Dear Reader
In northwestern Somalia I met men whose muscles wrapped around their bones like thin and delicate vines. They ate little — when I was invited into their homes, they offered me a bowl of rice and a glass of milk for dinner — but they worked hard and for long hours. They were bricklayers working for under a dollar an hour. With this pitiful income, they somehow managed to maintain enormous families.
During Ramadan the bricklayers fast. They would go the entire day without a drop of water, a feat that vexes the imagination. When I stopped by their work site, looking for something to do, they told me to help transport concrete blocks. Each one weighed about 14kg, and I started off carrying two balanced on my forearms, eager to prove that I was as hardy as any of them, but after nine or ten trips my arms felt like twigs ready to snap. I started taking just one at a time, which I managed for about half an hour before retreating into the shade of a gnarled tree — all that on a full stomach, too. Meanwhile, the men continued to shuttle blocks back and forth. I wondered whether fasting put God on their side, lightening the load, and I considered skipping lunch.
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April-June 2016 (74)
 
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