I imagine		you were young in
time	when age enveloped you
in the folds 	under your eyes	
         (the skin 	around your eye
         is the thinnest part of the 
	        organ
         that covers	our insides.)	
the folds grow         thinner	 
my insides	          lay bare
I imagine time	          robbed you and
grief	only stays
she weeps	and you pick 
up after all her messes	time
steals the rack of clothes you left in	their
apartment on the second floor	one
last chance 	to climb the 	steps and 
knock on the door	of an old friend.
your folds	only deepen
my mother says	crying can
only age 	you 	older	than the time
you are	I wish grief
would pause	let the blood
circulate another round	to your heart
trudge up the stairs of an old beloved
knowing it is your 		last 
time - I am always running	the 
hourglass becomes my figure 	my
hands 	hold the folds
where there was once	a dip before
my hips		my youth is running out
of time	will you love me
then?                when my hands grow grey
with only myself	left to hold        will you love me
then? 	when I am of no use	     
to you	the apartment      door is frayed 
at the edge	I imagine       it is locked shut	
I imagine	 	it opens widely	for 
someone else 	I imagine       I slammed it 	
too hard 		growing up - my temper 
escaped me		my fault, I think 	
my anger was louder 	than your love
I wish the world	would stop.
learn 	to be gentle	with the folds 
that deepen, loosen, fade
your hands	frayed
maybe	the dirt		under your 
fingernails	has disappeared from
the time they planted	 a row of tomatoes
in my backyard	I left my lip
balm under the passenger seat	
my scent	is still waiting at your door
the folds have thinned 	my insides
	are bare enough to
see clearly. I am	rows of teeth
and bones 	and the loud
aching laughs in the corner	of 
our corner of the world that		
time could not rob us of.	the folds grow 
thinner	I am worried	you will see the quarters
that line my teeth  	and you
will not stay	 through frayed edges on 
what could be       our apartment door
my temper	this loud anger
is just my grief	always in mourning
of the future
will you still love me 	in all
my changes?   when the	hourglass
runs out	        will you have someone
left to love	 in this body
of rows and teeth	   or will time
take you away from me too?

the wedding

in the photo, my father wears a light blue
tunic, wipes his brow	
next to my mother  
dark lashes   adorned in green lace.  
they hold a mirror, gold brimmed.
my father, a small smile
I imagine he let out a small giggle 
right before
my mother, red lipped
crouches behind the mirror
as they gaze at each other
for the first time. 

I imagine they held hands.
after the wedding, 
in the back of the white wedding
car, adorned with red and pink roses. 
I imagine my father giggling, wide smile,
loosened bow tie, blisters on
his feet from dancing
hands above his head	my
mother, the shyest of brides
hiding her laugh from behind
her hand	 as she watched
my dad twirl in joy, in love
I imagine they thought
this life in kabul would last.


birth 
I was born in autumn, a
full head of dark curls. I imagine
my mother didn’t push, to push
is to want. I imagine she pulled – 
yanking my dark hair out of her 
womb with shaky palms. I imagine 
my father watched in terror, at the sight
of his eldest daughter, alive and
ready to ruin the family name.

the wedding & birth are excerpts from my forthcoming poetry collection on a young Afghan girl navigating her life after her parents fled war in Afghanistan, and her relationship with her mother as she returns to find home in the very war that may have taken their chance at love.

I’ll be independently publishing and would love your support. i’ll be making the. preorder available soon with limited physical copies, thank you for always reading this rubble is ours. can’t wait to bring my writing to you in print.

my muslim was searching up
“how to be pretty in hijab” in
the fourth grade. then, how to pay for 
pretty when momma buys the blue 
cheese on the WIC list at aldi
that no one likes to eat. I 
am muslim when I tell ms. jones 
that the henna
on my hands isn’t dried up blood.
my muslim shrugs her shoulders 
when asked what the thing
on her head is, cuz
I don’t know either. I am twelve when 
my algebra teacher snitches to
my brother. 
“your sister takes off her scarf,”
he corners me on the playground and
I am still muslim when I 
cry in my hands, when
I say I just want to fit in. I am
muslim when I ask god if he hates me.
and how much? how much does he hate
me? and you? does he love you? and
why? why you and not me? my 
muslim says you can’t cry too
hard when someone dies. but momma
screams loud when her cousin 
is killed. my muslim asks god if 
we’re in trouble for that too? 
my muslim asks why the 
white people that kill us
have it easier. my muslim
grows up and still doesn’t fit in
with the other muslims. I ask god what
the ummah is. my
muslim asks if the aunties are good
muslims when they shame girls
like me. girls that dream. girls that
paint their nails and faces 
sometimes. girls that want to 
talk to boys too. girls that just want to 
fit in. my muslim understands 
the joint of weed in your hands. 
my muslim gets it. my muslim was raised
on j cole and quran. my muslim
knows god doesn’t hate me.
he doesn’t hate you too. 

