Amina Ali Ibrahim had spent her childhood in an orphanage, situated in Sana’a, the capital of Yemen. She’d come to Yemen as a refugee during the Iraq war and had spent a life of depravation, bargaining and struggling for even the most basic assets of day-to-day life. It seemed as if despondency and misery were etched on her palms and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t liberate herself of the shackles of her wretched fate.
She’d spent her initial years in a refugee camp. Her life was overshadowed by unrelenting shades of incertitude and ambiguity, a future canopied by the reminiscence of a traumatic past. She’d learnt to camouflage her reservations and apprehensions in the garb of her reticent personality. She’d drawn a conclusion from her past experiences – there wasn’t anything like a God, or a supernatural entity. If there would’ve been one, He would’ve surely sought out a way for her from this dreadful predicament. She’d realized that prayers and prostrations were an encumbrance, intentionally levied on our conscience by the society.
All she longed for was a home.
The sorrowful events of her past life had had a telling effect on her personality. As the spokes of time gathered momentum, she adorned her personality with artfulness and adroitness – traits which helped her get along comfortably in this harsh world.
However, everything changed when she met Salman. He instilled elegance in every common thing and divinity in every lackadaisical gesture. Whenever he was with her, she could afford to be totally herself, momentarily relieving herself of the façade that she’d employed everyday for the past twenty years. After all that she’d been through in her life, she was a tad reluctant to respond to Salman’s advancements. However, Salman’s proposal proved to be the last nail in the coffin, thereby rescuing her from the dungeons of her self-imposed exile.
Finally, it seemed as if lady luck had decided to shower her grace upon her. She was married, and just a couple of months ago, she’d been blessed with a lovely daughter.
“Maybe, there is a higher power somewhere, plotting the coordinates of our destiny,” she mumbled to herself. She wasn’t a theist yet, but had certainly upgraded herself to the level of an agnostic. Life seemed to be so perfect, until…
Their neighbors yelled out to her husband, “You have to leave. They are coming”.
They just ran. As soon as they left their home, the first missile, fell right by it, and then a second, on it, thereby burning everything to ashes. Amina stood there, utterly distraught. Life just doesn’t care about our aspirations, or sadness. It’s often random, and it’s often stupid and it’s often completely unexpected, and the closures and the epiphanies and revelations we end up receiving from life, begrudgingly, rarely turn out to be the ones we thought. The missile had not only razed her home, but also devastated all her aspirations and yearnings of a bright future.
There was no home.
There was no God.
She was a refugee once again.
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