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Archive for October, 2025

Faith Amid the Absurd**: As an Afghan woman, I have learned to live with folly as a constant companion. My nation’s tragedy is treated as an exemplary tale rather than a call for justice. When an Afghan woman speaks, she is told to stay silent. *The Modern Empire’s Favorite Performance*: Meanwhile, in the world’s grand theater, state violence is not hidden; it is performed. There are scripts for everything: democracy delivered by drone, humanitarianism enforced through sanctions, and feminism exported through occupation. The actors are the same: presidents, generals, CEOs, and UN ambassadors applauding one another for “courageous restraint.” The victims play their roles too. They appear on screens long enough to draw sympathy, then vanish once the next crisis auditions for attention. The news cycle moves on, empathy resets. The audience claps. Curtain down. Behind it all lies one of the most grotesque jokes of modern history: the oppressor’s monopoly on morality. The same nations that lecture the world on freedom built their empires on slavery. The same powers that condemn extremism have armed dictatorships to serve their markets. The same voices that call for peace manufacture weapons that guarantee war. *The Irony of Liberation*: I often find myself defending the Palestinian nation, not out of politics but out of faith, because in Islam, to stay silent in the face of oppression is itself a sin. Yet, another truth burns within me: my primary duty is to the women of Afghanistan, my sisters who are imprisoned without walls. They are being tortured under the guise of purity, sexually violated by the same men who preach virtue and stripped of education, work, and voice, all to ensure they remain invisible enough to be forgotten. They are being humiliated into silence. Every law passed in their name becomes another chain around their necks. And every time the world calls it “complex,” another door to their freedom shuts. The international community loves its metaphors, resilience, empowerment, capacity building, as long as those words don’t require them to act. Feminist movements chant “sisterhood,” but go mute when the sisters don’t look European enough for the photo op. The hypocrisy would be laughable if it weren’t so lethal. *Colonial Logic in Postcolonial Packaging*: As Fatima Bhutto observed, the crises of the global South are still filtered through European frameworks as if the same colonial lens that created these disasters can somehow heal them. Western think tanks hold symposiums on “developing nations,” much like doctors congratulating themselves on the infection they caused. The United Nations, that supposed temple of global morality, bends not toward justice but toward power. It was never meant to hold European or American leaders accountable; its purpose is to discipline everyone else. They call it international order, but what it truly represents is a hierarchy of impunity. And so, Biden remains off the hook. Netanyahu remains off the hook. They can bomb, starve, and occupy with the confidence of men who know the judge is a friend and the jury is asleep. The UN’s judges and lawyers are bullied into silence, forced to recite the same tired lines about “complex geopolitics.” The chamber that once promised justice now hosts a theatre of selective outrage, a tragicomedy written by those who fund it. *The Forgotten Grave of Afghanistan*: Afghanistan, of course, has been retired from global empathy. Once a stage for televised liberation, it is now just another bureaucratic file gathering dust at the UN. Its tragedy has been downgraded to a “state issue,” a polite way of saying it is “no longer profitable.” Women there are dying beneath earthquake rubble because non-mahram men are forbidden or too afraid to touch them. Their deaths are not accidents; they are policies disguised in religious language. Their lives are worth less than the fabric that covers them. Yet, to the world, this is not news; it’s merely a local custom, a cultural tragedy, something too inconvenient to indicate. *Democracy and Eloquence*: Something is often taken for granted, perhaps because it wears a flag and a necktie or, in our case, a turban and a long beard. This is state violence itself. We have been conditioned to perceive violence only when it bleeds in the streets, not when it signs legislation, issues decrees, or delivers humanitarian speeches with a trembling voice and a clean conscience. Representative democracy is dissolving before our eyes, quietly, like a sugar cube in warm water. Dissent has become a decorative slogan, and authoritarianism no longer storms through the door; it enters politely through policy. We are asked to welcome it, even to thank it, because it arrives in the name of security, order, and democracy. From the surge in political violence to the unholy alliance of legacy media and corporate interests, from the suffocating nationalism on our screens to the comfortable silence of many feminist movements regarding Gaza, this is a conversation no one wants to have. Speaking about it honestly means admitting that the freedom that sacred word we all proclaim so proudly has been quietly sold to the highest bidder….

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After reading the opening pages of Gabor Maté’s When the Body Says No, I could not help but translate his metaphor into the living pathology of Afghanistan itself. The nation, once nourished by its own diversity of spirit, now suffers from a profound autoimmune disorder, its body turning violently against its own cells. Saadi Shirazi, with his timeless clairvoyance, once wrote:

“Human beings are limbs of one body,

Created from the same essence.

If one limb is afflicted with pain,

The others cannot remain at ease.”