white picket fence	shaved green
lawn	maybe a yard	
baba flips dough 		pizza, 
in this four by four infested
apartment	
the landlord has trouble
saying 		“Afghanistan.”	
pays no mind      to paying 	
for war.	
cigarette dangles from
the corner        of his mouth
when                we hear him
yelling,
"MORE TROOPS
IN THE MIDDLE EAST!!!!" 
at the TV       

legs propped up on      his
purple sofa 	      CNN 
is on again		I find his disability
checks in our mail,         
"INJURED IN COMBAT
TWO TOURS IN IRAQ"
 
we squat	in
this man-made
war machine		American 
dream. 		he raises the 
rent.	baba
flips more pizzas  	mom
waits in lines		outside
the WIC office.	
"New baby on
the way?"	the lady says
smacking her gum	handing
me        the twenty four
paged application.
"these fucking immigrants," she
mutters. 	

Line 34: Income level?		I write,
“baba drives a
cab and flips pizzas.”

we walk	home
mom stops 
to catch her breath	by shaved
green grass		one hand on the tree,
another wiping her brow       another
American on his porch,
	"GET OFF MY
PROPERTY YOU FUCKING
TERRORIST!!!"

mom yanks my
hand             her
bright orange hijab runs
the distance home.                    CNN
is on	again.	the landlord raises the
rent,	again.		he has
trouble saying 	Afghanistan
no trouble	profiting off
war                 disability check
in hand          when he slaps the
EVICTION NOTICE       
on the door.

thank you for continuing to support my writing publication. it is truly such an honor to be here and to write. I started on Substack writing poetry, and later began writing more personal essays & reported stories. thank you for being here as I delve back into writing more poetry.

I would love to hear your thoughts on the American dream, how has it been interpreted to you & your family? how has it manifested? does it exist for you all? and if so, is it tangible? or is the American dream losing it’s facade of shaved grass and white picket fences?

abdullah

abdullah is our neighbor	but
his dad won’t let him 	come 
over after school 	we kick the soccer ball
at eachother 	from between
our gardens	under abdullah’s dry
grape vines
		we hear our dads
fighting about the water.	uncle says
the water is ours	so baba listens.
it’s not really up
to baba. but I can’t help but think	we are the
bad guys.


hunted

abdullah tells me first. after school, he pulls
me into the courtyard behind the peach tree,

“oh bacha, dukhmandar shodi.” 

we are being hunted. me, baba.     i’m not sure
why	they want to hurt us.	or
who wants to hurt us. I ask abdullah, 
if we can still play
“oh bacha!!” he exclaims,
shaking his head at me
“you are being hunted!!”
I wonder if we will stay in the village
or if we will leave. I think
abdullah’s father wants to hurt us. will I still
have soccer if we leave?

at maghrib, baba sits in the
living room	the red rug is sprawled 
across the wooden floors. he leans over
the arched window		lights
another Cuban cigar	a gift from
his Cuban friend.	I watch
from behind the door	baba is respected
in the village.	who would want to hurt us?

baba turns abruptly, smiles at me
and pats the empty seat next 
to him. “dilta rasha zoya,” he says.
“come here son.” 

I walk over, straightening my green 
paran tomban  	taking a seat
next to baba.
I wait, as baba asks me about school. I 
know it’s coming. 

“ilyas, who do you play soccer with?”
I clench my hands, and tell the truth.
“abdullah,” I say.
baba chuckles, 

“soccer is a beautiful sport. abdullah is a good
boy, but his baba, he and I are having problems. it’s
best if you don’t play with Abdullah anymore, okay zoya?” 

