I asked my soul last night,
“What happens to you if you don’t write?”
My soul was in deep thought
I said again, “Answer me…
Pardon me!
I asked if you don’t write,
what will happen?”

My soul’s eyes were full of tears.
She sat in front of me and said,
“I can’t imagine what will happen
but I can understand when I don’t write
I am like a dry river.
Fishes say goodbye.
I am like a thirsty tree waiting for water in a desert —
I am like an orphan child searching love of parents —
I am like a broken lover —
I am like a blasted Kabul street full of blood.

“When I can’t write,
It is hard to say —
but it is my only identity.
I can’t stop writing because
when I can’t talk —
when I am very alone, I am not alone.
With my writings I write about
things I can’t talk about.
When I write
I feel fresh
I wear my favorite dress of my desires,
sit under the tree of my thoughts
and I write and write.

“I stop?
Maybe
when I am not able to breathe.
When…”

By Roya

photo by  Julio Saguar

There’s my bed with its small, dirty pillow
And the blue walls and the white dirty ceiling
A roomful of memories.

There’s my childhood with my dolls 
And the small truck I pulled on the floor 
The smell of food coming from the kitchen 
The kitchen was my neighbor.

The clock still lives on the wall 
Ringing at 9:00 for school time

The cupboard smells of my clothes 
That dirty bad smell of my school socks 
My broken green pencil still lives in the cupboard.

There’s my torn picture of Bollywood stars
Shelves full of dust
My handwriting on the wall  
In the corner I wrote with a red pen
“Well come to my crazy room”
Later I hid love letters under the floor.

Everything the same 
But life is unfaithful 
I am not there 
I miss my crazy room 
I miss that crazy time of my life. 

By Roya

photo of Bollywood stars at a Kabul market stall by James Reeve

If I were not a woman
the day I was born
Mom wouldn’t have suffered.
Dad wouldn’t have warned
her: You’ve brought shame
to the house!

If I were not a woman
I could have played outside
with other kids.
I could have gone to my favorite school.
Mom couldn’t have prevented
me, saying: School is far.

If I were not a woman
I could wear the light colors I love
and drive the car of my wishes.
I could marry my girlfriend
and Dad would support me,
love not a fault for him.

If I were not a woman but a man,
I could be a coward,
ignorant,
irresponsible,
rude.
Worthy because I was a man,
son of my father and proud,
the pride of my family.
I would have the world of luck
in my foolish pockets.

If I were not a woman
I would never be a hurt,
never be ashamed.

Roya

photo by Lynsey Addario

You are my golden sky after the storm
And my strength.
You are unique in this world.

Most of the time I wonder
If you are an angel that
Came here
To
Help me.

You are the light of my dark life’s path
And the only voice
In
My hopeless world.
You called me in my dreams
And recalled me from my dead world.

When there is nowhere to feel peace,
When there is no hope to continue life,
When there is no one to share my words,
You are my shadow.

You are my shadow.
I sit in front of you
And I take a breath
For my tired life.

By Roya

photo by PJ Nelson

My schedule is always the same: no free time, no time to relax, and all the days of the week are the same. Sunday through Friday, only work, work, work!

Every day my breakfast is the dust of the streets on my way to the office. And after that, the boring face of my boss, always angry and nervous, as if he fought with his wife. It wears me out.

I decided to change my stupid schedule and go to another environment, somewhere far from my daily work. My off-days are Fridays, and, wanting to forget the hot weather of summer, my husband decided we should go to the north of Kabul. When we passed the last street of Kabul and started our trip to the north, I began to feel some calm and peace. The weather was nice and the wind was kind, it kissed my face as if it understood I was tired.

The streets were quiet. As we traveled, we knew we were in a different place than the city.

To our right and left were green trees and beyond them — mountains; behind them more mountains on the right and a river on the left. We saw mud houses in the mountains and we loved this natural, unique, wonderful view.

I felt thirsty so we stopped the car and went to the river. The water was cold. I was like a dry garden inside!  I drank and drank. As we went further I was amazed at the big rocks in the river, and the river hugging the mountain. We found a small park with some tall trees next to the river. In their shadow we sat on the lawn. The sound of the water was exactly like a love song.

I noticed that there were no other females around; there were boys playing football, men drinking tea, children with kites. There were sheep and a cow — I think even they were male, too! It felt strange to be the only woman there. Although I looked totally Afghan, the men stared, perhaps because I had a camera in my hands.

