The chimes ring again from the central square, marking the beginning of another funeral, the seventh this week. I hold my breath, praying that it won’t happen again, the explosion, the dust, the fragments of mourners, the concussive blast, the overwhelming white and red of fire, and the blackness of smoke. None of the previous funerals were torn apart by anarchist bombs, which only heightens the fear for me. A roulette wheel of terror. And then it happens. The bomb goes off. I see the flash, hear the roar, feel the blast. The chimes are stilled, replaced by wailing and a new cycle of mourning begins.