Little did I know that Istanbul would erupt just a few short days after we landed in Atatürk Airport, and that my hunger for novel-writing would be replaced by a passion to play witness to the Turkish scene.
The Call by Pamela Brown-Peterside
The newborn I was looking for was asleep in the arms of her father, an older man, lean with well carved biceps. Worry spills out of the hollow of his eyes. She was barely visible, hidden in the folds of a new kitengye. Her mother wasn’t well enough to begin breastfeeding. On pediatric rounds yesterday, Jennifer provided boxed milk for the baby, whom they have named Nightie.
