Updated: Mar 28, 2019
Regina Timothy is a writer living in Kenya where she enjoys amazing landscapes, exotic wildlife, and beautiful sunsets and sunrises. She always had active imagination. By chance, she started blogging in 2010, which rekindled her love for writing and telling stories. When not writing she enjoys watching classic movies (she’s a movie buff), going to the theater and auto shows.
Her other books have been listed on the Amazon stores.
You can join her on the following platforms:
Full Circle Blurb
Eight years after the 9/11 attacks, Samia-Al-Sayyid an Iraqi refugee is living a quiet life in New York City after she fled her home to avoid imminent death.
She works hard for her cold, heartless, high-strung boss, loves her seventeen-years-old-son, and cherishes the close friendship she has formed with her best friend Susan.
Nothing can go wrong, or so she thinks – until the estranged brother she left back in Iraqi shows up on her doorstep. Then she finds herself in a cab, on her way to the hospital to identify her son, a terror suspect who has blown the city, and with it her boss’ husband, and her best friend’s son. With everything lost, she is forced to flee to Iraq where she confronts her past. Will she make peace with her past? Can she get forgiveness for all the damage she has caused?
Full Circle is a contemporary fiction tale of friendship, family, and hope. It explores the devastation of loss, the great capacity to forgive and the lengths our loved ones will go to protect us.
Full Circle Excerpt
For hours, Samia sat next to her Aazim’s bed like a zombie, clutching his hand. She did not cry, she just sat there - staring into space with his cold hand in hers. A few times she tried praying for her son, but nothing came to mind. So she gave up on the idea. Instead, she thought. She thought of the first day her uncle came to her when she was thirteen. She looked like she had been run over by a train by the time he was done with her, and it was months before she was able to shed her abaya. She thought of the day she found out she would have Aazim; she was barely a woman, engulfed in paralyzing fear and the endless pit of loneliness. She thought of her daring escape in the middle of the night aided by her best friend Mannar and auntie Menna when they found out her brother’s planned to stone her the next morning. She thought of her journey to Turkey and her terror when she got to Mardin refugee camp. She thought of the relief she felt standing in the refugee camp when she was given her refugee papers to fly to America. She thought of the first time she set foot in the United States - tired, hungry, homesick, and three months pregnant. She thought of the first time she had been called the enemy, the first time her son had been called a terrorist. Now they were the enemy.
“How am I going to make it without you, Aazim?” she asked aloud. “I’ll be lost without you, you know? How will I get rid of this pain in my chest? It’s so hard for me to accept that after today, I will never see you again, hear your voice, feel your touch, see your smile across the room, or even hear your infectious laugh. Oh, the laugh! God, will I miss that.” She sighed.
“A part of me feels like I made all these sacrifices in vain. Like all the lives that were destroyed were for nothing, and all I did was make it worse. That part of me is angry. Angry at you for not realizing or acknowledging all my sacrifices to give you a better life; angry at me for not working harder to keep you safe, to protect you from the evils of this world, and my mistakes, and my past - like my brother Adham; and angry at Adham for bringing you into all this, sucking you back to a world I thought I had left behind, a world filled with lies, betrayal, and bloodshed, all in the name of God and honor. That angry part of me makes me feel like wrapping my fingers around your neck and squeezing with all my strength until there is no more life in you.
“But then there is also this part of me that is disappointed. Disappointed that, despite my best efforts, I did not protect you from my past, from my mistakes, and the struggles of your people. You had to pay the price for a war that had nothing to do with you. ‘Casualty of war’ is what your uncle called you. Just another fallen soldier of the struggle, a mere statistic. All that means nothing, because this is not what you signed up for; this was not your war to fight.
“You are my son, and you are forever gone from me. There is not a damn thing I can do about it, and I don’t know how to accept that.
“How do I say goodbye? Do I shake your hand, kiss you on the cheek, or just walk out?”