It’s a simple life
So I find myself sitting at midnight with eight other middle aged men, minimal shared spoken language dialogue, conversing for a couple of hours. There are no family members, they have all been moved out of Darkoush and are either in the refugee camps or in neighboring Turkey. The interactions are all animated, the laughter following a successful mime is infectious. The ‘chai’ (Arabic sweet tea) flows constantly, the air thick with smoke. No bombs were heard. For a couple of hours of everyone in the room indulged in an escapism and thought of things other than the war (or revolution as is the PC term here).
Jet fuel being prepared in the morning