15 292
15
men don’t cry
Tuesday 11th September
2001, to be precise. I was
sixteen with a layer of fluff
above my lips. I remember
that I’d wanted to shave that
morning and then, in the end,
I’d decided to wait a while
longer before becoming a
man.
The whole world was in a
state of shock, and so were
we. Far away from New York,
another dramatic scene
was being enacted, a large-
scale catastrophe, a sort of
attack on family life. Playing
the part of the twin towers:
my two parents, seemingly
indestructible. Playing the
part of the nineteen terrorists:
Dounia.
She had packed her bags.
Outside, in front of the house,
was a car with its engine
running and the boot open.
I peeked through the living
room curtains.
In the driver’s seat sat some
kind of hotshot lawyer. He
wore an enormous watch,
which hung off his hairy skinny
wrist and could have told the
time all the way to the other
end of the street. On his
nose, a pair of sunglasses only
meant for skiing. I thought he
looked ridiculous, but it was
disconcerting because he kept
glancing in my direction and I
had no way of telling whether
he could see that I could see
him. By way of a reply, he
waved at me. I closed the
curtain hastily.
“At least he understands me.
You don’t understand me, and
you never will.”
Dounia’s shrill voice rang out in
the hallway while my mother’s
hand gestures betrayed her
sense of powerlessness.
Mina was so jittery that her
lips were trembling.