When something hits a little to close to home

I haven’t written something in a while, I think It’s because I couldn’t find the right thing to write about.
 I think it’s because I couldn’t find the right words to use.
I think it’s because for a while I lost my voice. But I think I found it, maybe.
On Friday night (or Saturday morning), my friends piled into my car and we set off to the only place open at 3 AM- iHop. The car was buzzing with laughter, we were all excited to eat suhoor together and then sleep. It has been a tradition to get suhoor with friends at least once during Ramadan. My brothers did it, and now I do it. But what I didn’t realize that something so simple can be so terrifying.
We went to the iHop that was farther from us, but in a safer area. I drove carefully (not speeding like usual). I parked as close to the front as I could, so we wouldn’t be standing outside for long. There was a moment when we were driving on an empty road and there was another car next to us- I pulled ahead so they couldn’t see inside the car- I didn’t want that car to see us. Why? I don’t know, a gut feeling in my stomach. That person probably didn’t mean any harm, and consciously I didn’t know why I did it. Until, I read about Nabra, and that when I realized why we did what we did. Why did all the girls drive in one car (even though we could of easily met there), why we drove farther than normal, why we took all those precautions. Because the next day Nabra lost her life. And she was doing what we were doing, except her precautions didn’t save her.
Since I’ve read that story I constantly think: it could be me. It could be one of my friends. It could Flower Mound.
And who’s to say next time it won’t be?
Since the news broke, my feed has been inundated with Nabra. A picture of her smiling in a hijab, a picture she took not knowing that it will go viral- especially not in the way she would of hope for.
On Sunday night, my family and I went to the masjid for iftaar, something we do every weekend. After iftaar, many families stay until Ishaa, and some stay for Taraweeh. But on Sunday night, like every other night, people stood together and read Quran, and prayed. Then they left, and made their way home. And they reached. But on Sunday night, some people didn’t make it home. The victims of Finbury Park did not make it home. And reading article after article, it made me realize something Finbury Park could have been Flower Mound; it could have been anywhere. It could have been any of us.
But why? Why am I saying this?
Because we don’t realize it.
We think if we’re in a group, we’re safe.  
We think that we’ve done it before we’re safe.
But are we really safe?
It is scary. What do we do? Do we stop sending our kids to iHop? Do we tell people to stay at home? Or do we put our heads down and pretend that it won’t happen to us?
Do we move on, let Nabra and Fibury be the news of the week but forget them next week?
What do we do?
How do we stay safe? Self-defense classes? Extra patrol at the masjid?
Or is it enough to write a Facebook post and then forget, and not take action?

But what do we do?

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