house without windows

They were all shaken after 9/11 and startled by the angry shouts of strangers at them on the street in the aftermath of the catastrophe. His father rejoiced at the United States' decision to invade Afghanistan, though he had neither the intention nor the hope of ever returning. Only fools run into a burning building, he would say sarcastically. When Youssef was in his first year at NYU, news from Afghanistan was everywhere, to the point of tedium. Afghanistan was suicide attacks, women victims of violence and corruption. In his second year, on an impulse, he enrolled in a human rights class, thinking it was an easy way to boost his GPA. In the second lecture, the flame ignited. A flood of memories from Afghanistan came back to him: the bodies of young children killed working in blacksmith shops, a young journalist slaughtered along with his wife and children, the inhumane conditions in refugee camps, the selling of young girls to pay opium debts, war criminals untouchable by law. How could he turn his back on all of this? There were others who couldn't, others who were brave. Others who carried the cause of the voiceless. Youssef lived and breathed the American dream that one person could make a difference. He was saturated with student union flyers and the optimistic rhetoric of university professors. He attended his first protest and loved chanting with others. He raised his voice. He tasted the struggle, and he liked the anger it stirred in him. Anger is better than fear