Reflection Story of a Woman

Reflection

31st Dec 2009 2:00 PM

Its 31st dec 1999, sitting on a rocky cliff I could feel the hot air on my face. Gazing at a caravan of camels carrying tents and household items of nomad family moves slowly but steadily across the dry and barren mountainous, I was excited to meet Nizaam. Nizaam is the only son of my father's sister who is economically better than my family, so they can afford living in the town. Uncle Awad, Nizaam's father, does business in sheep wool and dry fruits trade. This business provides enough money to build their two story house and also to send Nizaam for education in school.

I live with my abba , ammi jaan and my younger brother in a small house in a remote village Aimaq. We travel to Ashkun a small town which is 10 kms from our village once in 3 months to buy household items. This is the time when Nizaam smuggles books to me. In our tribe reading books accept for Quran is prohibited and whoever is caught is punished and banished from the community. I always burn my beloved books after reading, but that at least gives me satisfaction of reading them first. My father Dawoud used to work as clergyman in mosque in the town before he was made to retire because some influential clergymen wanted to take over the position. The earnings to the house are fewer than before. But I am delighted as I get to spent time with abba and he has been teaching me to read since then.

2nd Jan 2000 7:00 PM

We came back from town today. Nizaam has started handling his father's business which requires him to travel to Kabul soon. He has promised me lot of new books from the city. Their business is flourishing these days as according to uncle they are getting demands of dry fruits and wool not only from other towns but from Pakistan also. Nizaam's house is bigger than I saw it last time, the rooms' smell of Jasmine and floor was covered with soft tribal rug, which had a very delicate handiwork in the center in the design of rose. We were served by 2 servants for dinner. I cannot remember when I had such delicious food last time. I was dysphoric as aami did not allow me to go out to play, because I have grown up, and it's dangerous with Taliban people roaming in the town in search for their brides.

I stayed with my mother and aunt next day. Nizaam, with whom I usually spent time while I am in the town, had to handle accounts at the shop. The chitchats of my mother and aunt were so ruled by new marriages happening in the town or secret love affairs. Eventually I escaped into my dreams of fairy tales where a Princess is loved and cared by her beloved, until I was woken up by the call for dinner. After dinner Nizaam came to me avoiding anybody's attention and slipped a new book to me.

"Arabian nights" book of short stories, which I will read when I will have shade of rocks from every body's prying eyes tomorrow. My fantasies start racing every time I read these stories full of romance of prince and princesses, the adventures of treasure hunters, flying carpets, dancing ropes and so many unimaginable beautiful places with lush green gardens.

But I desire to be a contemporary writer when I grow up. I believe it is a descent medium to express my views about the struggle and sufferings of people in Afghanistan.

Abba will be back from grazing herd of sheep, and then Ammi will call for dinner. Aami said this is the time for me to learn the entire household chorus as I have to be ready before I be married soon.

7th Jan 2000 4:00 PM

Reading all these fairy tales some time gives me assurance of a possibility of a beautiful life and for the rest I feel hopeless, what if my dreams will never come true? I understand the constraints and challenges my wishes will follow if I decide to pursue them. But living under the fear of jihadis will never make my life easier. They came yesterday to our village in search of younger boys to be levied in struggle for the cause of land as they call it and for prospective brides. My mother as it happens every time hid me and my younger brother Shafiq, who is 13 now, in a pit which is dug inside the house. When I was taken out, my mother was crying and everything in the house was scattered and broken. I was confounded not about the purpose of the group to fight but about the people they are fighting for or against. I wish to forget this ordeal as I do every time but it will be difficult for me this time as my willingness to confront is growing stronger. I will never stop reading these fairy tales but this new realization, that I am no princess and there is no prince who will come to save me, will never go.

Aami fears of loosing me and Shafiq to those 'vultures' as she calls Jihadists. I have been