Unsaid

Contact me by: setaishhaidari1@gmail.com

  • The book stand

    The spring Hazara grand picnic of 2025 was 2 weeks ago on May 19th, the same day as Memorial Day.

    Hazaragi clothing stands and many other stands, all different but all Hazara related, were there for people to buy and just remember who we are and where we came from. In little stands of them all there was one that sold books; persian books. 

    I was walking casually, looking at people’s colorful traditional dresses, till I saw they were also selling books. Unsure, I went to see the books, and mostly they were all in Farsi, and there were a few thick books published by him, and he seemed to be glad to sign them for people. 

    I picked up a few books and started reading them for the idea of the book, and because it had been a long time since I had read anything in Farsi, to learn the structure of Persian sentences for writing.

    There was a book that seemed a bit more unique; it was the migration story of someone from Afghanistan. Even though it was at an advanced level of language, I felt connected through some sentences I read while checking the pages.

    I remembered the sentence I said before, “I like reading books, but I think I should at least understand what it means…” I felt maybe it would turn into a book I wouldn’t read and it would just rest in the book shell for ages, but I also knew I would have read that the first chance I got, and I got it. Baba paid for it, of course. And there he had put a challenge for kids to teenagers to read a paragraph to get a free book. I got the free book too, just by pronouncing a wrong word I thought I couldn’t get, but he seemed not to have a problem with only one, and so I got the books. 

    I felt like a great philosopher when I was walking back to our spot in the park with books in my hand, and with myself appreciated his words, “I see this mindset has been gone around that Hazara culture means clothes and food but the actual culture of us is to bring honor, is these book and that’s what the younger generation needs to know.” I think that’s what we forgot about ourselves, it’s not difficult to keep but very easy to forget

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  • Freedom

    Riders of freedom… Writers of freedom… You can find dreamers of freedom too, it’s not hard to find they are just silenced mostly choked with guns and suicide bombers ready to send you with themselves to heaven all over Kabul in my country, my country? Do I have to call it my country? Sometimes I refuse to accept it as where I am from, where my people are from, where my blood belongs to. I don’t feel I am accepted there, my people aren’t. 

     We are humans we want something to be proud of, but just for proud? Not for living?.

     My people are longing for a normal life, for not being killed with the crime of race and religion. But I’m not here to make a life speech because my leader already did and what they did to Baba Mazari isn’t hidden from eyes who want to look for the truth, such a scandal for the people who call themselves students of islam religion, some like Taliaban.

    The leader who was murdered with the crime of asking for freedom and equality, what a leader, what a sacrifice but I don’t want to be sorry in front of him after not  choosing to keep the silence farther than it is, after I told the world what he meant to say, after asking for what what he asked for in the country of freedom, peace and equality.

     All he asked for was a peaceful, civilized life when we are all united and don’t shatter any blood to the ground because of an individual’s race or beliefs but it’s not an individual at this emarat, it’s now genocide like it was in the late 19’s century, by the one who’s name brings hate to every piece of my soul, Abdur Rahman Khan.

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  •     One flight…

    I looked at my relatives in my aunt’s house for the last time. Deep down in my heart, I know I won’t see them for years, but I’m choosing to lie to myself and also to them by telling them that we will come back after we become citizens of Turkey. Just five more years, and I’m just back for days. 

    After a lovely and loud dinner, I went to sit on the dark stairs of the second floor with no lights at Kabul’s dark nights thinking if all these happenings were real, if we would actually leave here and start again, from zero. I had been learning the language for the last 3 months so it wasn’t something really new but being here as for last night, in Afghanistan which I never left for more than a few days felt weird, hearing the sound of my relatives’ children running. Them talking inside the house loudly with the stairs echoing it was making the thoughts in my head even louder. 

    Rahille, my mom’s uncle’s daughter, was also there. She’s older, almost my age, and has nearly the same facial structure but according to distant members of the families I never saw she was the best version of a good daughter. I just remember she was there and we talked for a while until my mom called us to get back in. That night I had that feeling in my heart, that sadness that I was not great at hiding was blowing up but still, I was looking like I always was, happy and sensitive. 

    I didn’t want to focus on my feelings, not even theirs. I was just trying hard to make everything so easy, I just didn’t want to cry anymore. I was watching Spongebob for the most part of the night… 

    Now almost everything went like it would all the time, kids playing around the table, dads talking loudly about shared experiences or politics, and moms complaining about their kids and their laziness in front of everyone all until it was time to leave. Now everyone had gotten up and was hugging each other, the house was now really crowded to the point I couldn’t walk straight without bumping into people. For some, it was the last time we would ever see each other and some like my grandma were quietly crying with a smile on her wrinkly face, each expressive of her hard life experiences.

