I Am Aalyiah

• Sahansa Udawatta, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2020

‘Please, mummy, wake up!’ I clutched her hand. There was no response. I inhaled the scent of her hijab, trying desperately to remember it. That day was the worst day of my life.

It’s been a year and I still can’t sleep. The memories won’t leave. Her eyes. Her pale face. At least my father has stood by and cared for me. He braids my hair, reads the Koran to me every night before bed and does everything mummy used to do.

After returning home from Arabic lessons, I rush upstairs to tidy away my things. I peer out through my window and see lots of people marching. That sure looks like an interesting game. I quickly put my shoes back on and rush downstairs as fast as I can to join them, the winter snow causing my skin to crawl.

I join the line at the back and try my best to play along. My feet just won’t work! I try and try but I can’t play anymore. My legs feel like they are going to fall off! They are all chanting, ‘I grew here, you flew here!’ I try to sing along, but it’s too fast. This game is boring! I see everyone slowly turn before suddenly rushing towards the back of the crowd. I decide to push my way through the mass of adults. That is when I see two big, muscular men punching and kicking each other. My father! My beloved father! A man, with a strange collection of stars painted on his shoulder, pulls out a blade and stabs him in the leg. He falls backwards, collapsing onto the cold hard bitumen. Within mere seconds the police intervene, breaking the two men apart. I see the man I had been walking beside all afternoon pat the meanie on his back.

‘Congratulations,’ he praises the nasty man.

My dad attempts to stand up, but he falls backwards on to the bitumen. I rush to him, embrace him and hold him with dear life. This seems all too familiar, the image of my mother returns to my mind. I can’t believe this is happening to my father. He doesn’t deserve this. He has done so much for me.

Everyone’s crowding around trying to see what has happened. I stand behind him, trying to protect him from the bad men.

‘Bin Laden! Bin Laden! Bin Laden!’ they scream, pointing at us.

‘What is Bin Laden?’ I yell over the chanting.

The chanting stops.

‘You!’

‘No, it’s not! I am Aaliyah! And this is my dad, Abdul.’