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My father was thinking of ways to skip school when his house was bombed. "It was a woman with a fruit basket trying to kill the group of officers having breakfast downstairs," he told me. I thought you knew everyone in your village. Who was it? He was too slow to answer. I ran through all of the nameless women in the extraordinary stories he would tell me throughout my childhood. He patiently said no to all of them. "It was too chaotic. The blood, the smoke, broken dishes everywhere. I ran to find my parents. She disappeared before anyone could find her."
After he told me the story of the bomber, I pestered him for days after, at times with unintentional insensitivity. Yeah, but what was she wearing? Did anyone survive and tell you what she looked like? Did she hide her Northern accent? She didn't have a gun, right? That would be too obvious.
He...