     I had made my way out of that crowd but when I got there my aunt hugged me for the last time. I felt her warm tears on the back of my neck, and that’s when I realized leaving was no joke. I wanted to walk to our home by myself now to get my feeling in the right place again to walk just a street down but I had forgotten here is Kabul, my dad called me before I took more than 5 or 6 steps “Where are you going by yourself? It’s not safe.” I had heard that sentence almost all my life in Afghanistan, maybe more than I ever heard my name and it was the reason I was leaving there with a dream, to walk to a shop without the fear of being kidnapped, killed, abused, or rubbed, like most of my friends did. Or what my parents told me would happen to me all the time, If I wanted to ride on my bicycle a step out of our yard.

    The party had ended now, everyone went back to their houses we were all walking to our house too and I was recording the streets of Kabul for the last few days but now was it too dark I didn’t care perhaps I was doing it just trying to distract myself from everything else happening that night, maybe for Sobhan, I didn’t want stuff to be too emotional for him, I wouldn’t want to feel those if I were his age, 6 is probably too young. I felt like taking one stone from the street as something I would have from my country to remind me of everything but my parents wouldn’t like this stuff at all, I just knew it. There I wished I was like my Myna birds I freed yesterday, I wished I could go back to my grandparents whenever I got in trouble like before, all the way from Istanbul to Kabul. Now it wasn’t just about getting on a plane and leaving, it was the separation of the bond that was never a bit distant, it was when I realized what I left back there was not just my house, memories, or relatives although they were a big part I lost myself and my true joy…

                                                                   Next morning

    The night passed and now it was 4 am when we had gotten up and taken our stuff to the car. On the way to the stairs of our house on the 3rd floor, my uncle was there and he said to me “Zaynab also said she would miss you.” My favorite cousin, from sadness, it was the first time I hugged my uncle, ever. I used to try to push his patience limit before and was usually scared to get handcuffed by him, he handcuffed my other cousin because she was annoying him and she stayed like that for almost a day so we knew he was serious about some stuff. He was a security guard, always walking around with a huge gun on his shoulder in a police uniform. Although I grew up seeing different kinds of guns and bombs everywhere I kinda didn’t trust him but now I didn’t care at all, I just needed a hug. He quickly pushed me away. “Don’t be late.”

    I was now in the yard, the fresh smell of the plants that my aunt planted in the mountains to garden weeks before was spinning around the house with little leaves and dandelions as they were there to say bye to us like my grandparents waiting for us in our basement like a garage with 5 cars all one from each house of the apartment sometimes getting into our way. Our private had made everything ready to go, there I saw my grandparents but my grandpa was also crying in a country where they believe men should be as tough as a stone he couldn’t hold back. The atmosphere was really heavy, and after a few seconds I couldn’t bear it anymore. I just got into the car and sat quietly for the whole way to the airport, we were all quiet. On the dirt roads we were all swinging around side to side and I had my head close to windows as usual and with each jump hitting my head to the window, I wasn’t crying no more, no one was, I was now used to it. 

    I don’t remember well but I like to remember that we got down in something like a police department from the way, there were no phones allowed. Grey almost white empty walls and men in uniforms with even bigger guns for security, almost like everywhere you would go in this country. We covered our shoes with plastic and walked on unusual wooden floors. My dad in a black suit shook his head a little like a signal for me to put back my phone in my pocket. I did. She talked about something for minutes. It seemed important but I think it wasn’t something important but like the last check-in before leaving. Or seeing a friend, I didn’t care enough to listen but it didn’t get into our way there. After that, we got to the airport. Everything seemed beautiful and colorless at the same time. I was already mad and also I  had seen beautiful buildings but this one was something special. Anyway, we sat in those seats and waited for hours on our flight. Still no phone policy for airport security. Well, after a few hours, we got on the plane and soon then the country…

    I was having the time of my life on a plane, watching different kinds of movies, playing games, listening to music, basically whatever I wanted for a long 8 hours of flight until we landed. Taking different buses to get to my other aunt’s house who came there a few months before us I would look around me with joy but mentally I was still in Afghanistan worried about my grandparents more than everyone. The voices in my head were all arguing loudly what would happen now? but I was sitting next to Sobhan, I didn’t want him to see us worried so I would show him every shopping center, people with different costumes, and everything new to distract him and myself.

                                                                   New start

    We got off the bus, now we were just some Afghan migrants. It didn’t matter who we were back in Afghanistan. Now we were waiting on the sidewalk of a big street in spring cold with people passing by in front of us, shaking our arms for some taxi to stop by and get us in, cause it was how it was back in Afghanistan, where I lived 90% of the time someone would just get you in their car and get you where you need or you shake your arm for a bus or car to see you and negotiate for the price and get in. Forget private drivers back there, the taxi drivers were really mean. I remember one time he said it took 3 cars for us to fit in our stuff and after we said we couldn’t find he said “You immigrants are everywhere, our country is filled with you Afghans. Just get back to your country” and he drove by. At the moment I wished I had never known Turkish to know what he said but my parents didn’t understand, I didn’t have to translate that, I didn’t. People don’t want to leave everything behind to take space in your country. I don’t say all, I absolutely can’t but there are racist people in every part of the world and it was my first time to ever hear these and it left me speechless.  