I nod, baba knows best. I 
will see abdullah again one day. 

kharote

days pass, I try making new
friends. but
the villagers 	look at us sideways
	sand covered- grass sprawls, twists, over
pink painted homes. 	the villagers could’ve been
our friends	if they didn’t try to kill us
so often.

the butt of the barrel lies upright
in the console of dad’s car	the blue
Mercedes.	uncle speaks casually of the
weather	scanning the mud walls
for rifle holes		as baba presses the
gas, one hand ruffling my hair	another
on the steering wheel.		yesterday,
the villagers ambushed us	we were having
a picnic	I had a fist full of mulberries in
my right hand. sitting still,	I waited with
my eyes closed.
I don’t know when it ended, but when I looked
down, 
my hand was covered in red
from the mulberries, 
of course.

buy me a coffee

These poems are part of a collection of poetry I am working on, on the Soviet Union invasion of Afghanistan. I will be releasing the poetry collection in a PDF file that I’ll have available for purchase soon.

The rest of the world does not know what happened, and how Afghanistan arrived to where it is today. I hope that this series, in poetry form, from my family’s lived experiences, will teach the world what it was like. To flee home, to flee a war, and to survive. I hope that you learn of the people of Afghanistan. I hope that my writing will remind you of a people long ignored by the rest of the world.

buy me another bike

kharote

the villagers 	look at us sideways
	sand covered- grass sprawls, twists, over
pink painted homes. 	the villagers could’ve been
our friends	if they didn’t try to kill us
so often.

the butt of the barrel lies upright
in the console of dad’s car	the blue
Mercedes.	kaka speaks casually of the
weather	scanning the mud walls
for rifle holes		as dad presses the
gas, one hand ruffling my hair	another
on the steering wheel.		yesterday,
the villagers ambushed us	we were having
a picnic	I had a fist full of mulberries in
my right hand. sitting still,	I waited with
my eyes closed.
I don’t know when it ended, but when I looked
down, 
my hand was covered in red
from the mulberries, 
of course.


april 14th 1357

it is my birthday		the day mom
gets out of bed.	         the villagers
are quiet                         or maybe morjon's
presence                         is louder.
she walks to
the kitchen	   hand against the 
banister		   she leans her back against the
wall 		   drags herself down.
her hair 		in another long
black braid. 	My name is ilyas.	I
have never met my mother in 
good health. 	sometimes she walks to 
the garden
while I hug her legs. 	she
pretends on my birthdays		every
birthday		
I think                  she saves all her 
energy 	              for the entire year
to pretend she is okay	            on my 
birthdays
we eat carrot cake		and the
villagers		are quieter.
the mulberry juice        doesn’t spill
on morjon’s rugs.	            but this
is my last birthday
before they get louder.

buy me a coffee

These poems are part of a collection of poetry I am working on, on the Soviet Union invasion of Afghanistan. I will be releasing the poetry collection in a PDF file that I’ll have available for purchase soon.

The rest of the world does not know what happened, and how Afghanistan arrived to where it is today. I hope that this series, in poetry form, from my family’s lived experiences, will teach the world what it was like. To flee home, to flee a war, and to survive. I hope that you learn of the people of Afghanistan. I hope that my writing will remind you of a people long ignored by the rest of the world.

kharote

the villagers 	look at us sideways
	sand covered grass sprawls, twists, over
pink painted homes. 	the villagers could’ve been
our friends	if they didn’t try to kill us
so often.

the butt of the barrel lies upright
in the console of dad’s car	the blue
Mercedes.	kaka speaks casually of the
weather	        scanning the mud walls
for rifle holes		as dad presses the
gas, one hand ruffling my hair	another
on the steering wheel.		yesterday,
the villagers ambushed us	we were having
a picnic	I had a fist full of mulberries in
my right hand. sitting still,	I waited with
my eyes closed.
I don’t know when it ended, but when I looked
down, 
my hand was covered in red
from the mulberries, 
of course.

These poems are part of a collection of poetry I am working on, on the Soviet Union invasion of Afghanistan. I will be releasing the poetry collection in a PDF file that I’ll have available for purchase soon. I’ve thought about having the collection in printed format and seeking a publisher to help distribute. But I’ve never made much progress while waiting for an entity to add value to my writing. My words can stand on its own, and I’m excited to share this with you all.

The rest of the world does not know what happened, and how Afghanistan arrived to where it is today. I hope that this series, in poetry form, from my family’s lived experiences, will teach the world what it was like. To flee home, to flee a war, and to survive. I hope that you learn of the people of Afghanistan. I hope that my writing will remind you of a people long ignored by the rest of the world.

buy me a coffee

my father walks	to
the zanana naan bayee (bread bakery)
	 	pushes
the curtain flaps open		rows of slabs of 
tandoori bread
 		cling to 
                the grey underground mud oven	
the woman inside wipes her brow 
with one arm	            sticks the other 
in 	    fire	up to her elbow, scathing 
her hardened skin	she squints hard
at my father	       10 years old - clad
in a 	       mint green paran tomban.		

