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Posts Tagged ‘books’

Autoimmune Nation

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 26, 2025| Leave a Comment »

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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The Franchise of Virtue: When Pain Becomes PR

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on October 16, 2025| Leave a Comment »

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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The Burden of Being the Eldest

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on March 28, 2025| Leave a Comment »

I am the eldest of ten children, born to a father who was 65 and a mother barely 18 or 20. A most remarkable arrangement, really — one that should inspire poets and playwrights alike. After all, what is a family without a bit of comedic tragedy? Among the first six of us, there was hardly a year separating one from the next. My parents must have fancied themselves industrious breeders, churning out offspring as if to meet a wartime quota.

Speaking of war, my childhood unfolded under the rather generous hospitality of the Russian occupation. People in small towns learned the art of the disappearing act, vanishing from one village to the next, always outrunning bombs, rockets, and the ever-diligent gaze of inspectors. We traveled by foot, a caravan of the unwanted. My mother, predictably cradling yet another newborn, moved forward with the stoic grace of a woman who had no choice. My aunt and grandmother, both sworn custodians of chaos, wrangled the younger ones. And I, the eldest, was the forgotten mule, bearing both the burden of existence and the curse of invisibility.

Hunger was a constant companion, but so was exhaustion, and between the two, they made a fine pair. If I grew tired, I kept it to myself. If I felt sick, I simply wasn’t. Pain was a luxury for those with fewer siblings and more attentive mothers. My most enduring memory is of a swollen fingernail, pulsating with infection. A tiny rebellion of flesh, daring to demand acknowledgment. It happened on one of our grand excursions for survival. The pain throbbed with each step, as if my finger were marching alongside me in protest. But in a world consumed by the shrill cries of babies and the panicked whispers of adults, my suffering was an inconvenient footnote.

When we finally reached a shelter that night, the pain had grown unbearable. A monstrous thing, red and angry, it mocked me in silence. Yet I dared not mention it. My mother, you see, had produced a son this time. Her first, a golden boy. And unlike the weary births of her daughters, this particular achievement rendered her something of a saint. She was swaddled in reverence, showered with praise, and shielded from all trivial concerns — like her daughter’s festering finger.

But despair has a curious sense of humor. Clutching my hand like a cursed relic, I found my way to my grandmother. A woman wise with age, wrinkled and weary, possessing all the sagacity one might expect from surviving a lifetime of absurdity. I presented my grotesque finger to her, hoping for a shred of mercy. She peered at it with a look of indifference, as though I had offered her a particularly unremarkable potato.

“Go press it to a red cow’s ass,” she declared, her voice as casual as if recommending a fine herbal remedy. Yes, a cow’s backside — nature’s cure-all. Forget the salves and poultices of the privileged; the crimson hindquarters of a farm animal were evidently the pinnacle of medical science in our parts.

I did not argue. I did not cry. Tears were a futile extravagance. I merely nodded, swallowed the bitter laughter that bubbled in my throat, and retreated to my corner. The lesson that night was clear, etched into the marrow of my bones. Pain was mine to bear. No declarations of agony, no cries for comfort. If my flesh rotted, it would do so quietly.

I learned then, with a clarity that defied my years, that I was my own caretaker. Because in a world of swollen bellies and scarred earth, what could be more absurd than the hope that someone might care?

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Five with Three Dads

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on March 25, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter One: The Intake

The phone rang at the emergency shelter just after 3 p.m., its shrill tone slicing through the quiet hum of the office. The worker picked up, the motion familiar, almost automatic by now. On the other end, a woman’s voice, soft and unsure, broke the silence.

“Hello… do you have space for me?”

The worker straightened in her chair. “What’s your name?” she asked, pen hovering over the intake form.

“Casey.”

“And your last name?”

“Davidson.”

There was a pause — not from hesitation, but something else. A pause that didn’t ask for permission, didn’t explain anything, didn’t feel the need to. It was the kind of pause that felt like a habit.

