Editor’s note: The Soviet-influenced Afghan government of the period took the writer’s father from her home when she was 11 years old, and she never saw him again. This is Part IV, the final part, of what she knows of his childhood and life.

Shah’s friends were waiting for him desperately, saying, “What happened to him? God forbid, what if they put him in jail? What if they punished him?” Again, all those “what if” questions. Even the teachers were worried; they came out of the madrassa waiting for him, but there was no sign of Shah.

Suddenly they saw a royal wheel-cart drawn by two brown horses riding towards them. When the wheel-cart came closer, they saw a uniformed horseman holding a well designed whip, something they had never seen before. The closer the wheel-cart got, the more they became excited and worried. At last the wheel-cart stopped, the uniformed man jumped out and opened the door, and Shah emerged.

Everyone’s mouth was half open; they couldn’t say a word at first. Finally one took the initiative to speak: “Shah? Is that you?” Shah said goodbye to the guard and joined his friends, smiling. Everyone was asking different questions: “What took you so long?” “How did you come to be in this royal wheel-cart?”

Shah couldn’t hide his happiness and told them the entire story. He told them his essay was rewarded by the PM, “and while I was sitting in the wheel-cart, I opened the envelope and saw 2000 Afs!”

Everyone was like, “Whoa, 2000 Afs, it is lots of money. What you are going to do with this money?”

“I am going to rent a room, buy some clothes and lots of books, establish my own library and you guys can read my books,” my father answered.

This was an unexpected moment for Shah. He began to write more for radio, then he wrote books, and since he memorized the Holy Qu’ran, he learned Arabic and he translated books from Arabic into Dari and Pashtu. He started working with different media organizations, and after a few years became the General Director of the independent Directorate of Media and Culture, which was equal to a minister position. Shah was getting promotions one after another. Since he wrote books in Arabic, he became famous in Arabic countries as well. He got a scholarship from Al-Azhar Islamic University in Egypt. Once he arrived there and spoke to the sheikh, the sheikh said: “Oh dear Shah, I am extremely sorry to ask you to come here as a student, you are too qualified for that. I will change my mind and please accept my apology. I would like to request you to become a lecturer in our university.” Since Shah didn’t like to live abroad, he stayed only a few months. He taught, received a special Islamic title from the university, and won the best Azan and Qu’ran reader title in an international reading competition among all Arab and Islamic countries in Egypt.

In 1961, for the first time, Afghanistan’s King Zahir Shah decided to establish Constitutional Law. Shah was appointed to the commission that wrote the first Afghan Constitution. He was also elected as a member of the parliament. Because of his work in the Afghan Parliament Shah became famous and well-known throughout Afghanistan and other Central Asian countries.

Twenty years after he had left as a child Shah returned to Bagram—his birthplace. He returned to see his mother and father—his father who had kicked him out when he was just eleven years old. Shah was now famous; he had married and had eight children (five daughters and three sons). His children were all on their way to being highly educated.

When Shah saw his mother she took him in her arms and cried. She said she missed her wonderful son who was like a king (Shah means king) among her children. She couldn’t stop her tears. Shah kissed his father’s hands, and said: “Sorry, Father, that I left your house.” His father’s hands were trembling and he couldn’t talk because he wanted to hide his tears. He shook his head and said, “No, son, I apologize.” Shah didn’t let him cry, but changed the subject and started joking, saying: “Come on, why are you crying? Can’t you accept my promotion? See your son, your Shah, is not a little boy anymore.” Both his mother and father said, “Thank God. Allah, we are so thankful.”

Shah had a wonderful life, a loving wife, and children. He worked hard but he was always there for his family on weekends and holidays. Shah loved to go to countryside with his family so he bought summer and winter homes as well as grape fields.  Because of his own wealth, Shah asked of his rich father that the property he was to inherit should instead be given to his brothers and sister.

Shah lived the way he wanted until the Communists took power. Their policy was to kill powerful, rich, religious, high-ranking government people, specifically well-known people. The government arrested Shah along with his two young sons and two brothers. That night when the KHAD secret police came to arrest him, Shah didn’t know they would arrest his two young sons and brothers as well, and that is why he asked his sons to take care of their mother. “She was my best support and my right hand,” he said. “Thanks to her, I was successful. She took care of my house and my children so well, and that is why I had peace of mind and could concentrate on my work.”

Shah left the house with the KHAD agents, thinking that he was leaving his sons and brothers behind. But after almost an hour, KHAD came back took his sons and brothers as well, leaving Shah’s wife with five daughters, two daughters-in-law, and four grandchildren.

My mother spent thousands of nights in the yard looking at the gate, waiting for her sons and husband for almost twenty years. When we daughters asked why she slept outside every night, she said: “Oh, dear, I like the open area. I can’t breathe inside.” But one day when her sister asked her the same question, she said: “I am waiting, I am waiting for them. If at midnight they come and knock at the door, I may not hear it if I am sleeping inside the house. I don’t want to make them wait. I want to be the first person who meets them.” This strong woman, who cried and waited for all those years, never let her daughters see her tears. She cried at midnight while everyone was sleeping. She encouraged her daughters to get their diplomas.

