The colours bounced off the glass window, as if they were howling words of comfort to us all. As though we, the mourners of our country, the mourners of our people, the mourners of our culture were too livid to perceive the rich faith within these walls. I was conflicted between worshipping the God that these dear souls had returned to, and between permitting my utter indignation to colonise my entire soul. However, I was commandeered by one single thought “If my nation was a casualty to a foreign occupation, how could I allow my soul to become a casualty?” My thought was interrupted by the priest, who in his best efforts talked through the protesting, which was indeed captivating our attention away from the funeral. “Blessed are those who die in the lord, let them rest from their labours, for their good deeds go with them” the priest proclaimed with a shaky tone. I could sense his awakening, that in fact not only has our land, traditions, and homes been occupied but our souls have been usurped with resentment, we can’t celebrate the lives these people lived without wrath entering our minds. How coincidental, our motherland and mother tongue have been imperialised and yet we forget the values and principles of each of our martyrs. We have inevitably fallen subject to our oppressors.
يتأمل النصّ المصادفة المؤلمة في أن احتلال الوطن واللغة الأم ترافق مع احتلال الروح بالغضب والاستياء.
وأثناء الحداد، يدرك الراوي أن هذا الاستعمار الداخلي يعكس الاستعمار الخارجي، فيُنسي الناس إيمانهم وقيمهم ومعنى التضحية الحقيقية.
