On Anger, Grief and Loss

“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 …