"19, 19 had died in that bombing. 17 of them were adults, probably parents. 17 parents had been blown into bits, ripped apart, piece by piece, mutilated like some insignificant lifeless toy, like my glass box. And something had whispered in my mind then, “Only 19?”
I threw up.
It had taken them thirteen hours to piece my mother together."
Have you ever wondered, when you look at where you stand, how exactly it is you got there, as if it were impossible for you to trace your own steps? How you ever felt, while you stare out a window, as if everything beyond was completely unfamiliar, no matter how many times you might have witnessed it before? Have you ever pondered, as you examine your own partial reflection in the glass, who it is staring back at you, as if you’ve never known that person to begin with?
It is not like I had once never imagined who I’d be, where I’d be or what I’d become. It is just that now that I am here, ten years past, nothing is like I ever thought, or could ever think it would be.
Standing behind glass had once been my protection. It’s funny how they had once thought, how I had once believed that would somehow shield me, us, from the brutality and suffering we felt defined everything without. Had we forgotten, or had we simple not known then, that seeing that pain and misery we cringed about could never protect us from feeling it? Or had it never occurred to us that the venom we wished to escape couldn’t somehow creep through the glass and find its way into our souls as the very apathy that allowed us to witness it all unfold each day as nothing but hopeless bystanders?
Bricks lie where swirls of dust storms had once danced. Gravel covers the earth that crumbles of rock, debris and destruction had long claimed. Concrete sediments over footsteps that had once trodden the path, usually as they scrambled away, far far away from here.
Now, new ones cover it instead- fresh, firm and determined. They move in the opposite direction, in singles and pairs, no match for the droves that once preceded them. Yet progress is slow, if not painful, but as they cast a sideways glance at the window through which I see them, and we share a split-second’s smile of true, pure relish- we both know then, that no matter what lies ahead- no one shall ever have to scale those mountains alone again.
I threw up.
It had taken them thirteen hours to piece my mother together."
It is not like I had once never imagined who I’d be, where I’d be or what I’d become. It is just that now that I am here, ten years past, nothing is like I ever thought, or could ever think it would be.
Standing behind glass had once been my protection. It’s funny how they had once thought, how I had once believed that would somehow shield me, us, from the brutality and suffering we felt defined everything without. Had we forgotten, or had we simple not known then, that seeing that pain and misery we cringed about could never protect us from feeling it? Or had it never occurred to us that the venom we wished to escape couldn’t somehow creep through the glass and find its way into our souls as the very apathy that allowed us to witness it all unfold each day as nothing but hopeless bystanders?
Bricks lie where swirls of dust storms had once danced. Gravel covers the earth that crumbles of rock, debris and destruction had long claimed. Concrete sediments over footsteps that had once trodden the path, usually as they scrambled away, far far away from here.
Now, new ones cover it instead- fresh, firm and determined. They move in the opposite direction, in singles and pairs, no match for the droves that once preceded them. Yet progress is slow, if not painful, but as they cast a sideways glance at the window through which I see them, and we share a split-second’s smile of true, pure relish- we both know then, that no matter what lies ahead- no one shall ever have to scale those mountains alone again.
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| Banksy's iconic 'Balloon Girl', one among a series of wall paintings to adorn several streets of London since 2002 |
-concluded-
Bushra Ali
Bushra Ali
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