Most coverage misses the kids who grow up in the echo of bombs, not the blast. They don’t show the taxi driver in Nairobi who can’t sleep past 3 a.m. because that’s when the hotel used to shake. Or the mother in Minneapolis who still checks her son’s backpack for shrapnel, even though he’s in sixth grade now and the war was twenty years ago. Trauma doesn’t clock out. It rides shotgun. It prays in silence between fares.
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