The voice of the river was our background music. Some boys were swimming and I looked at the river and wished I could swim too. I could easily see my face in the river, and it was as if the river found what was in my mind. The water jumped from a rock. It was as if the river called to me, “Come on, swim! Swim!” I told the river, “Shhhh… I can’t swim, I am a woman, I can’t.”

I wanted to swim, but I was thirsty too, so instead I drank water. In an hour I drank five bottles of water! After that I felt heavy inside. I felt something was wrong, and I didn’t know why it was becoming difficult to enjoy being in nature. I couldn’t sit and I couldn’t walk.  After a few hours I felt even worse. There was no place to excuse myself, and I thought I might faint.

My husband washed my face in the river, and then suddenly I went down and down into the water. All anyone could see was my head — all my body was in the water!  All the men stared, children shouted, “Oh, look there, she is swimming!” The boys playing football stopped to watch me.

But I felt calm, and when I felt better came out of the water. However, when I looked at the water it was yellow!  I looked at the river and said, “Sorry, river! Forgive me, river!”

On the way back home, my clothes smelled. When I reached home I went directly to the toilet. But when I slept that night I could still smell the bad smell, and when I woke up the mattress was wet!

After that I didn’t have any complaints about my daily schedule, nor was I tired of all the angry faces of my boss. Because at least there was a toilet next to his office and I didn’t have to swim in the river!

Roya

“I don’t love you,” I told you.
“I am married!”
I had to say it.
I kept your love hidden in my heart.
Only my heart saw I loved you.

I felt shame.
How I broke your heart
With the evil words
“I don’t love you, I don’t love you.”

You left my house.
You trusted my words.
You didn’t look into my eyes.

You left, and my eyes followed you.
All of my body had eyes to look at you
And all of my cells were hands to hug you.

Nothing can remove you
From my heart, my darling.

Please forgive me.
All the words in my soul
Cried, “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
I said, “Sorry,” sorry to you
But my sorry didn’t work.

You went far, far from my destiny.
Long years passed while I waited for you.
But you did not care for my apologies.

I can never forgive myself.

At night,
I hug your shadow.
I kiss you and say
“Sorry…
Sorry…
Sorry…”

By Roya

photo: Lena Slezic

It starts from my childhood clothes: funny pants—dirty, dusty, some parts torn. They have the smell of my childhood, when I played in the dust with my friends and built mud houses, spent hot days of the summer in the sun. When I see my childhood clothes I remember my sunburned face and the pain of my nose when I washed it with warm water.

I am in a different world with different feelings when I look in the postcards of my album. I remember my teenage time, the days I went to school.  I remember Fahima, my school friend who gave me a Bollywood postcard and told me that she is in love with the picture and will marry the superstar after she graduates from school. She was a simple girl with her super dreams and I was also—I believed she would marry the superstar!

When I look at other clothes in the corner of the room, I see the jumper I took from Laila by force; she became angry at first, then when I helped her with the bag full of potatoes that snowy day of winter, she gave me the jumper on my birthday. I see the green chadar (veil), which is Karima’s favorite color and with that I remember the happy spring memories I had with her.

The Taj Majal sculpture on my dressing table is a memory of my very close friend Sela, and reminds me of her romance and love with her boyfriend. She couldn’t keep the sculpture herself so she gave it to me.

I also have a collection of songs, which relate to different memories, and when I play them I want to cry for those moments with my friends. I sometimes play the song “Last Night” more than ten times.

Last night till the morning
I told story to my darling
He was sleep
I was awake told stories
I told many stories
I cried slowly not to wake him up
I repeated my stories
Till the end of night…

Everything in my museum has a special cost; they are unique, and dear, dearest as my friends. The two most dear and precious have to do with my dad. There is my watch, which Dad sent from a trip, and the other is what I see in the mirror, my lovely shiny hair. Dad told me never cut it. I love girls with long hair. Every day when I comb my long brown shiny hair, I remember him.

I have only lost one thing, which I still can’t forget the pain of. I lost my love letters, which I hid in my grandfather’s winter coat 15 years ago. Last Sunday my husband gave the coat to a poor man!

The objects I have kept are all reminders for me, of golden times, happy moments and long sorrows.  They are like alarms waking me up to remind my mind to be happy, and understand the value of friendship and learn the lessons of ever-constant love.

by Roya

I look ahead
To reach my destination.
I don’t pay attention to women whispering
“Look at this crazy lady; she thinks
She is a man.” They don’t know me.
I am Madam Writer
And I love driving.
One day I will have
My own new car
And I’ll drive
Drive
Drive
Far into the
Mountains and hills.
And in the mirror
I will see the world.

By Roya