Who knows what darkness lurked in her heart when she strapped on a bomb and blew herself up. The curtain rises: disaster and ruin slither out into the audience, pushing onward into homes and hospital waiting rooms. Then into your bedroom, into your bed.
Filling them with black smoke, with rubble and shattered glass, with frantic firefighters, with civilians huddled at the police line, necks craned. Cries resound: Make way. Amidst the footfalls are screams and wails; the asphalt is littered with body parts, blurred for broadcast.
Only two bombs later do we discover her, the beautiful sister, the pious one, the apple of Papa’s eye. Annisa, our little sister, yours and mine—the reason our faces are spattered with blood, which the water of ablution will not wash away, which demands greater restitution: her two older sisters must look back, must find out where they left her behind. Nana’s prophecy to little Annisa, remember?
Tell me, what kind of bride did you think she’d make? The surviving sisters exchange glances and wonder: if we had known Annisa would wind up here, at this point, this day, maybe we wouldn’t have felt remorse or doubted ourselves. We should have tossed her into the well after all, those many years ago, like Yusuf’s brothers when they betrayed Yusuf.
We should have taken her life before she robbed others of theirs. But who could have foreseen it? Even Nana couldn’t have predicted such a Ramadan, explosions ringing in our ears, flame and burnt flesh searing our eyes.
The stench, alas, can’t be captured on camera. You have to be there, in that city, at the sites of tragedy, for it to drive you mad. This is a tale of three sisters.
Extract — continue reading at the source.
