Ahmad-Zia

Persian
Sometimes I feel so sorry for Afghanistan. It’s like a human who’s been dealing with different sicknesses for years and whoever comes to help her, does so only for personal advantage. It’s like a human with a wound just about to heal when another one attacks her. When she feels alright for a while, they leave her alone and in the depth of her loneliness she moves closer and closer to death. 

It’s not surprising that a 12-year-old kid who’s lived and worked in a city like Tehran, sees the world like a mature man at the age of 17 and can analyse it. 
When Ahmad-Zia was 17 he decided to go back to Afghanistan. He was only 12 when he came all alone from Afghanistan to Iran to work and send money for his family in Kabul. But he was so independent that even when he decided to go back, he didn’t want to go back to Kabul. He said: “ Kabul is a big city and very crowded. I cannot find a job in Kabul nor I can study and live there. I must support my family not to add another burden to them.” 

Ahmad-Zia went to Herat, a smaller city close to Iran’s border. When I went to see him, he had already been living there for a few months. He explained to me how different living was in Herat compared to Tehran. He said that the relationship between a man and a woman is very complex in Herat. The lifestyle the traditional beliefs of people in Herat had confounded Ahmad-Zia. He didn’t think that people could still be bound by traditional beliefs. I was glad that he analyzed and scrutinized the problems and came up with answers for most of his questions; he didn’t need my answers. Ahmad-Zia said: “I understand that people have lived through war, that women were imprisoned in houses."

I felt that Ahmad-Zia has more experience compared to his peers in Herat or better to say ‘different’ experience. This made him be compatible with the situation he was in and so he could better understand people. I could clearly see this difference in the way his friends from Herat treated him; their concern was something and Ahmad-Zia’s was something else. 

Ahmad-Ziad worked very hard. He studied at a night school and attended technical workshops during the day to learn electrical wiring. Now after a year and a half, Ahmad-Zia is employed as an electrician while studying at the same time. He travelled to Kabul a few times to see his family. 

Self-confidence, compatibility, scrutiny and criticality was the souvenir from Iran that he took with him to Afghanistan. He learned all these not at a desk in school classrooms but in struggling with life everyday in the streets and workshops in Tehran. He learned them from the people in the streets and those in children’s rights societies who leafed through the pages of life with these kids everyday. 

Now Ahmad-Zia can go to school and attend workshops; he can buy a motorbike and travel from one city to another; he can have an identity card, get paid for his work and have the right to spend his earning the way he wants. He can have dreams and expectations; expectations that can be obtainable. 

Maybe these are enough to make me optimistic about Afghanistan and not think that she will die in her loneliness. These are enough to make me smile and delight in Ahmad-Zia’s courageous decision; to make me think that apart from hatred and revenge, children learn love, self-confidence and independence from each other.

Mojtaba

Persian

In 2001 Mojtaba was 9 years old. He was small and scruffy with dishevelled hair. It was clear from his look that he lived in a violent environment. He spent most of his day, even night outside his home. He belongs to a tribe which was tagged as outsider. He was expelled from school the very first year and never went back. This was the first shock that I had from his condition; expelled from the first year of school! The ministry of education had spread propaganda about its success in education and extensive coverage. It had totally denied expelling any student from school. Perhaps this claim meant that there was in fact no dossier for Mojtaba or his like to show that they were students and expelled. Therefore the ministry of education did not hold itself responsible to follow up their case. When someone doesn’t exist and doesn’t have identity, what does it matter what happens to him?

The second shock was when Mojtaba could multiply three-digit by 1-digit numbers in his mind, whereas what is taught at first grade is utmost adding and subtracting numbers. This was unbelievable. How smart and bright this child was that he had learned to such extent without even reaching the third level and learning about multiplication table. I don’t know how he had learned; maybe he had learned the basics from the older kids then learned the rest by himself. But now this kid, this genius, this future is expelled from school and is spending all his time in the dirty streets of the southern part of the city. He could have a bright future. Not bright, but good future or at least not a dark and vague future because he has something that is so valuable. Maybe if he was in another family or another environment, he could go to the school for gifted children without much money and become one of the geniuses of the future and...

In 2008 Mojtaba was 16. It was a few years since I last saw him. He had grown up and was sweet as his childhood. He was still scruffy but the traces of violence were more evident. This time, apart from violence, trace of affliction was visible. He earned from stealing and his job was to run away. He looked pale. When I told him that I had kept the painting he had done 7 years ago because it is valuable to me, he didn’t remember and I couldn’t read from his eyes what his feeling was and if this really mattered to him. He wasn’t as agile and mischievous as before. His look was curious but crooked; it was as if all that genius was locked with a chain. I asked him if he still could multiply 3-digit by 1-digit numbers. He glanced at me and then stared at an unclear point, as if he was never able to do that. He was caught up in drugs and this was the not very uncommon situation of his life and that of his tribe.

