“Wait here, I have to get some vegetables
and I will be right back with ice cream for our little Akbar,” that was the
last thing I had said to Salim. Salim had always told me stories of the famous
busy market of Kabul so I had to check it out in action. The July heat and the
market’s crowd had made my blonde hair sweaty under that rug heavy burqa and
Salim’s shinny. Our little Akbar had been overjoyed by the colors of the market
and exotic wooden toys. I had just gone down the street to get vegetables
because I wanted to make a halal dish that I learned form the Internet to impress
my mother-in-law. I had seen them as I was walked up the street slowly and
Salim pointing at me, probably trying to teach Akbar how to say mom in Farsi.
And then BOOM! Suddenly Salim and my Akbar were flying in the air covered in flame.
I had tried to run to them but somebody held me back, shouting, “Madame no… no
safe… Madame no!!”
“Madame. Madame? Madame?” Ali shook me.
“Madame, are you okay?”
The
blast noise was still ringing in my ears, how much I want to cut off my ears to
just make the ringing go away.
“Denise? Denise? Hey you ok?” Now
Ali has called Saif, a friend and a young victim of the war just like me.
“Yes? Sorry…” I replied in a low
tone.
Saif
put his rough hands on my delicate hands and assure me in his newest American
accent, “You don’t say sorry to us or anyone. The American government say
sorry, we will make them pay for what they took from us.”
I first met Salim in the hospital couple
days after the bombing in the market. I was on line for a minor stich and he rushed
into the hospital, drenched in his mother’s blood while carrying her. He was
too young to observe that kind of violence. I would never forget the moment the
doctor declared her dead on the spot because of how much he tried to fight it.
Seeing him drown in his own tears made me think how I had been in the same
situation couple days ago. Somehow, I found myself comforting him in the middle
of a busy hospital hallway.
Suddenly Ali voice faded in, “Madame,
everything is in position, just need your go.”
I can still clearly picture that day,
that very moment that turned me into who I am today. I remember how that very
moment took everything from me.
“…Burn them all….” I said with an
attitude.
Salim had always told me stories about
the famous market of Kabul. It’s fascinating to learn about a new culture; the
only culture I ever learned growing up was that all rednecks care about was
beer, smoke, hunt, and sex. My parents didn’t care much whether I go to school
or end up at the striper club in downtown. The day my drunkard father slapped
me, I made a decision to get the hell out of that sinkhole as far as I can. And
that’s exactly what I did, I made education my top priority and with a little
bit of luck, I was able to attend NYU with almost a full ride. All my efforts
paid off when I met Salim, a shy dork back then, on the fist day of chemistry
101. He was everything I dreamed of and before I know it, I was saying I do at
my wedding or nikkah in Salim’s language. I had everything, but that bomb took
everything away with a blink of an eye.
America will pay for what they did to me.
Seeing my baby and husband get blown up drives me. We were only visiting my
in-laws in Kabul. Yeah there were freedom fighters but what about the majority
of the population? We just want the war to end. We didn’t do anything but
still, my husband and son paid for this bloody war. If there is anything I
learned being a neglected child is that, I have to fight for the things I want.
I want America to feel what I felt. I want them to feel helpless like the way I
felt. I want them know how it feels to see your life get blown up in front of
your eyes. They will know as I bomb places after places. They will see a
mother’s pain and a wife’s heartbreak and all the news channels will be talking
about it.
“It’s done,” Ali interrupted.
“Turn on the TV,” I wanted to see them
suffer.
Slowly, Pat Kiernan’s voice came in,
“…our Vivian is on the scene of the blast right now…”
After a 5 second pause, Vivian Lee showed
up, “Hi, good afternoon. I never thought such thing will happen but today, Times
Square was bombed around 12:30pm and exactly 12 years after 9/11. Police have
not released any statement and the death toll is still not clear as the
firefighters are still rescuing people. Everybody here is just devastated. We’ll
keep on updating you.”
“My heart goes out to all the victims,
it’s truly saddening to see such thing happen. We just received a video from
the scene of the blast. Take a look…”
My heart burst with joy when the video
started with some tourist on the floor crying with her annoying voice. Mission complete, I thought. She was
hugging something, I couldn’t see exactly what, but then I realized she was a
hugging a child.
“Why…
me...?” She screamed.
I could see the two lines on her ash-covered
face, made by her tears. Her eyes red as fire, nose runny as the Nile river, and
her cry as loud as a thunder. When she saw the camera, she flipped.
“Whoever
did this, I know you are watching. What did my son do to you? He is just an
innocent kid. For god’s sake, you don’t even know him!!! If this is your way of
getting your revenge on the American government, then you are some sick,
psychotic bastard! What if some did that to you? How would you feel if someone
bombed your 4 year old in front of your own eyes?” She preached. There was a
long pause before she began. “Oh god… my baby… now what am I going to do… my
poor baby….” She cried in a broken voice.
She
cries like the way I did, she is angered like the way I was, she is broken like
the way I was, and she is lost like the way I was. Oh Allah, what have I done?
