Adira al-Qadir (Mother of “Suicide” Victim)--

I asked to see my son. I was given a number.
A ticket with a number, too long down the
line to count the digits. This queue is far
past where his body laid, littered with
bullets they say only grazed him. He
passed out from excitement and they
couldn’t wake him up. They told me he
played too hard in the street, caught a stray
bullet, fell down laughing. Told me the bullets
were fake, he just wished them real.

Yeah, that’s how my baby boy perished. I was told
God had taken my son early, he was an angel
in disguise called up to fulfill a righteous duty.
I requested they keep their story straight.
Amir was not smiling but scowling in the street
where he last would lay his head. I know my son
was thrown, beaten, bloodied. I tingled
with worry when he left saying, “Mommie
I’ll be back. Don’t worry a hair on your head.”
God should have been candy, to make his last
taste a holy one.

by Kayla Reado

 

Untitled by Graça Yaasir

Untitled by Graça Yaasir