Now all he thinks is how to earn money, how to get drugs and to run away and not be busted. That’s it.
Mojtaba was gone... Mojtabas are gone...

Khan-Agha, another tale

Persian

Thursday, December 26, 2008

I was in metro, thinking about Khan-Agha, to whom I bid farewell today at Behesht-e-Zahra cemetery. To the one who couldn’t bear more, what we call life.

A young boy with a bag full of pocket tissue paper came into the car: Ladies! it’s just 200 tomans (40 cents). It’s very cheap; 200 tomans won’t make you poor.

…

And the women bought some tissue paper from him. The woman who was sitting beside me asked him: 

-Where are you from?

He said, with his eager face:

-I’m from Mashhad

-Where’s your father?

-He’s working as a labourer.

-Do you go to school?

-Yes, I go to night school.

-Which grade are you in?

-Second.

-High school?

-No, because I started school late. I couldn’t go earlier.

As he was talking, he sold tissue paper and put the money in his pocket. He dropped a banknote. Someone pointed to it; the other one said: a cheapjack should take care of his money; another said: get yourself a bag so that you don’t lose your money; and the boy said: I should buy a waist bag.  

The woman beside me who was watching this scene said: Attaboy! This is what a young boy should be. Young boys these days just think about their hairstyle, eyebrows and their look. They don’t know what earning means, they just spend. This is a man! He will soon be a man. Bravo!

I was thinking: Yes, he will soon be a man; but why should he be a man soon? Is it good to be man soon? When should he be a child then?

Khan-Agha soon became a man, very soon, when he sold tea in the park; the very moment when he wanted to remain a child, he became a man; the very moment when he wanted to remain an adolescent, he became an adult. The time when he wanted to be happy and dance, he became a man. The time when he wanted to fall in love and give another taste to his life, he became a man, a man that the society wanted him to be; a man that the traditions wanted him to be. He became a man... a man... he became a man without even wanting to become a man. He became something that he didn’t want but realised that he didn’t want to be what he was, so he decided not to be. He didn’t reach where he wanted but shattered what he didn’t want. This was the only way he knew or maybe the only way that was left for him.

Siavash

Persian

He was sitting on a bench in the classroom. His legs not long enough to reach the floor, they were dangling in the air. One of his hands was on the desk as he rested his head upon it. He wore a shirt, two size bigger than him. His other hand went into the pocket of his shirt, every now and then to bring out some nuts to eat. I was rehearsing a play with the children in the class while he was sitting just like that. He was looking down, not at us, but he was there. If I told the children to close their eyes and imagine, I could see that Siavash also closed his eyes while his mouth was moving as he chewed his nuts and imagined...

Siavash was such a little child, maybe 3 or 4 when I saw him. He smelled alcohol in the mornings back then. He couldn’t walk steadily and staggered. He was very naughty; even the older kids couldn’t handle him. Sometimes Siavash smelled opium; the same days that he sat calmly at the desk, his legs dangled in the air, his eyes closed as he imagined...

Siavash was one of the Iranian children. One of those who sometimes was and sometimes wasn’t there. The days that he was there, he smelled strange, played impishly... he sometimes delved into his dreams in the theatre class. Sometimes I wished that after saying ‘imagine...’ a cloud appeared above Siavash’s head. I wished I could see that cloud unraveling what was inside the mind of this 5-year-old kid, what was he imagining?

Siavash was and was not there. When he grew up, he became the ringleader, managed to gather some kids as followers and clamoured in the neighbourhood; he had become master. Not only he smelled strange, but also did strange deeds. Nevertheless nothing made this kid less sweet. His hands were always wounded. Sometimes the wound was so deep that he wrapped it with a rag; other times it was just on the surface and he left it open. He said: “it will heal itself.”

There was a knife scar on his face; tiny marks here and there but there was a major scar marked by a knife.

 

One day, close to the New Year, he entered the school wearing a loose red garment, his face blackened as he was holding a tom-tom and a tambourine. He had become ‘Haaji-Firouz’; he played out of tune, laughed and sang. His red cloth was too big for him. He had come to show his new occupation. Siavash played in the middle of the streets, at the crossroads and in the alleys. He played and sang; he stopped the cars and danced. His daily practice was to play tom-tom and caper about here and there. He gathered with his friends and practiced. One played, another danced. Sometimes they went to the streets in a group, sometimes alone. At nights, there were more cars, more traffic. It was New Year’s Eve. Siavash danced between the cars, played his tom-tom and made people laugh.

Siavash daydreams... he wears his red garment; he has a tom-tom; he sings; he dances... Siavash still smells strange. The clouds above his head are dark; it’s not clear what is going on in them... I want to close my eyes one day and shout out loud: Imagine...

Siavash has closed his eyes; he’s five years old; he puts his hand in his pocket on the sly; his legs dangle in the air...they don’t reach the ground; they just dangle in the air. The wound on his hand was very deep; the surface wounds on his face were healed but the scars had remained.