Parallax 2009
Afghanistan Afghanistan is my first and sole mother. The mother who raised me in her warm arms, the mother who sacrificed herself just to facilitate food for me. The mother who never knew what peace means, peace is name of a bird? Peace is an edible thing, or what? She stayed hungry and thirsty like an African, but provided me with white Afghani rice and Naan. She stayed under the fiery sun, and gave me shade with her old, black colored Hijab, full of holes. She kept me safe even though her body was demolished by the Russian, English and American bombs. Her muddy, unclean, bloody rivers were my milk, her clean, soft, fresh, and dark gray soil was my food. She let me frolic in the floods of water in her eyes. Her screams, crying, and shouting of her pain were my music. Our nights were made as bright as electricity by the American deadly rockets.
Four Hours In Hell How close was the bomb blast? Did you get a call from your dad? How is he doing, is your family fine? No, my friend, I didn’t receive a call. I spent four hours in hell believing I lost my family, the family, which means Allah to me, is gone as water runs in the Chak River, and never comes back. I lost them, my Allah was dead. I am like a dry leaf on the corner of
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