“de kim zay na ragheliye zoya?” 
"where have you come from child?"

“kharote,” my father responds, a sly smile
on his face	
she grins 	
“de sta de kiliey na der kesa me owridilide.”
"I’ve heard many stories on the people of your village."

outside		the loud rumble
of tires on a tank grow louder		the
woman 	    frantic, grabs my father’s arm
	pulling him behind a stack of
	fresh tandoori bread.	the
curtain flaps spill open	a tall, 
broad shouldered Russian walks in	staring
at the woman 		her other arm still 
inside the oven.

he starts to yell angrily at the woman		
	“Alek!” Boy! 
         gesturing widely with his 
         hands		my father stifles a giggle
         pressing his hand to his mouth 	
         behind the 
         mounds of tandoori bread		the woman
         clad in a purple scarf	
         yells a slur of curse words to 
         the Russian soldier

“OOOOZAAAAA!!!”
"GET OUT!!!"	she screamed,
	snatching a skewer from the oven,
jabbing it into the
flame
	the metal glowing red,
	arm outstretched	    pointing it 
at the Russian

the soldier 	clearly new to the 
country	jumped in surprise
realizing this         was a woman	he
could not intimidate	he began
to back out of the tent		apologizing 
profusely
	“alek alek alek,” he asked again
gesturing widely, as though asking 
where the
boy is.

the woman pointed outside with 
the skewer	
“ke bya rashe, mur kawom ade”	
"if you come here again, I’ll kill you"

the russian	held his palms together
          in apology.      bowing his head	
somehow understanding the threat	
          stepped
outside hurriedly, in search 
of my father

the woman turned around
glaring at my father from behind the
mounds of bread

“wa zoya, te sog ye? aghuey wale der pesey di?”
oh child, who are you? why are the Russians after you?

my father stifles 
a yawn, and
shrugs his shoulders	the sun
is setting 	and his father 
will be pissed
to hear 		that 
the russians 
found them 
again.

buy me a coffee

These poems are part of a collection of poetry I am working on, on the Soviet Union invasion of Afghanistan. I will be releasing the poetry collection in a PDF file that I’ll have available for purchase soon. I’ve thought about having the collection in printed format and seeking a publisher to help distribute. But I’ve never made much progress while waiting for an entity to add value to my writing. My words can stand on its own, and I’m excited to share this with you all.

The rest of the world does not know what happened, and how Afghanistan arrived to where it is today. I hope that this series, in poetry form, from my family’s lived experiences, will teach the world what it was like. To flee home, to flee a war, and to survive. I hope that you learn of the people of Afghanistan. I hope that my writing will remind you of a people long ignored by the rest of the world.

our soles in 1983 

yellow sand clings to the soles	of
my grandfather’s shoes 	
             gravel 		of what once was
a home          crunches under his feet	his 
shoes             once scrubbed, polished, in
black shoe paint         the scent        wafting
the air	now smoke
                billows		in its place.  the
                sky in Logar	is red.
                the russians		
                made our home
	                    their playground.
	         the planes poured fire
	         on the school and
	         my father was 
                 playing soccer
	         in his new blue shoes.		the 
kids started to run but		some burned
on the soccer field	Logar is safe	
they said.	a child’s toy	    wedges itself
in the sole	       of my father’s shoe
piercing his          11 year old heel	 	and
my grandfather 	refuses to run.       he walks
slowly		the sky is red	
Logar burns	my father limps
hand in hand	             and they        walk and
walk          and walk	and walk	and Logar
burns and a fork from someone’s last 
           dinner	wedges itself in 
           the sole of my grandfather’s black turned 
sand covered shoe covered in 
someone's                lasts		 
and they walk		
collecting         the rubble	in their 
soles           Logar is safe		they said.
they said          Logar is safe 
the russians         they break 
and bleed and 
take
everything 	and everyone.	
gravel 		of what once was
someone's lasts           crunches under 
their feet. the sky is red
Logar is safe         they said
the russians 	       with their big earmuffs
                               and green tanks         take
                               and               take and take
                               and               I wonder
                               if they will                  take 
                               my grandfather 
                               too?	 

