The Apostate
Nur’aishah Shafiq
ENDING ...
There are great gashes in the world that we love with so much pain.
—Muriel Rukeyser
The room went utterly silent, save for the scratch of pen on paper and the incessant tap-tap-tap of typing. Words hung suspended in the
air, formless without voice. The suspense was straight out of a film
confrontation; you could practically see the camera panning the set,
cutting from one impassive face to the next before zeroing on a young girl
in the background, her wide eyes marring the tableau of otherwise perfect composure. I would’ve savored the drama if I weren’t so disappointed at being part of the scene.
The instigator settled back in his chair, replete at a job well done. Still,
no one spoke. I almost chewed through my cheek to stop myself from laughing hysterically, a reaction that would’ve shattered the unspoken protocol of the meeting. And we couldn’t have that. Decorum is everything at the United Nations.
The silence persisted for enough time to signal an appropriate level of
disapproval, before the facilitator noted down the offending statement for further deliberation. Deliberate when, you ask? Probably in future
negotiations the planet cannot afford. I looked around, even then waiting for someone’s interjection, an exclamation of outrage perhaps towards the words of the Russian delegate—that we shouldn’t consider human
rights and gender when implementing the Paris Agreement. Apparently,
the wellbeing of people, especially women, was an inappropriate point to
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