She spent all those years in the hope of seeing her beloved ones, but that day never came. Then she got sick and was paralyzed. She was sick for two and half years, lying in bed, at a time when most of her daughters were abroad. She said to one daughter still at home, “See if someone is knocking at the door. Hurry up, what if it is your brothers or father? Don’t make them wait. Hurry up, open the door, hurry up, open the door.”

When other Muslims die, they always read holy words from the Qu’ran, but my mother died calling her sons’ names. She died with her eyes open, waiting to see her children.

By Elay

Editor’s note: The Soviet-influenced Afghan government of the period took the writer’s father from her home when she was 11 years old, and she never saw him again. This is Part III of what she knows of his childhood.

My father Shah was a Talib (a student in a mosque, learning Islam) who read different books and memorized the Holy Qu’ran by heart with the meaning and explanation. He had a talent for writing, with magical fingers and a thoughtful mind. He knew how to express his feelings. Once he had a pen in his hand, he couldn’t stop writing.

The great Mullah Sahib (Shah’s teacher at the mosque) told him, “Son, don’t forget two things: you have a miraculous voice when you read the Azan (call to prayer) and the Holy Qu’ran, and you have extraordinary fingers to write. Never stop writing and reading the Azan and Qu’ran. When you read it, it touches the hearts; it makes you feel the magnitude of Islam. When I read your poems and essays, I can assure you that you express yourself better on paper than verbally. You speak perfectly, but your writing touches the heart. You know how to put words together.”

Life is full of ups and downs; we have to try hard to fulfill our dreams, but not everyone can. Who can? The one who has a goal, who has talent in a particular area; the one who tries with lots of energy, not thinking of losing but thinking of achievement with one condition: if she or he loses, they shouldn’t give up, they have to try again and again. We have a saying: if you want to achieve something, you have to try hard to choose the right path. With a heart full of faithfulness and honesty, Allah will help you achieve your goal.

One day, my father was listening to a mullah talk on local radio about the miracle of Islam. The mullah said: “With the order of Allah, the chest of Prophet Mohammad (PBUH) was opened and the sun came out of his chest, and the angels washed his heart to protect him from committing sin. That is why the Prophet never committed a sin.” When my father heard this, he took pen and paper and wrote an essay that rejected the story.

Shah wrote: “Prophet Mohammad was a human being like us. If Allah washed his heart to never commit a sin, then what is special about him? If Allah washes anyone’s heart, then that person can also be a good person. But our Prophet was a wonderful human being who could discipline himself. He was not made perfect, but he tried to be a perfect person; he obeyed Allah’s order in accordance to Holy Qu’ran. Don’t mislead people by telling stories like this. There are other miracles and wonders in Islam that are in accordance to science. One of the miracles is the Holy Qu’ran; in Qu’ran the word day-night is mentioned 360 times, the word month twelve times, and the Qu’ran states that there are seven layers in the sky, which has been proven by science, while at that time (1,389 years ago) there was no science and scientists. Or that the world is round; there are dozens of other issues that have only now been proven by science.”  (There are other issues to be mentioned, but I don’t want to jump out of the story.)

He submitted his essay to the local radio station. Three days later, Shah was sitting under a tree reading a book when a classmate came to him. “I heard your name on the radio today. They are going to read your essay. Let’s go listen to it.” They gathered in one room, waiting eagerly. Shah was excited.

Finally the announcer read his name and the topic of his essay, saying: “We got a wonderful and very well-written essay from a young boy who is a student in a madrassa.” When the reader finished the story, he said, “May Allah bless this young guy.” Everyone took a deep breath; none of his friends said anything, they were so amazed.

After a few seconds, one of them broke the silence and said: “How did you know all these issues in such detail?”

Shah said: “I read lots of books.”

Shah was feeling proud of his writing. Everyone in the madrassa was asking him: “Were you the writer of that essay? Oh man, I can’t believe it.” Everyone wanted to talk and ask questions. Shah felt important in those days.

After almost a week, Shah got an invitation to the palace from the Prime Minister Sardar Shah Mahmud Khan. Shah couldn’t believe it. Everyone was like, “Wow, Shah, the PM invited you to the palace!” Since the invitation didn’t mention the purpose, Shah was a bit nervous. He asked himself, what if the government didn’t like his explanation? What if he has done some thing wrong? What if…? But he tried to be calm.

When the day arrived, he woke up early. He wanted to wear a nice suit, but he didn’t have enough money to buy one, so he washed his old trousers and shirt and ironed them and left. His friends walked with him to the palace and then said goodbye and wished him all the best.

