Homeyra

Persian

Four months after the news of Khalegh’s death, Homeyra’s belly began to swell. Khalegh had gone to Iraq to settle his father’s land. Azizeh said: “my child had gone to to sort out his misfortune.” When I went to see Azizeh, she had scratched all over her face; she rubbed her hands against each other. She said: “my child was buried alone; those scoundrels killed him. They didn’t think that he would go there to settle his father’s affairs.” She kept on cursing them; she hit her chest with one hand and pointed at Homeyra with the other. Homeyra was sitting on the stairs, hiding his henna-dyed toes under her black skirt while crying. Ghasem had cut her forehead with a brick because of her swollen belly. Homeyra is sitting on the stairs and her tears fall on her swollen belly. She says, “ I’m still wearing black for Khalegh and they are accusing me. They accuse me because they are afraid to support me. Azizeh,” she says, “ Khalegh should have taken me to Baghdad as well; he shouldn’t have left me with two strangers. I belong neither to this part of the border nor to the other.” 

Azizeh left one morning. She told Ghasem and Abed that she goes to Ghom with some other women. They have come back but Azizeh hasn’t. When they inquire, the other women said that she was not with them from the beginning. Now Homeyra is sure that Azizeh has gone to Baghdad. “She has the right to go; what use do I have when her son is not here? She wanted to be there on the 40th day after his death. I’m afraid she’s dead on the way like uncle Ra’ad.” Ra’ad died on the border. He was returning to Baghdad to be hospitalized cause he couldn’t undergo chemo without residence permit and insurance, in this expensive situation. 

Homeyra is sitting on the stairs, talks to me rapidly, cries and chews her nails, just like the days that she was sent from Iraq to live with her uncle Ra’ad and his wife, Azizeh; the days when she talked to me rapidly and pulled her hands out of my hands because I could only understand “ um”[1] from her words. I knew that her parents were killed in the war. Now eight years have passed from those days. Homeyra is sixteen; the war is over but Homeyra is wearing a bride’s gown and is married to her cousin, Khalegh. The war is over but Ra’ad is dead on the way back at the frontier. Khalegh has gone to Iraq instead of his uncle, to settle his father’s inheritance. The war is over but Azizeh’s heart was sore; she had told Ghasem and Abed that she’s going to Ghom but Homeyra is sure that she’s gone back to Iraq. The war is over but Homeyra doesn’t know if Azizeh arrived safely in Iran or died on the way like Ra’ad. Now it’s eight years after those days. Homeyra is sitting on the stairs and is talking rapidly. Suddenly she shuts her eyes, presses her eyelids together and puts her hand on her belly. My eyes catch her tears which fall on her belly. I ask her if her child is moving. She puts my hand on her belly. This time, unlike those days, she doesn’t pull her hands out of mine, cuz this time, I understand all her words except the meaning of “um” and her becoming a mother. The war is over but the sixteen-year-old Homeyra has become a mother. Homeyra belongs neither to this side of the border, nor to the other.

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[1] Um (ام) in Arabic means “mother”

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...