In the rugged foothills of the Zagros Mountains, where the wind carries the scent of wild thyme and ancient stone, there lived an old shepherd named Mala Azad. He was a man of few words, but his eyes held the depth of the valleys he had traversed for seventy years.
Azad smiled, his face a map of deep-etched wrinkles. "Listen closely, Rebin. Have you heard the saying, 'Hatin Ref Bi Ref Kurdish' ?" Hatin Ref Bi Ref Kurdish
The boy shook his head. "The Kurds come flock by flock? What does that mean? Like sheep?" In the rugged foothills of the Zagros Mountains,