When my father entered the palace, he was amazed by the grand architecture and furniture. A man guided him to the waiting room and asked him to wait for a few minutes. While he was waiting, he tried to hide his shoes under the chair, because his shoes were so old. He had polished them well, but still they were rough and not shiny. He waited a few minutes, and then another young man came and politely asked him to follow him. Shah entered a big, well-lit and decorated hall and then a room that was decorated with nice curtains, big crystal chandeliers and very nice drawings. He saw a well-dressed man with a strong face who stood up from his desk (and this was not common, for a PM to stand for a young guy.) The man walked towards him, saying, “Welcome, welcome, Shah. I never thought of you being so young… If you don’t mind me asking, how old are you, young man?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

“Eighteen. May Allay bless you; you are too young to write a high level essay like this.” The PM gestured for my father to sit. My father sat and tried to hide his shoes again. The PM told him, “Come on, son, sit comfortably.”

The meeting lasted half an hour. The PM was so amazed by Shah’s knowledge. During the conversation, Shah glanced at a big golden clock hanging on the wall. The PM followed his look and asked, “Are you in hurry?”

Shah said, “No sir, I just don’t want to take your time.”

“I have enough time, sir, and I am honored sitting and talking to you,” the PM said. “Indeed, it is getting late. What about having dinner with me?”

“I will be honored, sir,” Shah said.

They had dinner together and met with a few other high-level officials. When they finished, the PM made a sign to one of his people in a red uniform wearing a big turban, even as he continued his conversation with my father. “Don’t stop writing,” he said. The man in the red uniform approached holding a silver tray in his hand.

The PM took an envelope from the tray and gave it to Shah, saying, “Son, your essay was precious and beyond price. There is no amount to reward such knowledge, but this is a small gift for you to arrange a room for yourself where you can live comfortably and concentrate on your writing and studies.”  The PM made another sign to his uniformed people and wished Shah success and said goodbye, and then another young uniformed man led him out of the palace.

To be continued…

by Elay

Shah began living in the mosque with the mullah. He continued to study the Qu’ran and eventually learned it by heart. He also studied other books. The mullah was always there by his side. Shah’s love of learning caused the mullah to establish a small library.  The mullah taught Shah, and Shah taught others.

Shah spent his nights studying. His desk was the floor. The mullah did not have a proper carpet, so Shah would lie on a reed mat using a small lamp he had made. Quite often, after hours of reading, the skin of his elbows would become stuck on the rough mat.

As time went on, Mullah Sahib grew old and weak. One day, he woke up and called to Shah, “Shah, my son, where are you? Can you hear me?”

Shah came to him. “Yes, baba jan (grandpa), what do you want?”

Mullah Sahib gave him money and asked him to buy some patasa, a special candy that is not too expensive. Shah brought him some candy, and the mullah read from the Qu’ran and then asked Shah to give the candy to the poor people.

When Shah came back, Mullah Sahib asked him to listen carefully: “I dreamt you will be a very famous, powerful, and well-known man. Try to learn more and more—never stop learning. You have to leave me and the mosque; you have to go to Kabul. This is not the right place for you.”

Mullah Sahib gave him names and addresses of people in Kabul. “These people are going to help you with your studies. But you have to earn your own money.”

Shah said, “I’m sorry, baba jan, for being rude, but how can I leave you? You need someone near you—you can’t walk properly. You are like a father to me, how can I leave my father in this state?”

“Don’t be a fool, don’t think like a child, you are a grown man. Think about your future.”

“But baba jan—”

“Don’t say anything. You have to go by tomorrow morning.”

“OK, baba jan, as you wish.”

“Listen, boy, I am sending you to Kabul not to have fun, but to get an education. Forget about your youth. Just think about your future.”

The next morning, Shah woke up early as usual and helped Mullah Sahib with his prayers. At the end of the prayers, Mullah Sahib said, “Let’s pray for the young man who will be leaving us for good. Unfortunately, I will not meet him again. But I am sure he will make us proud.”

Shah went to him and kissed his hands. Mullah Sahib kissed Shah’s head and said, “May Allah bless you and Allah always be with you. Go, and do not come back until you finish your education. Do not even come to my funeral.”

Shah’s voice wavered. “Baba jan, I am going to miss you.”

“Don’t be weak. As you said on your first day, it is Allah’s decision. I hate weak people.” And then he made a sign with his hand: go.

Shah took his books and left the mosque. He didn’t know what the next step would be. Two teardrops came from Mullah Sahib’s eyes; the people of Charikar said they had never seen Mullah Sahib crying—even when he lost his family.

Shah found Kabul completely different than Charikar. The city was big and crowded, with many more shops. He liked the kababies, restaurants that serve barbecue. They played Indian music so loudly you could hear it from far away. Shah walked around, looking at Indian film posters. He had never seen a photo of a beautiful girl without a headscarf. With his mouth half open, he stared at everything around him.

Eventually, Shah went to the person recommended by Mullah Sahib, an old man who was a mullah and teacher at a madrassa. He asked Shah, “Do you have a place to live?”

“No,” Shah said.

“We will admit you to the madrassa, but we can’t offer you money or housing—you have to work and find a place to live.”

Shah was more nervous about the future than when he had run away so many years ago. At that time, he was too young to consider problems. This time he knew the consequences. Time ran fast. After a few days, he spent his last cent. He spent the nights in a mosque and he went to the madrassa during the day. Still he couldn’t find a job.

