دانلود رمان انگلیسی “مالکوم در صحرا”

I was created in my father’s Arms the night our home was firebombed. The rest is a blur of flame-licked walls and frenzy, but I distinctly remember being scooped up in his arms. Sunday, February 14, 1965, a Molotov cocktail exploded through our front window, torched the living room, and drowned every corner of the house in ash. I remember my father blanketing me in the smokefall and whisking us outside onto the front lawn, past a second bottle bomb that fortunately never found a fuse, holding me close. The crudeness of the attack itself revealed the growing desperation of those who sought to silence “the most dangerous man in America.” At the time, my father was beginning to set forth a more expansive vision of freedom and justice, and those who feared his prophetic voice were responding with runaway brutality. It was only one of several attempts on his life that week. The following Sunday, February 21, my family and I were trapped in a hailstorm of twenty-one bullets at the Audubon Ballroom in Harlem. My father was assassinated in the barrage. His name was el-Hajj Malik el- Shabazz, most commonly known to the world as Malcolm X. I remember being swept under my mother’s body when the first shots rang out, and the deafening clap of wholesale gunfire as my father drew his final breaths. I was two years old, my earliest memories a coarse patchwork of horrific violence interlaced with unimaginable love.