My father was killed by an Islamic fundamentalist in Cairo, Egypt when he was just 47 years old. It was October 1993, exactly eight months following the first World Trade Center bombing. Terrorism was still a new word — and a new concept — to many Americans, and so my father’s death was featured prominently on the evening news and in the New York Times.
For over 22 years, this has been my story.
I was 19 years old at the time, living 1,500 miles away from my family. I had two roommates and a close group of friends, the majority of whom were as emotionally immature as myself. What does a fellow teenager say when their friend’s father is shot in the head by a madman screaming “Allahu Akbar?” Nobody knew. I didn’t know. And so my grief was compounded by an acute sense of loneliness and shame; shame for having such a tragic story to share, shame for the overwhelming desire to share that story and shame for making others so uncomfortable in the process.
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