One child's story

I had to post this because it touched me so. I read this lady's blog on a regular basis. She is married to a Saudi national. I thought it very brave and touching to post:

She was my best friend. On the warm summer days of our childhood we could be found fishing in the small creek that ran by her house, laughing and splashing and wondering why we could not catch anything. She was my enemy. We were in constant competition to see who could run the swiftest and the fastest, grunting and sweating to see who could reach the predetermined finish line first, falling at the end and trying to catch our breath together. But neither of us ever really won; we seemed to take turns each new race. We were young, we were free, and we were innocent to all the evil of the world.In elementary school we were considered tomboys, always the first outside for recess, running around the schoolyard and playing football with the boys while most of the other girls played on the merry-go-round or jumped rope. We were a team in ourselves, conspiring to outsmart any boy who dared insult us, and rarely did we fail. During the school day we were always getting into trouble for one thing or another, little mischievous deeds that amounted to nothing, and our punishment was consistently "the wall." During our precious recesses we spent a great deal of time facing the outside wall of the school building, our noses stuck in an entity of bricks, our backs facing our classmates who could be heard laughing and screaming in the still quiet of the country.We reached middle school after what seemed an eternity of elementary and were separated to different classes, however we spent a great deal of time together playing trumpet, competing - naturally - to see who could play the highest note. We walked in the halls together, giggling and snickering when a "cute" boy walked by, and we stood up for each other on the bus when trouble arose with our male rivals.On a cold, wet day in October, Kari did not get on the bus. Her house, a converted one room school, looked quiet and lonely as the bus continued on without her. I thought nothing of her absence as she often stayed home to tend to her sick mother. The bus ride was quiet and I kept to myself, watching the raindrops trickle down the window into a stream of water...I got off the bus and ran through the rain to get into school. As I opened the door a surge of sadness filled my entire body, and I curiously glanced at the teachers standing in a group, with solemn faces and regret-filled eyes. They occasionally glanced at the students, and then a classmate came to me and told me that Kari, her sister and her mother had been killed. The blood rushed to my face and I yelled at her to shut up, I did not believe it. I stood there alone and numb, searching for answers in strangers' faces. I still would not believe it.After what seemed an eternity we were told to go to our first class. I walked slowly, carefully, afraid that at any moment I might fall from the weakness in my legs.Our teacher, a kind older lady, walked into the room suddenly darkening the brightness of the yellow walls and carpet. She cautiously made her way to the desk and looked up at us, then gently, she told us that there had been a tragedy and that Kari would not be returning to school. Her father had killed her. All I could think was that it was a mistake, at any minute Kari would walk into the room and relieve us with her bright, beautiful smile and sparkling eyes. I stared at the door as I listened to the murmur of my classmates, but I did not make out what they said, I could hear nothing, I could see nothing, I could feel nothing.Everything blurred together that day, and at some point the teachers allowed us to take a break and go out into the hall. I found a group of my closest and oldest friends, and we stood in a circle and held each other, crying.I still do not believe it.

To read please go to this link: http://qismah.blogspot.com/2007_01_01_archive.html