The summons came not in the form of a public announcement, but as a repeated, insistent phrase called out by a boy and then off he went. An invitation he could not refuse. The summons was simple: the men of religion wanted to speak with him. At dusk. In the back tent room of the Quranic school.
Dawud's lips went dry. This was not the hot-tempered brawl of the streets; this was the cold, formal interrogation. These were not just the followers of Sheikh Ibrahim; these were the other imams and teachers of the camp, men of lesser stature but wider learning. Their judgment would be religious, weighted, and much harsher.
He arrived as the last call to prayer faded into the mauve evening. The air inside the tent was thick with the scent of old paper, sandalwood, and beeswax. There were three me
