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‘It Is Never Over, Never Escaped’
For years, only news from Kashmir could stir my nightmares of childhood terror. Then came Mumbai.
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I am 11 years old. I am panting as I run alongside my parents through the dark, narrow, deserted lanes of my town in Kashmir. The carved-deodar windows and doors of the gable-roofed row houses on each side of the alley are shut. The thunder of the bombs is getting louder. The smoke of the gunfire is clouding my sight. The ground beneath my feet turns into a treadmill. The bang of explosions begins to wane, and we find ourselves at the steps of our home.
I cling to my mother's cold hand and watch my father wiping the sweat on his face with the sleeve of his pheran. The baby in his arms is sleeping peacefully. I pull open the heavy door with my little hands, but suddenly the sound of militants screaming for blood descends from the house. "Run, Daddy, run! You must save the child!" I slam the door against an insurmountable force.
I look at my father's face. He is torn and mute. The gunmen encircle us and invoke their gods and prophets raucously.
I whimpered and awoke.
I was in my bed in my New York apartment. My husband was kneeling next to me, reassuring me that I was no longer in Kashmir. It was only a nightmare. For once he did not complain that I was reading too much about Kashmir—the cause, he's said in the past, of my recurring nightmares. But this time, with the Mumbai terrorist attacks fresh in our minds, he didn't say anything.
For those who have lived through religious terror, it is never over, never escaped. It did not end with my displacement from Kashmir 18 years ago. It did not end with my migration to the States two and a half years ago. Terror, once experienced, transcends all real and unreal boundaries.
So even though I was not in Mumbai, I remain a hostage to the memories of jihadist terror. My nightmare traversed oceans and continents and returned as a lump in my throat three days after the Mumbai attacks. The violence there took me back to the first page, reanimating every memory that had been dormant, hidden by the euphoria of a normal life.
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