Mama rushed into the street and saw my father lying prostrate on the rubble. I was still standing in the shadows, a position that she had taught me to take in this war-torn city, and she swept me up and ran back inside.
Once out of harm"s way, my mother knelt down in front of me and looked directly into my eyes. Hers were filled with tears; mine were dry and I was in shock. Mama told me about my father"s struggle for peace and acceptance, how he had courageously stood up to those who wanted war instead of peace, and how he had preached that Western ways should be left to Western people, just as Eastern people should be allowed to practice Eastern ways.
She wiped the tears from her face with a swipe of her arm, then continued.
“Your father, Ibrahim al Kaatani, was a good man. He was born
