Antigone rises and holds the envelope against her window. The glass is thick, muffling the noise of Thebes and its war. She reads the invitation again in the moonlight. The envelope is red, or maybe it is green. Someone has been careful with its design. She opens the window and witnesses as best she can. Somewhere beyond the city’s seven gates are her brothers. Somewhere further still, fate. She takes a certain pride in not turning away, but she also fears that it is nothing, the looking.
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by Eman Basher
In my first writing session with Dr. Refaat, I sat there, staring at the blank page. I wrote nothing.
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In the summer of 1989, my mother and I drove to participate in Ayatollah Khomeini’s public funeral. His body was displayed in a refrigerated glass case sitting atop an elevated platform in what was then a vast empty lot, which later became the Imam Khomeini Mosalla Mosque. The heat of that summer day was intense, and the sheer size of the crowd was astonishing.
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