“Babak layrehmou”. The doctor announced my father’s
death to me, in two cold words that cut through my
guts like a sharp knife. I laughed. I laughed so hard
that I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t even bring myself to
collect my mother who had collapsed onto the cold
floor of this big, overcrowded, ugly hospital in Rabat.
And after the laughter was over, I was angry. I am still
angry. I am spiteful, full of rage, and filled with this
visceral urge to punch, yell, hurt, and …
