She was born in a poor neighborhood. Lost her mother at the age of four. Went to school against the will of her entire family and without any form of support. She put up with years of verbal and physical abuse, for her right to education and because she believed in herself. She fought all her life, first for herself and then for me. She was optimist, and patient, generous and forgiving. She fell in love at 30 and became a mother, my mother. “The pain of giving birth was unbearable, but the joy of holding you in my arms was the most beautiful thing in life,” she said once.
A cold home, four walls of a compound, and the unforgiving life of Kabul and Pakistan greeted her. Yet she didn’t forget to laugh, to love, to celebrate and to support.
She nurtured me with her soul and body. She protected yet challenged me at every step of my life and for as long as she lived. I owe my existence to her, and not just in the literal sense of the word existence, because physically, she may have given birth to me only once, but spiritually, many times, more than I can count.
Her memories continue to hold me. I can still hear her, feel her touch and sense her smell. I can still see her and into her eyes. She is still waiting. I can’t tell for what, but I’d keep looking. I’d keep going, for her and for our motherland, our Afghanistan.
I love you mother. And I miss you very much.