Shah made friends with a few other young men who came from different provinces. They were bonded by adversity; none had money, jobs or accommodations. One day while they were walking from the madrassa to the mosque, the aroma of sweet yellow melons beckoned to them. It was summer, yellow melon season. They were all very hungry.

“Oh, I feel like eating melon,” one of Shah’s group said.

“We don’t have money to buy any, so stop dreaming of eating melon, it is impossible,” Shah’s other friend replied.

“Yes, I know you are right, but I can’t stop thinking about it,” Shah’s friend responded.

As they walked to the mosque trying to ignore the grumbling from their stomachs, they spied the outer layer of a melon on the street. Someone had left it lying near the garbage.

The friend eager to eat melon said “look!” He walked over and grabbed it. “It is not dirty. Let’s eat it.” Without waiting for replies, he sank his teeth into the sweet melon. After the initial bite, Shah’s young friend broke off two pieces and offered it to Shah and his other friend.

Shah watched them eat. “No thanks, I don’t feel like. I don’t like yellow melons,” he said. “You have it.”

Deep in his heart Shah knew he loved melons. The smell of melon increased his appetite. But of course, he didn’t want to eat from the garbage.

The boys continued on their way to the mosque with the hope of having dinner. Quite often people would bring food to the mosque for those who had nothing to eat.

In Islam, if you give food to passengers or people who don’t have a house, Allah will forgive your sin.

There were days when Shah and his friends had nothing to eat. On those days, Shah would read even more. Shah found that when he read books, he forgot about his hunger. Shah missed his family. He missed the peace of mind that comes from having a mother to cook his lunch or dinner. He missed his siblings and the security of having his father provide for him. But Shah preferred to study. This was his passion.

Shah was to discover that there are times when a small issue or accident can change an entire life and alter a destiny. There was such a moment in Shah’s life that brought him success, fame, and wealth.

To be continued…

By Elay

My father Mohammad Shah was born into a wealthy family. His father was a landowner and businessman who imported and exported goods between Afghanistan and Pakistan. His mother was a very clever woman who led jirgas (tribal assemblies of elders). Shah, as he was known, was the oldest of five siblings. His father wanted his help in business, and gave him many responsibilities.

But Shah was interested in books and poetry. Of course his businessman-father was totally against books. At age nine, Shah began seeking permission to go to the mosque for prayers, and once there, he asked the mullahs to teach him reading. At that time, 80 years ago, schools were not common in Afghanistan. There were a few madrassas (Islamic schools) across the country, but no schools in small provinces.

When his father found out Shah was learning reading, he got angry and said, “Come on son! Don’t waste your time and your brain. Education means nothing. If you work hard and earn money, you will be famous and rich and have a better future.” Shah couldn’t argue with his father, so he agreed. But no one could change his mind. He continued to study in the mosque, even as he helped his father with trading trips to and from Peshawar, Pakistan.

When Shah was a skinny boy of just 11 years there was a day when everything went wrong. Shah was helping his father pack goods onto the camels. One of the camels stood up, and the goods fell off. Shah’s father yelled at him “You stupid! I told you a thousand times to concentrate on business, not books. You never followed my orders.”

“But Father—” Shah said.

“Don’t argue with me!” his father shouted. “I know you, you shameless and lazy boy.”

Shah said: “I am not lazy.”

Suddenly his father grabbed a stone and ran toward him, yelling, “I will kill you. I don’t need a lazy son like you!” Shah backed up and then started running. His father chased him. Without looking back, Shah kept running. His father followed, yelling: “I will kill you, I hate you!”

After 10 or 15 minutes, Shah realized he didn’t hear his father’s voice. He slowed and looked back. He couldn’t see his father. He put his hands on his knees, breathing very fast. He was glad his father wasn’t following him anymore, but he was also worried. “What shall I do? If I go back home, my father will punish me and never let me return to the mosque. If I don’t go home, where shall I go? My God, where shall I go?” He continued walking, he didn’t know where. After a few hours, he reached Charikar, a northern city at the gateway of the Panjshir Valley. He paused by a chaikhana (a teahouse). He stared at the customers enjoying tea and cookies. His mouth was dry and he was hungry and tired.

After a while, an old man sitting in the teahouse called to Shah, gesturing for him to approach. Shah was not sure what to do. Again the old man called: “Come, young man, come here.” Shah walked slowly toward him. “Who are you?” the old man asked.

“Shah. Mohammad Shah.”

“Where do you come from? Whose son are you?” Shah didn’t want to answer because his father was well known. The old man asked again: “Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your father?”

Shah said: “I am alone. I don’t have anyone.”

The old man was surprised. “Are you sure? Don’t you have anyone? What about your mother?” Shah didn’t know what to say. The old man said: “Oh Allah, look at this young good-looking boy. He doesn’t have anyone. May Allah bless you, young man. Where are you sleeping? Who washes your clothes?” Shah just looked at the ground, playing with stones with his foot. The old man said: “Come on, young boy, have some cookies.” He called to the waiter: “Bring tea and cookies for this young boy.”

