Radriffa slept sideways on the bed beneath barred windows, the morning light filling the room to wake him gently. His father, Peter Toby, sat beside him listening to the crackle of a handheld radio, taking in the day"s headlines. It was quiet that morning in Monrovia, and I stood in the corner of Toby"s one-room household processing that awkward feeling that comes when you peer into someone"s intimate moments. As a twenty-five year old grad student from the U.S. I felt more than out of … [Read more...]