This poem was written in reference to the Soviet Union’s aerial bombings and ground raids in 1983 in Logar Province, a region known for its strong Mujahideen resistance. Villages like Baraka Barak and Pul-I-Alam were flattened by MiG fighter jets and helicopter gunships. Soviet forces destroyed homes, schools mosques, crops, and irrigation systems. Entire areas suspected of aiding resistance fighters were destroyed, the water sources poisoned and crops burned to starve out resistance fighters and punish the general populations. Helicopter gunships were used to strafe valleys, flying low over valleys, dropping bombs on anything that moved, including Afghan children in soccer fields.

Logar was said to be safe, because of their strong Mujahideen resistance. In the 1983 bombings, thousands of civilians were displaced and many were killed or wounded by cluster bombs and landmines scattered across the region. These tactics often ignored the distinction between civilians and combatants leading to the death of over 1-2 million civilians in Afghanistan.

These poems are part of a collection of poetry I am working on, on the Soviet Union invasion of Afghanistan. This will be a series that I will regularly put out on my poetry publication. The rest of the world does not know what happened, and how Afghanistan arrived to where it is today. I hope that this series, in poetry form, from my family’s lived experiences, will teach the world what it was like. To flee home, to flee a war, and to survive. I hope that you learn of the people of Afghanistan. I hope that my writing will remind you of a people long ignored by the rest of the world.

blue mercedes-benz

my father lays face flat	on
the floor	in 1979
the blue mercedes-benz 	moves carefully
through green bushels		the grapes
are still too ripe	for picking. 
who  will the grapes	be
left to		tend to?		
his father’s 	big black horse	runs
through	bundles of new bags
on his back			leaving 	
was never 	the plan
		the russians		them
and their big earmuffs		know
nothing of the valleys		the people	
the mountains		 the kishmishi 
grapes of	Shamali jan. 	my
father peers	up at
	his father	Mir Ahmad Khan,
dangles a Cuban cigar		out the window
a wry smile	taunting the russians
at their manmade	checkpoints		
them and their big 
tanks	big guns	smaller
heads		no regards
		as to how
big	the Afghan is. how big
Mir Ahmad Khan is	in this
blue mercedes-benz	Cuban cigar in hand.

2025
my father sits		facing Mecca 	hands
clasp	to the only One he has		ever
bowed to. 	palms open	asking
for a taste	one last taste	of Shamali 
and her fruit.	
he giggles	asks me
if I kissed the dirt when I landed in 	Kabul.
at sixty years of age,	he still wonders	who
the grapes were left      to tend to.
hands clasp,	again		he asks me 
to kiss 		the precious dirt 
when I land too.

These poems are part of a collection of poetry I am working on, on the Soviet Union invasion of Afghanistan. This will be a series that I will regularly put out on my poetry publication. The rest of the world does not know what happened, and how Afghanistan arrived to where it is today. I hope that this series, in poetry form, from my family’s lived experiences, will teach the world what it was like. To flee home, to flee a war, and to survive. I hope that you learn of the people of Afghanistan. I hope that my writing will remind you of a people long ignored by the rest of the world.

1979

it is 1979, green tanks and billowing 
smoke arrive	to the 	cemented streets
women	 pick up	their billowing
skirts and skitter towards home
men 	in big earmuffs sport 	big
tanks that look like toys	kids
poke and prod	at the black rimmed
wheels.	the sellouts celebrate,
my father ducks his head through	swarms
of raised fists		the Russians 
have arrived.		my father picks
up his pace	walking through
the city to his village	of Kharote	on the outskirts
of Kabul. 	the sellouts never dared
to come here		but now 
they will.

the russians are looking for us

it is 2 in the morning		my great uncles sit
legs crossed over the other,
arms extend over the red pillows, sipping
tea	like 	death is not outside	these doors.
 
my grandfather, Mir Ahmad Khan	 gazes 
across 		the guest room
a red handwoven rug	covers the wooden
floors. 		it is late
and the Russians have 	come	at
this ungodly hour. 	inconsiderate
in the way	they kill too.	

my grandfather	the bravest of men	sits 
perched on leather. 	his eyes fleet across
the room	
	a litter of beautiful children 	too young
		to know the war	to know 
death.
			 
green tanks line the roads of 
         Kharote	      the sellouts have entered
         our grape gardens 	

hassan, the neighbor	 knocks twice	
on the tall, blue, iron gates	long 
         sharp raps,	
         an offer of
         tea exchanged	 	a wry smile
         lives on my grandfather’s mouth
         knowing	this is the end.
	
kaka jaan, they have come. 
knocking door to door, asking where
you are. you must leave,
you must go, save your children. 
	
my grandfather sits	tapping the glass of his
cup	
        let’s finish this chai first
	the Russians can wait		
as the green tanks surround	his home. 

the glass empties 	and Mir Ahmad jan 	
         tells the servants 	load up the bags
         wake the horses	wake the
         children. 	

it is time. 

