While Baghdad echoed with shrieks of holy war, the evening in Amman was soft, the wind carrying the scent of dust and jasmine instead of smoke. In the enormous Baqa'a refugee camp, the mood was unlike that, a current of subdued, fervent hope that contrasted with the fervent condemnations emanating from the north.
It began with a single candle.
A woman whose daughter had been dying of a liver disease of birth, a death sentence in a land with no doctors, lit a small wax candle outside her makeshift hut. She placed it alongside a neatly torn, folded newspaper picture—the same fuzzy picture of Dawud from the riot at Khan el-Khalili, his face half-obscured, his hand raised. To her, it was not a picture of a suspect; it was an icon.
Her daughter, healthy and well, her skin no longer jaundiced