The questions continued, a routine dance of necessity — date of birth, reason for seeking shelter, any known restrictions. Unlike many calls, Casey answered each question without resistance, without emotion. As though she was reciting a script that had been written a long time ago and rehearsed silently in the spaces between exhaustion and surrender.

The worker ran her name through the system. No red flags. Clean. She gave Casey the usual instruction: there was one bed available. If she could make it within two hours, the space would be held. Shelter policy.

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” Casey replied quickly — too quickly. No questions, no hesitation. Just that same unnerving ease, like she’d done this before.

The worker added, almost as an afterthought, “Please don’t bring more than two medium-sized suitcases. We don’t have much storage space.”

Thirty-five minutes later, Casey arrived. A single suitcase in one hand, and in the other — oddly — a few worn baby toys. Their colors faded, the plastic edges dulled with time and touch. She clutched them with a strange casualness, like someone holding onto something they no longer recognized but couldn’t quite release.

She was small, thin, with eyes that darted around but never settled. Her face, pale and stripped of expression, seemed to carry both youth and weariness. She looked too young to be this tired.

The intake began. Forms were passed across the desk. Casey signed each one without reading them, without blinking. Her hand moved mechanically, as though her body remembered what to do even when her mind was somewhere else entirely.

The worker asked, gently, “Do you have any children?”

Casey didn’t flinch. She didn’t smile either. “Yeah,” she said plainly. “Five.”

The worker’s pen stopped. “Five?” she repeated, her voice betraying a hint of disbelief.

“Yeah,” Casey confirmed. “Ten, seven, five, two… and the baby’s six months.”

There was no pride in her voice. No sorrow either. Just… emptiness.

The worker hesitated, unsure how far to go. She had learned, over time, to read silences — when to step in, when to hold back. She asked, cautiously, “Do you see them?”

Casey smiled. Not a warm smile — not a sad one either. It was more of a reflex, a twitch of the lips that didn’t reach her eyes. “Not since December.”

That was four months ago.

The worker tried to keep her tone neutral. “Why not?”

“Alcohol,” Casey said simply.

No explanation. No shame. Just a single word, delivered like a line she’d said too many times to feel it anymore.

“And… how are you coping?” the worker asked.

“Got diagnosed,” Casey replied. “Back in December.”

The word hung in the air. Diagnosed with what? She didn’t say. She didn’t have to. The worker could piece it together — bits of mental fog, addiction, isolation.

“Who’s taking care of the kids?”

Casey’s expression shifted, just slightly. “They’ve got three different dads,” she said with a laugh, the kind that came from a place far from joy. “So it’s not that hard. They’re with them.”

The worker said nothing. She didn’t want to push. Casey looked fragile — not in the way of someone who might shatter, but more like someone already broken into too many pieces to notice another crack.

Casey noticed the pause. She tilted her head, almost amused by the silence.

“I signed up for a recovery program,” she offered, like it was a casual update, not a turning point. “Drug and alcohol. It’s about three hours from here.”

That, at least, stirred something in the worker — a flicker of hope. “That’s good,” she said warmly. “That’s really good. You have five reasons to finish that program.”

Casey nodded, though her eyes remained distant. Like she was watching a version of herself from far away, someone else’s life playing out on a stage she didn’t belong to anymore.

The worker hesitated, then asked, “Do you have a sponsor?”

Casey shrugged. “Not yet.”

The worker didn’t know much about sponsors, only that those who had them often had a better shot. But she wasn’t sure if Casey believed in “shots” anymore.

Still, she smiled, steady and kind. “Maybe you’ll find one. Someone who can walk with you through it.”

Casey didn’t answer. Her silence wasn’t resistance — it was deeper than that. A kind of numbness that wrapped around her like armor, keeping the world out, keeping herself in.

The intake ended. The forms were filed. Casey was shown to her room — a small, quiet space with a single bed and a worn blanket.

And the baby toys? She set them on the shelf, carefully, without looking at them again.
To be continued…

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