Basima sat in the corner, looking out the window at kids playing in the street. A father tossed a softball and laughed. Her tea was growing cold.

It was evening time, and soon supper would be made. A bowl of rice with aromatic yellow curry served over it, cucumber salad with plain yogurt dressing, bread she had made earlier that day. The meal was for her children; she only ate a spoonful of curry, nibbled on pita. Salman’s chair was empty.

Sitting there watching men be clowns for their kids’ entertainment, anger came to her thoughts. Basima was no longer sad. A hate had set in. A hate that prayer would not take away. A type of madness consumed her. This rage, she pondered. Will it ever end?

She sipped cold tea, stood up, and walked over to the clay pot on the stove. Stirring the curry, she remembered her husband’s appetite. He was always ravenous, ate constantly. At nighttime, he would rummage through the refrigerator looking for food, leaving Basima in bed as she heard him move bowls of that night’s meal around; taking out pots of cooked lamb, lentils, dipping bread into the rich spicy foods, eating them cold, smiling the whole time. She quietly laughed; pleased that she had made her husband happy.

Taking a piece of bread, she dipped it into the yellow sauce, slurped it, and waited for her children to come to the table. The meal was ready.

Basima turned off the gas flame and placed the bowls and clay pot on the table. She spooned food onto her children’s plates and called for them. They marched to the table, single file, laughing, mocking soldiers. Prayers were lifted up. God is good. That’s what she was always taught. Basima was beginning to doubt that.