Memories
An Essay by Anonymous
The peace of morning makes me quieter. I don’t want to move for fear of losing the passing moments. But it’s not possible for long. The journey to reach this destiny was filled with pain and wounds, tenderness and happiness and life goes on.
Pieces of my heart have remained in another time and place. I wanted to keep those memories silent and locked away, never giving voice to them. Speaking about my past, giving life to my memories, is painful.
In my journey to be at peace, there were lovely members of my life who were a part of me, but I lost them one after the other. I have only one of them left. I remember how I struggled to free the breeze of my soul and keep this one person near to me. My journey will continue and I cannot keep going back to the lost moments of my past.
When a patient calls out to me, my thinking is disturbed and I am back in the present, at work. The noises that surround me are another part of my journey. During my hour break, I take time to return to those memories and write about them.
My life began when I was born a girl in a camp. My father, like other Afghan men, didn’t want a daughter. I was rejected in the beginning and was distraught as I got older to see the sad face of my mom and her tears.
Sometimes, late at night, I call out the name of my country, Afghanistan. I feel its people — men, women, children — innocent human beings. My country has been called a land of war and violence; hunger and poverty. And, it is those things, but despite all this, it is also a place where the birds still sing beautiful songs and the air makes hearts calm and peaceful. The people live with hope for the future of their children. In the season of kites, children run to follow the wind, flying kites in the sky. This is my Afghanistan.
My life, like other Afghan people, has been full of pain, of being poor, of being a refugee from violence. I have had to learn to live far away from my family and children, many of them dead now. What has remained is a broken heart and tears in my eyes. But sometimes when I am alone, I feel them near to me still, and know I will carry them in my heart until the end of my life.
About the Author: The author wishes to remain anonymous to protect her safety. This is part of a memoir she is writing.
