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Posts Tagged ‘love’

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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Hello, my beloved siblings,

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on April 15, 2025| Leave a Comment »

May life grant you peace, even if peace has rarely visited our doorstep. Lately, I am haunted by the weight of all we’ve lost—not just time, but lifetimes of tenderness we never knew how to hold. I miss the fragile joys of youth, the moments that slipped past us unnoticed, the laughter we swallowed, the dreams we buried.

Their ghosts walk beside me still.

Even if I wanted to forget, I couldn’t. And perhaps, I shouldn’t. They are etched into me, and I into them.

I ache for the good days we imagined we had—but never truly did. I remember sharpening pencils over and over, hoping it would make someone sit and write, to follow the rules I thought were best. I was young, certain, foolish. I believed discipline could shape success. I had no idea that I was trimming wings.

Dearest siblings, forgive me for my smallness—for mistaking conformity for care. I didn’t recognize the brilliance in you, the way your minds worked outside the lines. I only wanted you to thrive in a world I didn’t understand myself.

This letter is for you—for the versions of you that never got to live freely. The world still owes you a life untainted by expectation and fear.

And I owe you, too. I owe you everything.

I see now how we—all of us—were failed. And yes, I carry that failure. I carry it in every breath, in every ache. Back then, I longed to speak of sorrow, of longing, of hope. But to whom could I speak? We had no language for pain.

Still, I won’t pretend innocence. I judged you. Compared you. Criticized you. Let go of your hands when I should’ve pulled you in close. In my silence, I betrayed you.

We were never taught the language of affection. Our home—more outpost than haven—was ruled by discipline, not connection. And so we grew without the tools for love.

They say life can be learned. I believe that now. Even love, even cruelty, even silence—they are all passed down. And we? We are miswritten texts from a broken lineage. We were denied joy, and handed shame.

But I no longer blame. I have come to see: they did not know any better. We are the echoes of an unfinished war, survivors of an education that taught obedience and fear—but not compassion.

If only we’d learned from Rumi, from Shams, from Saadi. If only poetry had raised us instead of pressure.

Growing up, I thought we shared nothing. But now, I see we are bound in wounds we could never name. I bury myself in history, philosophy, sociology—trying to decode our damage. Perhaps you’ve never read those books, but I know you’ve lived their truths. The ache in your silences, the brilliance behind your defiance—they say more than words ever could.

You are meaning to me, and I to you.

Today’s children know more than we did. Or at least, they have more tools to make sense of their world. We must be careful. Our children are watching. Our actions will shape what they believe they deserve.

You cannot understand today if you are still shackled to yesterday. Let go of the rusted rules. Think beyond our broken culture.

We were test subjects in a failed experiment. The system burned, and we were blamed for the smoke. Then they rebuilt the cage, only tighter—hoping this time, it would hold. But we are not the same. We are the children of fire now.

And I love you. Fiercely. Quietly. Endlessly.

I admire you—not for what you became, but for surviving what you were never meant to endure.

I know some of you should’ve been out in the open—on fields, on courts, in places full of light. Instead, you were imprisoned—by silence, by pain, by expectations. Forgive me. Forgive me for living while you were locked away.

Even now, unanswered calls pull me back into that panic—the fear that I won’t know if you’re safe. That I’ll be left guessing again.

Come with me now. Walk back with me through the ruins of our childhood. Remember the bicycles? The first poems memorized by heart? The cousins who challenged us without ever understanding what they were up against? You were not ordinary. You were lightning. And we—we missed it. Forgive us.

You were extraordinary, and we were just trying to keep up.

There’s still more I want to say—so much more. Will you walk this memory with me?

We had to memorize a verse five times to remember it. You absorbed it in one go. Because you were wired differently—beautifully.

I envy every athlete I see. Not for their strength, but because they remind me of yours. And I mourn what we lost. What we didn’t see in time.

Let me tell you everything from the beginning. Let me unbury the stories of our survival—and my guilt.

As a girl, I wanted to live simply. I wanted to go to small gatherings with friends, to laugh without burden. But I couldn’t. I had to watch over you. You, with your wild hearts, made me feel embarrassed and ashamed when I should’ve felt proud and protective. I was selfish. I was too young to be anyone’s guardian.

And then—like thunder—it was gone. My youth. Your childhood. Both stolen by time.

