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It all began 50 years ago in 2003. I do not remember it. How could I? I was a baby at the time. Only my mother's tears come back to me. As I grew up, she showed me the photos. A man looking out from a dozen different war torn cities. Serious, handsome, my father. "They killed him," she said. "He was just a reporter trying to tell the truth. Do dead bodies and crying children lie? Yet they bombed his office." I walked out onto the roof terrace. The call to prayer echoed over the city. The smell of fruits and spices drifted up from the market stalls. The heat was fierce. I took the battered letter from my pocket. "My clever, beautiful daughter, I tried to give you the love and security that was so lacking in these terrible times. Your father loved you too but he was never able to see what you have become. Never forget, never forgive" Could I forget? I could not. As the faithful knelt in prayer towards Mecca, I turned towards that other continent, powerful and cruel that had lost its way: the continent that had become a prison, even to its own people. Would I forgive? I made my way inside and down into the assembly room to the announcement: "Fraternal delegates, please welcome, Secretary General of the Union of Nations, Saida al-Rawi." "Delegates, friends," I said. "It is time to deal with our most intractable problem. America." |