Shah was eager to have his tea. He sat next to the old man. While he drank his tea, the old man stared at him. “Poor boy. Look at his bright eyes and shiny face. Oh dear, you are so lost and lonely.”

Shah said: “Baba, it has been decided by Allah. Prophet Mohammad, PBUH, was younger than me when he lost his parent. But he was not lost. He found his way. He has millions of followers. Even after 1,300 years, all Muslims are faithful to him. He strengthens pillars of Islam all over the world.”

The old man was surprised by the way Shah explained the Prophet’s life. “How do you know this?” Shah mentioned a few books he’d read. “So you read at this age?” the old man asked, amazed.

“Yes, I go every day to the mosque, and after prayers the mullah teaches me how to read.”

“I know how to help you,” the old man said. “I will take you to the mosque. The mullah emam (priest) is my friend. You can get an education there. You are very smart. I am sure you will be one the most famous people on earth. Everyone will recognize you all over the world. You will have a bright future.”

The old man and Shah walked toward the mosque. On the way, the man didn’t say a single word. Shah was quiet too. After the long walk, they reached a small mosque with a bigger yard for prayers. An old man sat on a prayer cloth in the yard, his head bowed. It was not possible to see his face because he wore a big white turban, as well as long white clothes. He held prayer beads in his hands. When the old man reached the mullah, he greeted him: “Asalamu Allaikom, Mawlawi sahib.”

The mullah answered: “Allaikom Asalam. Who?” He didn’t complete his sentence, just asked Who? Shah wondered why the mullah did not move his head or look at them.

“It is me, Mullah Rahim from Charikar. Mullah Sahib, how are you?”

“Thanks Allah, fine. Tell me, who is with you?”

“Mullah sahib,” the old man said, “I met a young boy who doesn’t have any family. He needs accommodation and since he is very clever, he will appreciate if you can kindly accept him as your student.”

After a short silence, the mullah moved his hand to the right as if he were looking for something. “Where? Where is he?”

The old man led Shah to the mullah, who touched his arm, his shoulder, his head, and then read a part of the Qu’ran. After that he said: “Bless you, young boy. How old are you?”

“Eleven years.”

“Why do you want to live in a mosque?”

“It was Allah’s decision,” Shah said.

“Hmmm.” The mullah turned to head toward Shah. “Masha Allah (“May Allah bless you”). Very clever, you are a clever boy.” When he turned his head, Shah saw at last that the mullah was blind. He asked, “What is your name?”

“Shah.”

“Hmmm.  Shah means king, and you will be the king of hearts. Everyone will love you, and your family will regret losing you. You are an asset. Clever children are the treasure of their families and the country.”

Shah was shocked. How did the mullah know that he had a family? He never found out, because he never asked.

To be continued…

By Elay

I remember the rainy sky in the Netherlands and how different it was. The more it rains in Holland, the shinier and cleaner the trees become, unlike Afghanistan, where it is muddy. But beautiful rainy days in Holland could not wash away my loneliness for home. Despite the beauty of Holland’s rain, there was much that was not beautiful.

I still remember going to the Social Help Office and having to explain why I failed to find job. I can still see in my mind’s eye the look of the social worker: surprised and full of doubt. I know she thought I was like other refugees who make excuses in order to get the money from the government. I did my best to convince her that I was sincerely seeking work. But still she had that disdainful look that said: “You didn’t even try to get a job.”

I will never forget that day when the social worker told me: “If you can’t get a job that matches your education, then go and work in a factory.”

“How can I work in a factory when I have law diploma?” I asked her.

She made her eyes bigger and raised her voice. “Your law degree is valid in Afghanistan, not here. This is the Netherlands. We are working and paying taxes so people like you can sit at home and enjoy the easiest way to receive money. Do not try to enjoy government money, which is actually our tax money!”

There was nothing I could do to assure her I was not like that.

But I am home now. And no matter how beautiful the nature of another country, it can never feel as good as the poor nature of my own country—Afghanistan.

By Elay

The other day, I was in my office thinking about Afghanistan and how the situation is improving. We are fortunate that the international community is helping us rebuild our country. We have an elected president. Girls are going to school. Women are working outside the home. It is beautiful here. I wondered about the many Afghans living abroad. I thought to myself that they should come see that Afghanistan is getting better. Our country needs us and they should come home.

The sound of the door opening interrupted my thoughts. My colleague entered my office. He had a very worried look on his face as he asked if I had watched the news on TV. “No,” I said. “Why? What is wrong?”

“You must watch. It’s awful,” he said. “Once again, we are faced with our government’s failure.”

Only a few minutes before, I was counting the blessings of Afghanistan; now I was watching a story out of Kunduz, where the mullahs and elders had punished three young girls. One girl was beaten in public with a whip for running away from her home. The beating had been televised. Two other young women were stoned for adultery.

As I watched, my head was exploding in anger. This is not human rights. How do I stop this? To whom do I speak? Will my government hear my voice? Can someone pass a message to them? Why, in a country with a history of five thousand years, is it the elders and the public who punish wrongdoers? The government must set the standard. The government must punish the wrongdoer, not the public.