We were bent by forces too large to see. And I learned too late that time only makes you regret—not responsible, just haunted.

When I left, you gave up. On school, on hope. And I—fool that I was—thought I had finally escaped. I didn’t know I had left my heart behind.

I dreamed of leaning on you, of having a sibling strong enough to protect me from life. But I hadn’t stayed to help you grow into that role.

And your distance—the walls you built—became my prison, too.

I blame myself.

If only I had sat with my conscience sooner. If only we had spoken, truly spoken, as equals. Perhaps we could have saved something.

But I was still just a girl. And fear was all I knew.

Years later, I understand: had I taken responsibility, perhaps our lives would look different. A piece of my heart always beat for you. But I wasn’t a good sister. Nor a good mother. I was always trying to return to my first duty—but I never arrived.

And now, I walk like a ghost. Alive, but without soul. Every breath is borrowed.

You wanted freedom, and we—small-minded and afraid—forced tradition upon your wildness. I can’t untangle my guilt from your pain.

I owe you the dreams you lost because of us. The ones we shamed. The ones we silenced.

We never taught you how to say goodbye to them gently. We tore them from your hands.

From the start, we built walls around your mind—because we feared what was inside. And what society feared, we feared more.

We feared you, because you were free.

You were never like us. And that terrified us.

You lived on your own terms. And we—who lived in fear—resented you for it.

We accepted our cages. You broke yours.

We forgot that you were not cursed—you were brave.

No one saw the storm inside you. And when it broke, they called it rebellion. Or madness. Or worse.

But you were never alone.

You are not the only one whose brilliance was beaten into silence. I, too, lay on the floor—helpless, voiceless. But I saw you stand.

You stood tall when others would’ve fallen. The more they tried to break your pride, the stronger you became.

Even when it was us, your own, doing the breaking.

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A Game of Guess Who?

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged , , , , on April 8, 2025| Leave a Comment »

I recently listened to a group of psychologists discussing arranged marriages, specifically the notion that parents tend to select a partner for their child based on mirroring familiar family dynamics. Essentially, the logic is: “He reminds me of your uncle—quiet, responsible, and has his own cow.” This kind of psychological rationale attempts to normalize something that, in many cases, defies logic entirely. It struck me as peculiar—almost comically so—that professionals trained to understand the infinite complexity of human behavior would reduce romantic compatibility to a familiar pattern, as if trauma bonding is just another love language.

It becomes even more bizarre when you consider that two individuals—each born into vastly different environments, molded by distinct cultural, emotional, and educational experiences—are expected to fall into harmonious union merely because their parents say, “He’s from a good family.” Ah, yes, because nothing screams compatibility like matching last names or shared shame around public displays of affection.

Let’s be honest: arranged marriages are often a glorified game of Guess Who? except the stakes are lifelong and the winners rarely smile. “Does he have a stable income?” Yes. “Did his mother die of diabetes?” Also yes. “Can he communicate emotions without causing a scene at a wedding?” Sorry you lost. Try again.

Incompetency in arranged marriages can wear many disguises. There’s the brooding poet type who writes haiku’s about his loneliness but can’t boil an egg or ask how your day was. There’s the mama’s boy who needs written permission from his mother to buy new socks. And then there’s the classic—emotionally unavailable but financially present. A man who believes buying you a washing machine on your birthday is the height of romance. “Love language? Mine is appliances.”

Psychologists, with all due respect, often overlook the subtle tragedies embedded in these unions. They talk of compatibility as though it’s a software update—just click ‘agree to all terms’ and wait for love to download. But real life isn’t an algorithm. It’s messy, layered, and often deeply unfair—especially when choices are dictated by a committee of elders who still believe mental health is cured with turmeric milk.

Perhaps the darkest humor in this is that even when these marriages falter—when silence becomes the primary form of communication and resentment ages like fine wine—the families still hail them as “successful.” Why? Because they stayed together. Never mind the chronic anxiety, emotional starvation, or whispered midnight prayers asking for an early exit.

So yes, I find it odd—alarming, even—when psychologists lend their professional weight to justify or sanitize a process that often prioritizes tradition over emotional intelligence, and social appearances over authentic connection. At the very least, can we agree that choosing a life partner shouldn’t feel like selecting a durable carpet?

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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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