Over a month ago, I decided to try writing a book. Other than hundreds of guest newspaper columns and myriad speeches on enumerable topics over the past forty years, I am not a writer. I have had no formal education to prepare me to undertake such a daunting task. Indeed, I only achieved a grade twelve diploma way back in 1970, largely due to the constant and unrelenting encouragement, and at times direct intervention, of my mother. Given this, you’d be forgiven for asking, why?
What could motivate someone like me to accept such a challenge?
… The month prior, Aini had attended a hospital in Queens with injuries to the side of her face. There, hospital staff “appeared to have had concerns” about whether Aini’s injuries were inflicted by Mohammad. With the help of an interpreter, Aini denied that her husband had harmed her when asked by staff. He later claimed she had “tripped on a broom” 