These poems are part of a collection of poetry I am working on, on the Soviet Union invasion of Afghanistan. This will be a series that I will regularly put out on my poetry publication. The rest of the world does not know what happened, and how Afghanistan arrived to where it is today. I hope that this series, in poetry form, from my family’s lived experiences, will teach the world what it was like. To flee home, to flee a war, and to survive. I hope that you learn of the people of Afghanistan. I hope that my writing will remind you of a people long ignored by the rest of the world.

child – adorn the white dress	live in the
back of the room hold		steady onto
the railing       clutch the door closed	you
cannot let	the man in. do not let
the man in	tell him your mother
is not home	or just don’t
answer the door
	child  – the baby hairs
on your temples will throb 	in
childbirth	  the list of baby 
names are borrowed 
from	your mother – an entrepreneur
                the women of the village 	whisper.
borrow the list of	baby names, for you
are not prepared	     remember – borrow
the list of baby names     quick child for
            a quick buck	no worries – more babies 
can be made          child – adorn the green dress
            cover the baby hairs	        you are to be bought
like a lamb	in a cattle of ripe sheep the
younger	the better	the younger
the better	the younger	the
better		child – the man is your
master	even your son,		the boy
you give birth to	holds more weight
           then you in this world		child  – remember
the white sleeves are slung over 
your shoulder	like
reins	you are the horse	to be whipped
child  – borrow the baby names		of
your mother	when your son escapes your
womb. 	may god, and may
man have		mercy on your
shoulders	shout loud when	the
whip is pulled tight	maybe the neighbor
will hear you – god willing 	you are in
a country,	where the neighbors will
hear you.

the first time I tasted a mulberry
the sand beneath my feet
didn’t leave footprints 	the way 
they would 	at the beach	rubble for 
gravel 		but not for decoration
the first time I asked god
	what He meant
        when He made this to be the place
        that I am from		the rubble left 
        a gash on the bottom of my 	left heel, red 
        blood painting a puddle	of guilt	
        in 		mulberry fields

my grandpa boils water in the kitchen
        when we come to stay
        washes the sickness off	 this land, off
        mulberries	for my pristine, bloody,
western body		the village makes me 
throw up its fruit	        I hope, I
         hope the privilege comes out with it too
the punishment 	for the children
of the 	refugee 	taxes paint red, blood
money painting the fields	with fruit
I cannot eat and 	I don’t remember the first time
I asked god why 	the kill teams were 
the fate of the people 	that are mine, why sport 
looks like the kind face of my 	great uncle
	why they care more for the dogs      probably
because that 		is who they are.

they made a tape	of the farmers for 
sport	their names, live within me	gul mudin,
only a child.      god he was only a child. he was only 
a child. a child. all the children. just a child, god
he was just a child. the first time	I prayed
for gul mudin,		my hands were
still stained	bloody and red. prayer
           does not wash		the guilt off. it is not
           enough, so I go to the gardens now. knead
           dirt like dough		plant seeds for gul
mudin, and all his children. 
the first time		I asked god about
            the rubble	there was no answer, only
forgotten headlines	but the graves,
the coffins, lie awake 		under. and
             so 	we knead the dough like it is soil,  I
hope the flowers grow		for headstones
and the mulberries will 	grow sweeter
            and that home 		is found
                                                here, in the rubble. 

This piece refers to the "Kill Team" who were a group of U.S. Army soldiers from the 5th Stryker Brigade, 2nd Infantry Division, who committed war crimes in Afghanistan in 2010. Led by Staff Sergeant Calvin Gibbs, US soldiers brutally murdered Afghan farmers and mutilated their bodies for sport. US soldiers collected their body parts as souvenirs and took gruesome trophy photos. They created a rock & roll mixtape with the photos of the innocent Afghan civilians they had killed, and would watch it as they smoked hashish, celebrate their killings.

The victims were innocent Afghan civilians, mainly farmers, among them were:

1. Gul Mudin (January 15, 2010) – A 15-year-old boy working on his family’s farm in Kandahar. He was shot and killed, after which the soldiers took celebratory photos with his corpse.

2. Marach Agha (February 22, 2010) – A defenseless man killed when soldiers threw a grenade at him before opening fire. His body was staged with a weapon to justify the murder.

3. Mullah Allah Dad (May 2, 2010) – An elderly farmer executed in cold blood, with a weapon planted near his body to falsely present him as an enemy combatant.

