The genocide descendant
I was sitting in the front seat of the minibus next to the driver. At another stop a man came in and filled the last space in the row. I needed to be told where exactly I should get off for the Memorial of the Armenian genocide, and I asked my neighbour. He made sure with the driver, then replied to me in English. Just to keep the conversation going, I asked him where he was from. I didn't expect any revealing answer to a routinely enquiry I had made just to pass the time of day, but I was wrong. The man said he was from Syria.