But centuries later, that wisdom has become a diagnosis rather than a proverb. The men in power, swollen with self-righteous inflammation, have mistaken the women of their land for foreign invaders. They strike with decrees instead of antibodies, targeting classrooms, dreams, and the very idea of thought. What they call governance resembles nothing more than the immune system gone rogue, attacking its own tissue until paralysis sets in.

Education, once the lifeblood of progress, has become the site of infection. Half the nation’s brain, its women, has been chemically suppressed, sedated by superstition and sanctified oppression. The body politic convulses, mistaking disease for discipline, decay for devotion. They do not see that by disabling the feminine intelligence, they are amputating their own future, starving the organ that once nurtured them.

This is not piety; it is pathology. A fever disguised as faith. The Afghan male authority has become the immune system of ignorance, hyperactive, hypersensitive, attacking its own flesh with divine conviction. And yet, like every autoimmune illness, this self-destruction masquerades as protection. They believe they are defending purity, when in truth they are disfiguring the very body that sustains them.

Eventually, the disease consumes even its host. The hand that silences the girl also trembles when it tries to write. The mouth that forbids her speech forgets how to pray. The nation, caught in a state of spiritual sepsis, will not heal until it learns the simplest truth Saadi left behind: that no limb survives by devouring its own.

Until then, Afghanistan remains a tragic anatomy, half alive, half in denial, its soul gnawing on itself in the name of God….

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They call her a global icon, a beacon of hope, a miracle child who rose from the ashes of violence. The girl who “defied the Taliban” now sits on talk shows sipping tea with celebrities who can’t pronounce the name of her hometown. Meanwhile, millions of girls in Afghanistan wake up every morning to the same nightmare she once escaped, but the cameras have already packed up and gone home.

Malala became the brand, the face, the digestible headline. The West loves a single story, especially when it fits neatly into a TED Talk or a documentary narrated by someone with a comforting accent. They handed her the mic, and she quickly learned how to speak their language, hope, peace, empowerment, words that sound noble but sell even better. She’s not Afghan, not Pakistani, not Western, she’s something more profitable, she’s universal. The perfect poster child for a world that wants to feel good about feeling bad.

Every panel needs a survivor, every gala needs a hero, and every award ceremony needs a girl who smiles through her scars. She learned to milk the sacred cow of trauma, not because she’s greedy, but because the system taught her it’s the only way to be heard. She’s the diplomat of tragedy, the influencer of resilience. The irony is that while her story once symbolized courage, it’s now the soundtrack of a moral marketplace, trauma with a logo, hope with a sponsor.

But somewhere, in the dusty classrooms that never opened, the real revolution remains unfunded. The girls with dirt on their feet and fire in their eyes don’t trend. Their courage doesn’t translate into hashtags. They don’t have PR teams or press releases. They’re the invisible majority, still whispering in classrooms that don’t exist, learning from shadows, teaching from memory. No one makes documentaries about them because their stories aren’t convenient. They don’t offer good lighting or the promise of redemption. They are too real for the world’s appetite for curated grief.

So yes, applaud her. Let the audience cry on cue. Let the world feel redeemed through her story. Because nothing says “progress” quite like one girl with a Nobel Prize while millions of others fade quietly into the dark. The illusion is soothing, one success story to drown a thousand silent failures.

And of course, the saviours line up too, clipboards in hand, their smiles polished for impact reports. They host luncheons in glass towers to discuss “the girl problem,” while sipping fair-trade coffee harvested by girls who never went to school. They call it awareness, they call it advocacy, but really, it’s just business in moral disguise. Every donation buys another guilt-free night of sleep, and every campaign gives us another reason to believe the world is changing. And as long as one girl stands on stage saying thank you, the rest can remain unseen, unheard, and uncounted.

After seeing Malala back on social media, I felt a sense of discomfort without even listening to or watching her. It’s not the words, it’s the choreography, the perfectly timed humility, the effortless empathy that smells faintly of public relations. I couldn’t help but question how she manages to stay relevant in this increasingly social media-driven society, bravo indeed. She’s mastered the art of righteous relatability, not too serious, not too rebellious, just enough to trend without offending the donors.

Out of curiosity, I glanced at the podcast’s comment section. A digital shrine of gratitude awaited me. Every soul was thanking the host for “bringing her on,” for “introducing her story,” as if she were some newly discovered species of inspiration. Nobody questioned, nobody reflected, nobody even blinked. The audience performed its ritual of admiration with the precision of a standing ovation rehearsed for years. In that endless scroll of emojis and exclamation marks, not a single thought dared to wander.

And maybe that’s the real tragedy, not the bullet, not the exile, but the way the world packaged one girl’s pain into a franchise of virtue. Because when suffering becomes a brand, truth becomes optional, and empathy becomes entertainment.

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