Thousands of murders of innocent Afghans have gone unreported. During the War in Afghanistan, many US soldiers found themselves bored with no insurgent activity, and the sport of killing innocent Afghans began. Read more about the Kill Team here.

Kalaam Project is a nonprofit organization that I founded two years ago, as an avenue to provide humanitarian aid to families throughout Afghanistan. In the past two years, we’ve made a dent in the lives of thousands of families, delivering food packages, monetary aid, sponsoring schools and orphanages, and installing water wells. This work would not be possible without our on the ground team members. If you support my work, and support the people of Afghanistan, please consider donating to the Kalaam Project today, so that we can pay our aid workers and continue doing this important work.

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dear god,

I hope you will 	let my grandpa live
eons and ages
I hope that		when you take him 
that you will take me right after	give me 
a bit more time     so that I 
can hold him                as he goes

when the time is right
age him 	slowly
let the wrinkles turn to 	faded lines but 
only                          when I am there

dear god, 
the dead live 	    within me
here lies 	a pile of bodies. we
are          a cemetery in a weathered
twenty-four-year-old body 
she is 		a child
stunted growth in the arms and legs
as her mouth grew 	fonder. gulping
air in loud sips with
this 		will to live but in 
faint split second intervals only
she lives on	in the cemetery
tending to the skeletons
of our past		this body is where
they come to die 	  we
bury them in her skull		she counts the days      she 
is always			counting the days
for when her loved ones will	
return to you

dear god,
give my grandpa
a ghost of a hand 	in his palm
if I am absent		(don’t let me be absent)
let him 	age but distract
him with 	the joys in watching
his plants grow and his grandchildren 
flourish. show him
that he made 
all the right decisions
when he gave my mother’s hand
to a man that took her
across the world to 
safety. show him—that 
leaving his gardens in a home
where the world
only knew him 
to be an honorable man
who tends to this earth
soil lining his palms
show him—
that he made the right decisions.

dear god,

she is 			always scared
the bodies pile 	on top of one another
you can
never tell who will leave first
she 		can’t handle another
time is—
fast         you put us here 
               and we love
               and the love is big
               it’s bigger than us
               and the time flies and 
               they return
               back to you
               and we — become the
cemeteries
of all the people		we love. and all 
I ask
is that you don’t add me 
to the cemeteries that live within
               my grandpa
               because he
               can’t take 
               another body 		again

and my grandpa	I think
mourns the man 	he was
and the life 	he lived
and the gardens 	he grew
in a land
where he was only a man
and now — he		watches his grandchildren 
flourish	and hopes that 
despite his grief
that it was all                worth it 

dear god
when you take him
take him when he knows
that it was.

my mother swears there 
were good days       I believe 
her      she zips my coat 
earnest  young  fingers      gentle 
palms when she tugs my 
hood forward        wraps a scarf 
around my nose and mouth    I sigh —
this exasperated sigh        think of 
all the kids 
whose mothers       don’t

my mother — eyebrows drawn 
when she puts our hands 
in her coat       waits 
with us in the cold      us held 
as she holds     her 
coat unzipped 
always         heart bare for the taking 
always         whispers her duas
verses billowing around us    blessed 
as we are     I think 
she is praying always     fingers on 
threaded pearls      threading duas 
always       wrapped in them as we are   

four corner apartment       four corner prayer 
mats         all corners laid pointed 
northeast         I think she is praying 
always         I swear these are 
the good days      blessed as we are       
my mother and her verses knit        the scarf 
around my nose and mouth now     I know she
is praying always      I sigh — this exasperated 
sigh        thank god 
I didn’t get another      thank god 
for the mother      who does

the couch unfurls, my
mother sits, shoulders hunched 
over, she is 24 again.
I am 7, hiding under
the crib again. 
I hope allah loves me.
beads rest between her fingers,
she threads, I watch. a prayer
mat sits folded. the coin jar collects
dust, allah we need a miracle.
this thread of beads
and folded prayer mat is all 
there is. allah, give my mother 
a miracle.
I am hiding under the crib again,
too quiet for the world’s good. the couch
asks why I won’t speak, I wish the words 
would form. I wish my mouth did the whisper
thing she does. I wish the miracle was I,
that allah loves me. the couch
unfurls, my mother still sits. she 
laughs and I memorize the joke. she
cries and I learn to pray. oh allah,
take her sorrow, fold it, lay it on
my heart. thread love in a coherent
sentence resting on my mouth.
put pounds of coins in my hands, allow
my mouth to fill the coin jar.
give me a seat on the couch, as
a folded prayer mat rests 
on my lap. make it go away, make 
it come back. the coin jar sits 
open and empty. I am 24 again,
the crib I hide under is this prayer
mat. oh allah, I still hope you love me. 
the pennies sit on the edge
of my lips. do the coins make a difference
now? the jar brims with dust.
my mother is 41 again, she 
threads beads between
her fingers, somewhere in between, I learn
to see the miracle. allah is here in this room,
he hears her whispers, sees I 
hope she does too. 
I leave the pennies
somewhere she can find it, I
swept the dust off the coin jar. 
the couch hears
my whispers,
I hope Allah is proud, I hope 
He loves me. I hope He shows
her how to.

