Many things now make him cry – talk of his absent family, the son trapped in Damascus, his former life, his future. He’s saved a few photos. One shows him in a jaunty pose of officialdom, tie askew. It was taken six years ago. Mr. Sharbaji looks decades younger. He would like to sing for us, but first he has to find his teeth.
“I don’t miss the money,” he says. “I miss happiness. Happiness is food for the soul.”
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