I don’t remember my feet even touching the ground as Father clutched my hand and dragged me along. I could hear the soldiers behind us, their heavy footsteps growing louder. Not far from our house stood an old mosque. It had always been there, as long as I could remember, but I never paid much attention to it. Sometimes I saw the old man who was the caretaker tending the garden. He always wore a fez and a tired but pleasant smile on his face.