By Mazen Maarouf and translated from the arabic by lina mounzer We never suspected that the Lion Cub was not, in fact, a lion cub until his bicycle was stolen. He made no attempt to get it back. He only shot a few rounds into the air from his bedroom window, then lay down on the sponge mattress on the ground, tears dripping from his wide-open eyes, staring at the ceiling, longing intensely for his mother. His gun lay by his side. . The bicycle had been a gift from his mother. But we’d only ever seen him riding it a few times.