Our town is midway between nowhere and nothing. It is set on the side of a hill that is not steep enough to be called a hill. The sun bakes it during the day, and the evening wind brings dust and chill to our doors. Our town has existed as long as anyone can remember - rooted here in the same way and size, and with the same bleakness.

Our life was stirred only when an occasional camel caravan passed by, or when the Roman legions moved through on some unknown mission. Birth and death settled in our town and kept the numbers about the same. We all were poor. And our life in poverty was dull - as it was for my father’s father before him.

Our food was slight. Our flocks were fewer than enough. Ours was a routine that was not satisfying, yet did not allow for escape.

Further, my family carried…