He walked through the door of the high roof of our meeting place which overlooked tens of lighted crosses across the Ainkawa Quarter. I could make out a star-spangled bandanna which bore an American bald eagle, its wings spread from ear to ear, protecting a freshly shaven head. The shininess of the scalp reflected some of the full moon light, glowing around the base of his durag.
He carried a long black object over his shoulder. Through the midnight darkness, it appeared narrow and menacing. As he drew closer, the AK-47 metamorphosed into a guitar. In his right hand was a black plastic bag which rang like dampened church bells, the sound of glass bottles full of Heineken as he swaggered over to our table at the edge of the rooftop.
“I can’t sleep at night if I don’t listen to music. I’m not scared if I’m dead. I’m scared that I don’t have a brother who can work to take care of my family."
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