April 9, 2021
West Belfast. April 2021
As I throw the home-made pipe bomb at the line of police vans in West Belfast, I wish I were at home watching the latest series of Shtisel.
My father hates Catholics. All of them. I don’t blame him for that. He’s cheering me on. I can hear his goading and catcalls above all the others. “Fenian bastards! PSNI scumbags!”
I run back over to him and watch him mopping the beads of sweat that threaten to become a river down his face. He’s using the same rag he used earlier to wipe some of the acrylic spills I left on the kitchen table. His sweat mixes with the green and orange. I hope he doesn’t notice. He stuffs the rag down the side of his wheelchair.
“Good lad! That showed ‘em.”
“Come on Dad, let’s go home. I don’t want to get caught.”
“Don’t worry about that, son. Sure you’re only 15. You’ll get off with a warning. You’re a brave lad. I knew you could do it.”
I am two episodes into Season 3 and am fascinated by Kiva. He’s an ultra orthodox Jew, but he stuck to his dream of becoming a full-time artist. He loves his father but he has dreams of his own.
I wish I were as brave as Kiva. I wish my father had dreams of his own.