Ikrām

In the dream I’m running from room to room in a great, sprawling house, opening door after door, ushering my boys in front of me. I have Yusuf in a sling on my back, and I back out of the doors, looking behind, always looking behind. They’re coming, they’re coming, I have to protect my boys, but I can’t run fast enough, carrying the baby, and I have to shield them. There are guns, and I have to stand between my boys and the bullets. Room after room, searching, for what? A hiding place, a refuge, somewhere they won’t think to look. Hide boys, hide in here, how about this cupboard, no, too flimsy, the door swings wide and won’t lock, here, behind this door, or here, a tiny, shadowed loft space.

Hide now! Duck down, pull the door closed. Don’t breathe, don’t make a sound. Still now, please baby, be still, don’t cry, don’t cry, please! Be quiet, be still, don’t let them find us! Don’t let them find us! Don’t let them hurt my babies. The door is wrenched open, light, faces, the jeering laughter of men, and gunshots, loud and hard, shattering the silence. The bullets enter my body as I shield my son, hot, fast passage through skin and flesh, pain chasing the penetration, I’m sorry, boys, I’m sorry, I couldn’t save you, I couldn’t keep you safe.