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The
front of our house in Khushal Meena.
As I came close to it, I tried to play back my memories of when
we laid the foundations of the house and of the years that my family had
lived here. But the rusted
gate, the beaten-up walls, and the strangers' faces on the street
revolted against my memories. I
thought about my father, mother, sisters and brother at that time.
What would they think and feel about this place, I quizzed
myself. This is our
physical base in Afghanistan, I told myself and as the rest of country
it is in a shamble state. The
place has changed and no value in expecting the past, I thought.
Gone were the professors, the "mansaab dars," the
doctor with three cute daughters, and the warmth from the street.
The winter of despair had sit-in.
I introduced myself to a stranger who was residing in our house
during the winter and spring seasons and met several of the neighbors.
The windows in our house were broken, only some were replaced by
plastic and hard paper. A
"pand" of grass for animals was placed instead of our sofa in
the living room. The
neighbors were poor, uneducated "dookan dars," like most
residents of Kabul. We --
the educated with the know-how -- have to start anew and hopefully this
time we will do better.
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