Vision in Red by Sajjad Rasool - HTML preview

Vision in Red

He would say these things because they were true, and because truth was sometimes easier than whatever came after it.

In the living room, Noor was having a tea party with her dolls. Amal could hear her small voice assigning roles and dialogues, the imaginary world she had constructed complete with guests and snacks and social rules that only she understood. It was such a normal sound. Such a normal evening. The smell of lentils on the stove, the murmur of her husband reviewing patient files, the soft babble of child's play drifting from the next room.

But the drawings were still on the counter. And the folded paper was still in her pocket. And somewhere inside her, a door had been opened that she did not know how to close.

A sound from the television caught her attention —the beginning of the evening news, the familiar jingle followed by the anchor's practiced voice.

"...authorities are investigating an incident that occurred early this morning on the northern road. A vehicle carrying a family of five came under fire near the Al-Mufakar checkpoint. According to initial reports, the father was killed at the scene. The mother and three children were transported to Al-Shifa Hospital, where two of the children were pronounced dead on arrival. The third, a girl aged approximately six years, remains in critical condition."

Amal's stirring stopped.

"Witnesses describe seeing the vehicle stopped at the side of the road for approximately twenty minutes before the shooting began. The family was reportedly attempting to evacuate to a safer area after their neighborhood was designated a closed military zone. Military officials have stated they are looking into the incident but have provided no further comment."

The image on screen showed a road Amal did not recognize—dusty, lined with bare trees, a stretch of asphalt that could have been anywhere in Falestinam. In the center of the frame was a vehicle. Gray. Boxy. Ordinary.

The windshield was shattered. The side panels were riddled with holes too numerous to count. And hanging from the rear window—

Amal turned off the television.

Behind her, she heard Noor's voice, thin and high and suddenly present.

"That was the car, Mama."

Amal spun around. Noor was standing in the kitchen doorway, her doll dangling from one hand, her face pale in the artificial light.

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