Indeed, according to Islam, adultery (gunahe kabira) is the biggest sin. But let’s make it clear. The girls can’t commit those crimes on their own. There must be a man so that we can have the adultery case completed. Where were those men? If you want to punish a girl for adultery, then according to Islam, you have to punish the woman and the man—not just the woman. Men have the right to do anything, because they are men. They are powerful; they are the bread-bringers.

And why does a girl want to leave her house? What is running away from home? When you ask our people, most of them say: “Yes, running from home is a crime according to Islam.” So of course young women can’t have their rights. Help them to get their rights.

Our leaders must stop buying villas in Dubai. Think about your people. Think about those young girls who run away from their homes because their families don’t treat them like human beings. What if this was to happen to your own daughter, sister, mother, or your own wife? Youngsters are the treasure of our country. The future of Afghanistan is in the hands of our youngsters. Give them their rights. Treat them like human beings. The justice system in our country is horrible. Do something about it. Otherwise, our youngsters are going to leave their country and will never come back.

By Elay

Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) says:

• When a woman gives birth to a girl, seven angels come to the house with lights in their hands. Girls are wonderful gifts given by Allah.
• Women are flowers and men are gardeners. Gardeners have the duty and responsibility to take care of the flowers.
• Women are kind; they are mothers, sisters and wives. So treat them with love.
• If you want to be respected by your wife, treat her with respect.
• If you want your wives to obey you, obey them.
• The key to Janat (paradise) is in your mother’s hands. If your mother is satisfied with you, you can go to paradise. If you sadden your mother, you will never get through.
• Never beat your wife. If you get angry, just throw a flower toward her. Don’t harm her, because Allah will punish you for it.
• Men and women have equal rights to an education.
• When a family asks your daughter’s hand for their son, you have to ask your daughter if she if agrees to the marriage, because she has the right to choose her life partner. Never force your daughter to marry a man chosen by you.

Islam supports the rights of women. According to Islamic legislation, when we have a question about how to behave, first we have to refer to the Qu’ran. If we can’t find a proper solution in the Qu’ran, then we have to refer to Hadith (Prophet Muhammad’s words). If still we can’t solve the issue, then we have to refer to Ejtehad (Islamic recognized leaders). This means cultural traditions or beliefs can never play a role in resolving issues. In our culture, women had been considered a second sex. Afghans say: “We should always send our sons to schools. Since girls will marry, it is not necessary to send them to school.” Women who work outside the house are not appreciated in our society.

I have two daughters. They attend an American school, which is very expensive. One of my educated friends who was my classmate in the Faculty of Law asked me: “Why are you spending so much money on your daughters? At the end of the day, they will marry, and they will not be able to work.”

“As a Muslim, if your wife or daughter gets sick, what do you prefer, that she be checked by a male doctor or a female doctor?” I asked him.

“Of course by a female doctor.”

I laughed. “Fine. If we don’t spend money on our daughters to send them to school, who will be the next female doctor? But, my dear friend, my daughter doesn’t want to be a doctor. She wants to become a politician to change you and others who think like you. She will be the next president of this country so that we can prove our ability and knowledge to dark-thinkers like you. And I am going to support her and will be always there for her to achieve her aims.”

Even my daughter says most of her classmates are boys, and their families don’t want to send their girls to the American school. Forty years ago, the mentality was different. I grew up in an Islamic family. My father was Maulana (a high Islamic rank). He always said, “Education is the power of a woman. If you have one strong pen in your hand, it means you have 100 armed soldiers around you.”

If our religion gives us so many rights, why do we Muslims forget Islam’s rules and act in accordance to cultures, not according to Sharia (Islamic law)? Are we against Sharia? Is culture more important than Sharia?

The big reason is a lack of education. Many educated Afghans emigrated to Western countries and now 95 percent of our people are illiterate. They hear a part of the story—like, for example, that Islam permits men to marry four times—but they don’t understand the conditions under which this act is allowed. Most Afghans inherit Islam and never gain an understanding of the rules of Islam.

We have to establish a system for those people. The first step would be to provide them with an education. With this in mind, I am always trying to learn more. I will learn so I can teach others. I learned to speak Dutch and work on a computer in my late thirties.

When I was in Holland, I was keen to come back to Afghanistan to work for my people who suffered during 30 years of war, especially women, who lost their men, their breadwinners, and didn’t have a chance to think about themselves and their rights. They were always busy taking care of their families, sometimes even by begging on the streets. As a woman, I understand their feelings. When your child is hungry and you don’t have any food to feed him, when your child is sick and you don’t have any money to buy medicine, when your child is dying in your arms and you can’t do anything, you don’t think about your rights. It might be unbelievable for Westerners, but we face issues like this daily. People who are living in tents die of hot weather in the summer and cold in the winter. I go to the tent encampments to donate money and food. I see children in the winter with bare feet, thin clothes, shaking with the cold. I see elders, sick dying kids, trilling because they don’t have proper clothes and enough energy. When I return home from those horror scenes, I can’t eat or sleep properly. Talking about these shocking scenes are different than facing them. Watching a movie is different than being in that situation in reality. When you see people suffering in life, your heart goes out to them. You wish you would be the president so you could help poor people by providing them with homes, education, health facilities and peace.