a graze of green
surrounded by mountains
my great uncle
Ayat kaka,
a kind man, head ducked
between bushels of grapes,
shows me 
how to pick the
ripe fruit
gently.
handle the branches
with care,
he tells me.
these
are our children.
they snap easily; the branches,
stubborn
like our children.

we go grape picking, 
a handwoven basket rests at my hip,
a pakol lives on Ayat kaka’s head
he wipes his brow,
under the sweltering afghan sun
our scabbed knees
pattern the sand.
Ayat kaka laughs easily,
belly aching still.
he ruffles my scarf,
asks where my afro went,
and lets out another laugh.
Ayat kaka tells me 
I remind him
of my beautiful mother,
and his beautiful late brother.

I balance a basket of grapes
on my head
hoping my Pashtun genes
will pay off.
Ayat kaka giggles
when the basket falls,
belly aching,
we scour the sand
on our scabbed knees
gathering all the green grapes 
that fell from my basket.
my grandmother shakes her head
in disappointment.
I’m just glad 
I get to hear him laugh again.

my mother’s face,
resembles late Shireen kaka,
cleft chin, square jaw,
sharp nose I used to hate on myself,
until I saw it on Shireen kaka’s face.
his late brother,
taken in pomegranate season.
amidst his belly aching laughs.
my uncle cries easily.
a tremble in his hands,
my aunt tells me
he hasn’t been the same
since Shireen kaka was killed.
sorrow lives
in the depths of our pomegranate (anar) fields
the seeds have not tasted sweet since.

Ayat kaka’s head is held down, 
when he thanks Allah for bringing
me home.
thumbing his brown wooden beads,
a prayer in between his lips,
for making life taste sweet
even in
Shireen kaka’s absence.
holds my face in his palms
raised in prayer
thanking Allah
for giving me Shireen kaka’s sweetness.

Ayat kaka grows cucumbers
and squash
tomatoes when the season is right
always a beautiful surprise
when he sees his melons
growing in size
he tells me I just missed
mulberry season
hopes I stay 
for pomegranate season
I make promises 
on this land
I will, I will, I will,
a thousand times over.

in this quiet part of the 
remnants of war
we rub grape seeds between our fingers
if the grapes grow
our children will too
and the land will 
always be ours
as the invaders
come and leave with the blood
of the people we love.
in this center
of green graze
these mountains tower over us
as we lay
on the hardened soil
cultivated by my uncle’s
softer hands,
a light tremble in his shoulders always
in pomegranate season.

nimble hands carry baskets
in these mountains,
on our hips, our heads.
it is pomegranate season,
and it is my turn to go picking.

I will not write of war but
I’ll write of birds in shoeboxes that 
my younger hands patted down
with mounds of dirt I dug. I hope the neighbor doesn’t notice; 
bunches of grass I pulled from his front yard and
green leaves from the tree the bird 
used to rest in

I will not write of war but 
the neighbor notices.
my mother scrubs my younger hands fervently 
in the bathroom sink scolding 
my younger hands for touching 
the dead.

I will not write of war but 
I think of the bird’s mother often,
how I buried the shoebox and 
maybe she can’t find 
her daughter so I dig out 
the shoebox with my
younger hands and 
I will not write of war but 
the bird is in pieces.
the dogs got to her before 
her mother did.
and my younger hands don’t feel 
so young anymore.
I think the neighbor notices.

I will not write of war but 
I imagine the mother left
just as mine did to another 
tree to stay alive and 
my mother doesn’t scrub my hands fervently
in the porcelain sink 
anymore because 
she has touched the dead.
and our mulberry tree grows 
at home 7,000 miles away
where her birds are buried
I hope the dogs haven’t 
gotten to them yet.