By: Christian N. Desrosiers After hustling myself out of the city center across a handful of muddy fields, I entered a low wooden building where an elderly imam was waiting for me. His beard was dyed orange in the manner of the Prophet, and it stood out strongly against his skin, dark as rich soil. We spoke in low tones. Secrecy was necessary: if we were caught meeting by one of the many informants in his community it would be bad for me and worse for him. He is a member of a group that Refugees International has dubbed "one of the most persecuted groups in the world."