I haven’t thought about her for so long that I have forgotten everything. I don’t remember her last words. She and her husband Ali came to see us for good-bye. They told us that they were moving and that no one would know their address. They were going in hiding. I never saw them again after that. Ali was the first to die. I cried so much for him; I was going insane.
Do you remember her face Maman?
Sometimes I see women who look like her and I picture her in my head. She had beautiful, thin brows. And her hair; it was smooth, black and silky.
Do you remember her last words?
No. I don’t remember. I never thought of her again. For years I worked hard to forget what happened. I erased memories and thoughts and events until there were only pieces left. And now that I try to put them back together, the pieces don’t quit fit anymore. It’s like dropping a jar full of pebbles into the sand, then watching them disperse either underneath the sand or into the ocean. It’s like losing a part of you, a part of your heart, a part of your soul. She was a part of me. We were always together ever since we were little girls. She was the trouble-maker, the rebel, not wearing her scarf properly, her bangs always showing, never wearing dresses or skirts. She and Ali could have had a normal life, with a big house and children. But they had different motives. They had another purpose in life. She didn’t want to be a mother or a housewife. She was Mina and I loved her a lot. And now I don’t remember anymore. I just remember knowing that she was gone. Yes, she was gone.