Letter to a Future Home

Scoil Dara

Mountjoy Prison,

Dublin

Is it right if you know no other way? Is it right if you were raised that way? Is it a crime if you didn’t know? I walk into Duty Free, wondering if my actions are correct. If the content of my bag should be the reason all these mothers, fathers, grandparents, sons, and daughters cease to exist. I see a man in his late 40s, sandy hair and a long trench coat helping his 10-year-old son to unwrap his lollipop and I wonder if how my father packed the bomb this morning was the same? Was is the same nurturing love that this son and father displayed that me and my father have? “All you have to do is put the backpack down and press the red button it won’t be hard”. Shaking, I wonder if he’s right. “I mean he is my father who ever heard of a father being wrong”. I look around the ceiling is domed higher than any cathedral and made of the most beautiful glass. The people flooded like a river, never stopping but rather dancing around any obstacles. I can fondly hear the soft music playing in the background as if there’s order in this chaos. I breathe a quick gasp remembering why I am here. I finally reach the center of the shop, the place where if I set the bomb off will have the deadliest affects. I carefully slide the bag of my back. Carefully start unzipping my bag. My heart is beating fast. Palms are sweating. All I have to do is press the large red button. Taking a gulp, I lean forward holding up my index finger. I’m getting closer just five more millimeters. Suddenly, I am tackled to the ground and am cuffed I look up and I see the same man with the trench coat. I start hearing sirens and a swat team swarms in. Running towards the direction of my backpack. One of them carefully takes the bomb out. His hands shaking. Everyone is holding their breathe. He takes out pliers from his pocket, and carefully snaps the blue cord. Nothing happens. Everyone cheers but then see me. “He’s just a child, a child”. I hear nearly everyone say with a look of absolute horror and shock. It has been a few months since then. My father is nowhere to be found. I am sentenced to do 19 years, as the judge says I am too young and innocent to serve any more years. The judge wasn’t a bad person. She told me it wasn’t my fault I was raised this way not my fault I was a “child suicide bomber”. She gave me the advice. The advice to write a letter. To write a letter to my future home and family.

So, this is my letter and story.

I will now and forever be known as prisoner 45729 but also, I will for once have a home to call my own.