Who can solve these problems? Of course, the government. Who can help government? Of course, we Afghans must start taking action. I make a friendly request to all educated Afghans who live in Western countries to take the initiative. We need educated Afghans to come back to their motherland and help those helpless people. I know life is terrible in Afghanistan. The West is full of luxuries. Afghanistan is a poor country. The lifestyle is underprivileged. But we have to sacrifice for something we adore. If we want to create a safe life for the next generation, we have to sacrifice to come live among our people, take their hands and show them the right way. We have a saying in Afghanistan: “When you are stable and secure, take the hand of the one who has fallen and help him/her to stand up.”

This is what I did when I left Holland and returned with my teenagers to Kabul. People asked me: “How will you manage your daughters’ life in a country like Afghanistan?” I told them my daughters and I are not better than the Western women who came to help Afghanistan, either with their children or leaving them back home. I even know a Dutch mother who gave birth to her child in Kabul. They came here to help our people. It would be a huge shame for me to enjoy Western life and forget my helpless fellow citizens. I was born in Afghanistan, I was taught by Afghan teachers in Afghan schools. Now it is my turn to teach Afghans.

I will never give up. I will work hard for other women. And my daughters say their goal is to study in the United States and then return to Afghanistan to help our fellow citizens.

By Elay

“Trust me, Pa, it is not true, it’s a rumor, I don’t have any idea what you are talking about,” my brother said.

My dad said: “Go and resolve the issue. Otherwise you are not my son anymore. I hate irresponsible men. A father trusted you and let his daughter marry you. You were negligent and don’t even know her rights. She is the mother of your child. How would you teach your daughter to be honest? Go, leave my house. I hate having a son like you. You can return to this house only under one condition: bring proof of your innocence and convince your wife.”

My brother came downstairs and said to my sister-in-law, “Let’s go from this house. I don’t want to live in this house anymore. My father insulted me; let’s go.”

She said, “Sorry, this is my house and I want stay with my father-in-law whom I love like my own father. You can go anywhere you want. I will stay with my family.”

With an irritated expression, my brother closed the door and went toward his father-in-law’s house. The atmosphere in our house was horrible. I couldn’t stay inside. I took my books and went outside. This was something new in our life: angry, loud talk, swearing, an unfriendly atmosphere.

My parents’ marriage and lifestyle were amazing. They were each other’s close friend. My parents had three sons and five daughters. We lived in one big house. One of my sisters got married and left the house. Two of my brothers were married. My oldest brother had one daughter and his wife was pregnant; my second brother had two sons. Unlike other Afghan families, in our family, our father was so friendly with us. He was proud of his daughters. He always tried to create fun inside the family by going on picnics, playing cards, playing musical instruments, singing, cooking, inviting famous singers to our house and giving big parties, etc. He was a dream-father. In Afghanistan, this is rare. Fathers are the boss of the family and behave seriously. They think if they smile and play with kids, then no one will obey them. To be frank, I don’t understand this behavior.

Late that afternoon, as the sky was getting dark, I was studying my schoolbooks in the backyard when I heard my brother’s voice. I ran toward him but he didn’t seem very happy. His father-in-law told him, “Let’s go. I will talk to your dad. Everything will be fine; don’t worry.” They walked toward my father’s room. After a while, I heard them laughing. Everyone said: “Thank God, from now on everything will be fine.” But still, though I couldn’t understand why, I felt a part of my heart was stinging, and I continued to have bad feelings.

I heard other guests arriving and within a few minutes, our house was full of guests. Everyone looked happy. They were preparing salads and other foods. My sister played music. The sounds of music, dinner preparation, loud talk, and the scent of food were all together signs of happiness. Still, I was not so optimistic. I wanted to talk to someone, but my mom was busy and delighted and didn’t pay attention to my sadness. When I recognized that everyone was laughing, I tried to be positive.

I finished my studies and went to my father’s room where the guests were sitting. They were talking, laughing, playing cards. Everyone was happy. The adults were in my father’s room, and the kids were in another room. I wanted to stay with my parents, because I still wanted to convince myself that everything was fine.

The party went wonderfully. My father’s friends and their wives along with their sons and daughters left the house one by one. Our housemaids cleaned the house and others went to bed. Finally, just my mother was sitting with my uncle and two guests who came from Bagram and had to spend the night.

My concerned mind didn’t allow me to sleep. I walked toward the window. It was dark outside. Suddenly I saw cars at our gate and gunmen running toward our house. I saw a few of them climbing the walls and some were jumping into our front yard. I couldn’t believe it. I decided to go to my father’s bedroom to tell him. When I opened the door to his quarters, I saw two armed men entering his bedroom. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to do. I entered his quarters. My heart was beating fast; even I could hear it beating. My hands were cold. Still, some power was pushing me forward. Slowly I moved toward the bedroom. The door was open. I saw the two armed men standing beside his bed. One removed the blanket from his face, holding the gun in his other hand. The other had a machine gun. Suddenly, my father woke up. I will on no account and by no means ever forget his anxious look and worried face. Then his expression changed as if he knew what was going on. Of course he knew it. He removed the blanket slowly and took his Qaraqul hat and he was looking for something else. Maybe his pen or his eyeglasses? No one was talking. The gunmen seemed nervous. My father’s strong voice said: “Let’s go.”

