y　place；　had　it　been　your　father　murdered　like　this。　I　know　this

is　what　you’re　so　craftily　trying　to　do。

Yes；　I　returned　home　in　the　evening　to　discover　that　someone　had　killed　my

father。 Yes； I tore out my hair。 Yes； as I would do in my childhood； I hugged

him with all my might and smelled his skin。 Yes； I trembled and I couldn’t

breathe。 Yes； I begged Allah to raise him up and have him sit silently in his

corner　among　his　books　as　he　always　did。　Get　up；　Father；　get　up；　don’t　die。　His

bloodied　head　was　crushed。　More　than　the　torn　papers　and　books；　more　than

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the　breaking　and　tossing　about　of　the　end　tables；　paint　sets　and　inkpots；　more

than　the　wild　destruction　of　cushions；　worktables　and　writing　boards；　and　the

ransacking　of　everything；　more　even　than　the　anger　that　had　killed　my　father；　I

feared　the　hatred　that　had　destroyed　the　room　and　everything　within　it。　I　was

no longer crying。 A couple passed down the street outside； laughing and

talking in the blackness； meanwhile； I could hear the infinite silence of the

world　in　my　mind；　with　my　hands　I　wiped　my　running　nose　and　the　tears　off

my　cheeks。　For　a　long　long　time　I　thought　about　the　children　and　our　lives。

I listened to the silence。 I ran； I grabbed my father by the ankles and

dragged　him　into　the　hallway。　For　w