In a small apartment outside Minneapolis, I’m watching two brown-haired brothers, ages 7 and 9, on a couch playing chess. They’re speaking Arabic sprinkled with English. They stare intently at the board, their little brows furrowed.
After a stretch of silence, the older boy moves one of his pieces. “Check,” he announces with confidence.
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Maybe such children in such camps should be adopted by Kurds, Copts, and/or lesbian feminists.
