It was a Friday night in June 2020.
I had just got home from dropping my family,
to the station.
There was my wife Charlene, my daughter Emily,
and her boyfriend John.
They’d asked me twice to come,
to a play with dancing and songs,
but I chose to stay at home.

I hadn’t been too impressed with Emily’s choice of man
I thought that John was a lazy, lay-about stoner
with no plans.
But when I drove away they all smiled and waved,
my wife blew me a kiss.
John held Em round the waist,
a beaming smile lit her face,
a face of bliss.

I had been looking forward to a quiet night in with my
guitar.
But got distracted by TV, some nature documentary,
didn’t get far into it.
My phone began to ring, a call from my manager:
“James have you seen the news?
Are your family with you?
Didn’t you say, they’d be watching that play?
Jihadists have struck again”.

I reach for the control,
switch on the news and feel my body collapse.
It’s where they’re at.
Under attack.
“I’ll call you back”.

Over a hundred hostages.
Already twelve confirmed dead.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

I look at my phone. Should I call or leave alone?
I shouldn’t ring; they might be hiding.

Overcome with panic and fear.
What I should be doing next isn’t clear.
What should I do? What should I do?

My mobile rings again. It’s Charlene’s parents.
I can hardly take in what her mother is saying.

She tried to call Charlene. And she tried to call Emily.
Neither of them are answering.

“Don’t worry Helen. Their phones must be on silent.
Let’s keep the lines clear in case they try to call”.

I send Charlene and Emily a text. “Are you all ok?
Let me know straight away!!!”

The anchor get some breaking news.
They send in an armed police crew.
But soon after, the terrorists blew themselves away.

The news reader’s eyes are red.
She says that there are dozens dead.
Survivors report the attackers shouted “Allahu Ackbar”

They executed indiscriminately.
Point blank shots to the head.
Initial reports are over ninety dead.

Are my family some of them?
I tell myself to stop panicking.
But it’s all over now, why the hell haven’t they called?

I grab my keys and jump into my car.
I tell myself they must be busy helping the injured.

I leave them more voicemails,
as I speed back into town:
“Be safe wherever you are;
I’m coming to find you now”.

Is the writing on the wall? Is the writing on the wall?
It seems more certain with every minute that they don’t call.

Please… Be alright. Please… Don’t be hurt.
Please… Be alright. Please… Don’t be hurt.

On the radio, they interview a survivor.
She saw a young man shot in the head.

He was standing over, an injured young blonde girl,
trying to shield her from the fire.
And then they shot the girl as well.

I listen in horror. I listen in disbelief.
She could be describing John and Emily.

Please… Be alright. Please… Don’t be hurt.
Please… Be alright. Please, please don’t be hurt.

I head out to the nearest hospital,
that’s where the injured have gone.
I walk into a room of weeping and worried faces.

Eventually, someone comes to take my details.
Another couple overhear my words.
It’s John’s parents, they haven’t heard from him either.
That was the moment I broke down.
That was the moment I broke down.

When I came up for air from that emotional tsunami
I gave police detailed descriptions of
Charlene and Emily

There were dozens of bodies, yet to be identified.
Bodies ripped to shreds when the
bombers committed suicide.

None of the injured that were in intensive care,
held ID that matched my loved ones,
my fears became despair.

“They can’t be gone, it’s not possible”.
The thought was driving me wild.
No man should ever have to know the hell of searching
for your wife and only child.

Two officers came and took me and John’s
parents aside.
It was then we knew
their bodies must have been identified.

Even as it was happening,
I knew I’d remember for the rest of my days
the moment they told us
“Charlene, Emily and John have all passed away”.

The last thing that my daughter would have seen:
a gun aimed at her forehead by a Jihadi.
Her mother bleeding out beside her, the next in line.
Her new boyfriend’s brains scattered everywhere,
he could have escaped but wouldn’t leave her behind.

The Jihadists used the latest technology.
They filmed their attack,
and streamed it live for all to see.
I tried not to watch it. I tried to ignore.
Now I can’t un-see the terror and horror.

I can’t un-see,
no, I can’t un-see,
the brutal murder of my loving family.

It was the fourth attack on my country that year.
My wife had voiced concerns which I refused to hear.
I told her “go, have fun. We can’t give into fear”.
Now I kneel at their graves, shedding regretful tears.

When are we going to confront this evil ideology?
Of martyrdom,
and countless atrocities.
When are we going to confront this twisted ideology?
How many dead?
How many hurt?
How many slaughtered families?