Word: feets
(lookup in dictionary)
(lookup stats)
Dates: all
Sort By: most recent first
(reverse)
...would she go to defend this principle? I never get an answer. Hassan looks out the window. Government rangers, a kind of paramilitary force, are trying to cordon off the madrasah complex with razor wire. The male students are fighting them off. "Emergency!" Hassan declares, and leaps to her feet. The teacher's lounge, a room of brightly dressed women, is doused in black as students and teachers don dark floor-length robes and headscarves that show only their eyes. Stout bamboo staves appear out of nowhere. A Sten gun flashes from beneath Hassan's robe...
...panicking black robes. More explosions, more tear gas. And the gunshots begin. First from the mosque, then in retaliation from the rangers. We are caught in a narrow corridor, bullets slicing through the thick smoke on either side of us. Another canister of tear gas rolls past my feet, spewing cottony clouds that claw at my eyes and tear at my lungs. My sweat, picking up gas particles clinging to my clothes, burns my skin. Someone from the second floor above the gate pours a bucket of water on us. Blissful reprieve, even if it lasts only a few seconds...
...terrible fate, to go from being a cherished companion to an irritant, an empty space on this year's Christmas card, just because Cullen had a child. Although I find it difficult to compare the love of a child with that of a pet, dogs won't stamp their feet in the supermarket or come home with tattoos...
Outside, male students are battling the rangers. "Emergency!" the seminary's headmistress, Umma Hassan, declares, and she leaps to her feet. Students and teachers don battle gear over their tunics and pants: dark, floor-length robes and headscarves that show only their eyes. Stout bamboo staffs appear out of nowhere. A Sten gun flashes from beneath Hassan's robe...
...panicking black robes. More explosions, more tear gas. And then gunshots--first from the mosque, then in retaliation from the rangers. We are caught in a narrow corridor, bullets slicing through the thick smoke on either side of us. A canister of tear gas rolls past my feet, spewing cottony clouds that claw at my eyes and tear at my lungs. Someone from the second floor above the gate pours a bucket of water on us. Blissful reprieve, if just for a few seconds. Coughing, choking, we scrabble at the front door, battling to get through the narrow passageway, back...