering. I was a snitch, so I would run to my mother to tell on him. My mother’s

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Conquered

Gunshots pierced the air, women and children scuttled like roaches across the city streets dodging bullets. An occasional scream of agony as flesh and bone was shattered by flying shrapnel and debris. A woman lay in the middle of the street, one leg was trapped underneath huge concrete debris, and her free leg was broken



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