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I’m a woman who’s been through terrible trauma I’m a woman whose first husband committed suicide, and whose second husband woke up out of a dead sleep, murdered her son, then killed himself   Kamal woke up, killed Mahmoud, and threw himself off the balcony   Kamal woke up, killed Mahmoud, and threw himself off the balcony Right from the start, from the beginning of the beginning, I never blamed Kamal for killing Mahmoud Kamal is forgiven: he had a whore for a mother and a bastard for a son, and it’s at those two, bastard and whore, that the fingers of blame should be pointed Not at Kamal, who was a victim the same way that I was a victim, and more so The whore mother I’d already killed, but the bastard son, who’d played the lead in Mahmoud’s death, what were we going to do about him?   Justice is that the killer dies, right? That’s what I know That’s what everybody knows, though they might deny it   Hours I spent on Facebook, hunting for Haytham Kamal, trying every play on the name I could think of, until I found him, and sent him a Friend request Then nights, scrolling down his wall I wanted to know what he was doing, where he went Where I could find him, so I could kill him, so I could make the world more beautiful, if only for a while Okay, I was telling myself, I’ll kill him, and I’ll turn myself in to the police, and I’ll go to prison   But as I was hunting Haytham on Facebook, I was also searching on Google, looking up Qanater Prison I wanted to be fully prepared I packed a few changes of clothes and a toothbrush Wasn’t leaving anything to chance   When they took me to prison – when I took myself to prison – I wanted to be ready   I’m a woman who’s taken what people aren’t made to take So what do I do? Die? Can you do that? Suffer all that trauma and just make up your mind to lie down and die? Well, yes, of course you can, but what I’m saying is: that’s not