august 15

august 15th. hard to think it’s been a year. a year since Kabul fell, since tattered documents of identification and diplomas littered the floor. where pictures were burned and we were told wearing a veil could be the end to this war. where streams of black, red, and green sunk 6 feet encasing our dead loved ones in the heavens of the martyrs. a year since we learned what it’s like to die, and yet be very much alive. to watch bricks of walls tumble to the hands of the oppressors. to see my people in their worn paren and tombans cling onto airplanes in hopes that a flight could be the end to the plights of misery now unveiled. fathers with tired eyes; lost its gleam of hope but still the strength to fight shown. Mothers, their mouths forming an “O” in screams to the dead silence of the rest of the world. a white Al Jazeerah reporter states, the Taliban didn’t kill her on sight, maybe there’s hope that Afghans aren’t left to die. a year since they took Afghanistan, it’s been a year that we’ve been reborn. into interpreters, case workers, refugee resettlement officers, lawyers, homeless shelters, we are not who we were from the year before. and the silence of the world remains. Kabul fell but the Afghans rose. “Beware the supplications of the oppressed” {27:62}