I remember my father’s friends and other powerful people told him that he should go to Pakistan with his family because the pro-Communist government was arresting powerful and famous people. “Definitely they are going to arrest you,” friends told my father. I still remember my father’s answer: “What have I done wrong? I’ve just worked hard for my country and my people. I will never go to Pakistan. I will stay in my motherland. If I get in trouble, I will seek help from my own people, not from strangers.”

My father walked out the door and the gunmen followed, keeping their guns pointed at him. When he saw me, he put his hand on my head and said: “Don’t worry. Go to bed. It is too late.” I stared at him without answering. He started walking down the stairs. When he disappeared from my eyes, I followed him. I didn’t know that they had surrounded the entire house and were in each room. Two other guards were standing in front of our sitting room where my mother had been with the guests. When I reached the room, I saw my entire family there. The gunmen had woken them up and put them in one room.

Everyone was staring at our beloved daddy. The powerful and kind father, the wonderful friend, an excellent husband and a strong personality. He knew at that moment: This is it, I am gone forever. That is why he stopped in front of the door, looked at everyone and said to my brothers, “My dear sons, the best soldiers can be the strength of the commanders, and the best sons are always a parent’s potency and assets. I am proud of your mother and sisters. Your mother helped me a lot, she raised wonderful kids, she was always my right hand. So take care of them, let them enjoy their life, support your sisters to finish their education. Dear sons and daughters: try to be honest partners and wonderful parents for your children. Raise educated children. Make them proud of you. Be strong. Never give up, and fight for your rights.”

A deathly silence covered the room. My father said, “Khodai e aman” (God bless you). He started walking strongly toward the door. I was looking at him—God, he was strong. For the last time, I saw his broad shoulders and his tall frame.

My father had hopes of leaving his three sons behind to take care of his wife and daughters. But once my father left, the guards turned to my brothers and the guests and said to all the men in the room, “Okay, let’s go, guys.” Again without replying, my two brothers, my uncle and our other guests from Bagram followed them. They didn’t say goodbye. They just left the room and followed the guards. I was again the one who trailed them to the gate. When they reached the gate, one guard said, “Take your car, too. Who has got the key?”

My older brother said “I have the key.” Then he asked the commander, “Why do you want my younger brother to go with us? He is only 14.”

The commander said in an ugly tone, “Oh really? I thought he might be 18. Okay, fine, fine, don’t go with us. You are a child.”

Can you imagine? They took all the men with them. They put them in jail. We never saw them again. When we asked the government, they said, “We don’t have any idea where they are,” or gave other stupid answers. The bloody government didn’t give him time to raise me and my younger sister. He didn’t get a chance to see how his two small girls went to school and brought wonderful report cards with high marks, how they became highly qualified women. When my sister and I got our results of our university admittance exams, she was accepted to the Faculty of Medicine and I to the Faculty of Law and Political Science. We couldn’t stop our tears. We didn’t have our father beside us to share the wonderful news. He knew the value of education more than anyone else in the world.

My dear and lovely father, my wonderful papa. We didn’t even have a chance to say goodbye to each other. I didn’t hold his warm hands. Why didn’t I do that? Why? Because at that time, I didn’t know I would never see him again. I want to write more and more about my father and how he was amazing, but these naive tears won’t allow me to write. I can’t see my computer screen. My fingers are ice cold. I can’t move them. Let me cry, my dear friends. Life is more complicated than we thought.

By Elay

I loved Spring too, as a child, and the cloudy skies of Kabul, the heavy rain of April, the perfume of the blossoms and grass. Spring was the season of beginnings and of change. It meant the start of the school year, new classes, new classmates and probably new friends. I always enjoyed the long, fresh rainy days of Spring. When I was a kid, Spring in Afghanistan meant everything was green and fresh, roads were paved, and weather was not dusty. I would look from my bedroom window to the white and light pink blossoms in the big yard of the Kabul Polytechnic Institute which stood in front of our house. I could see the trees wave in the breeze, and smell the perfumes of the rose flowers. I always counted days and nights until I could see Spring, especially the first day of the school.

Since I grew up in a very happy and joyful family, I never used to hate anything or anyone. Then, on a beautiful summer day in 1979, my father, two brothers and two uncles were captured by the Communist government of Afghanistan and jailed, simply because my father was a famous Afghan. I will never forget that dark day of my life. It changed our family’s future. Since then, one part of my heart still waits to welcome Spring, but another part is reluctant and averse to accepting Spring’s arrival.

I still love early mornings of Jalalabad’s winter. I like Spring, but I can’t say anymore that I love that season.

By Elay