    I was freezing with my dad’s coat on me, my mom and brothers all sat next to each other farther away than us on some bench and my dad called my uncle here to find an Uber for us, seeing that my heart was on fire. More than any time now I wanted to cry. I wanted to blame someone for my situation. To grab someone’s collar and let my anger out. I had now realized what I left behind. In Afghanistan we would never be standing somewhere in this cold; My dad would solve everything with a call, to a friend, at a college or a relative. Now after seeing that much respect everyone had for my father, seeing him calling someone else for that small help seemed like the end of the world for me. I wanted the sky to fall on me. I would have rather died many, many times but don’t see that. The feelings were now even more intense. It was actually how I felt until the next year, until I got used to everything but still, everything we did felt like a thorn inside my eyes. I wanted to drag the president of Afghanistan and show him how I was treated differently. I wanted him to see how many dirty stares I had taken from people who saw me as an illegal citizen just because my blood belonged to that piece of the world. If I could just show him what we had to sacrifice for a peaceful life and still wouldn’t be able to afford it.And it was just a new start… But here I didn’t even have any friends, even my old friends. My mom took my phone away. And for my aunt, she believed a daughter, a girl, must be the strongest but the way she would have shown me her love made me miss Afghanistan even more. She wouldn’t rethink an action before doing it or saying ,and it hurt me because until yesterday I was my dad’s princess now they would call me dark burned skin Qasim’s daughter in front of me, I was then never dad’s princess after that and I don’t think I can ever be, it killed me right away they knew how much I loved him. His skin was sunburned when he used to work on my other grandpa’s farm. It was the way to get a life for them. And I respect that but my aunt didn’t. My dad had to leave after 2 months. Now we were alone for the first time in a foreign country, with different people, language, culture and point of views and I was different also for them. Although she knew how sensitive I was about my family she always managed to find new ways to insult him just in front of me. At some points, I felt how easier it was to jump out of the window of their 7th floor rather than listen to her insult my whole father’s side of the family. With all these I didn’t have permission to stand up for any of us by Mother, she said that it was her love language. The love language that still breaks me into pieces like shattered glass every time I remember these, the language that reminds me how she made me lonelier when I needed the most support. Thanks to her I would have forgotten  Afghanistan, I had to deal with something bigger. She wasn’t always bad, she would sometimes buy us stuff and celebrate my birthday but one time I had to apologize to her for getting food poisoned in her house and not mine, for drinking cola that she bought for herself or for not doing whatever she told me to but as I said she wasn’t that mean, right now she probably had forgotten these but for me being 11 years old again can be a great nightmare for many reasons I couldn’t write about, for the days that sadness wouldn’t exist for little kids like me for all the nights that I looked at the moon helpless waiting for some miracle to happen, I wanted God to answer to all my tears. I would ask him if he lost me from Afghanistan to where my eleven-year-old used to send paper planes with letters written on them for him. Maybe one day he would open those letters and find me back. Although I lost who I was, maybe he would have helped me make a new me.

    (p1)

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  • If I’m allowed to talk, I don’t have to go by the rules

    Life had been feeling familiarly unfamiliar and noticeably unnoticeable the way everything feels changed but the only thing changed is just your view and the voices talking in your head and the action taken by unexpected.  

    As an example now I have 6th period English but it’s no longer my favorite class nor my favorite time of the day. If you ask why? My answer would be that I realized I can’t be myself and act like how I am in a class no more. I found out that I have to write in a certain way that I don’t want to and think in a certain way that teacher thinks is better, I found out the way I think does not matters and all that all it can do for me is to result me a big zero and that I have to adapt to the society like a struggle to survive.

    I saw if there is a strict teacher on lead there is no possibility for us students to be able to talk which seems just like a very normal everyday school issue that teachers go through and they are the ones complaining about it without putting themselves in our shoes but had they forgotten that they were also students someday? Had they forgotten that we are kids or teenagers?

    Usually we don’t accept that we are kids or teenagers and like to think big of ourselves but I don’t think that everyone enjoys sitting in a class and taking notes and never talking during the class even if they can’t concentrate or they are having a problem. As well I’m as sure that some students  don’t want to be in school from 7:45 till 11:00 and which is then lunch and even if they have PE in between which not everyone has, why aren’t students able to talk to each other and communicate about the problems they have in their lives, US does not have breaks during the day Instead of lunch that usually students spend that time to work on the projects their homeworks and if they get time eating their lunch. Which does not work for everybody.

    People in America are very concerned about any self-harm or suicides by teaching students and acknowledging them about all these long process once a year and by telling them that they could and that they must talk about it but do they know sometimes the system can be the problem, the system that you’re supposed to be working like an adult in your teenage years even though you’re not an adult so they prepare you for the future that you don’t know if you are going to be a part of someday, you might not make it, Not everyone dies after they achieving their goal with the help of school.

     I absolutely don’t say that students should be just left alone to do whatever they want and just do whatever but I say it’s okay to give them a little bit of time to talk and to communicate with each other, because if you had realized in America school system the Talkative person it’s always the one That’s here to be shushed and thought how to be quiet so he/she wouldn’t be embarrassed but in future not very far away these people are supposed to be leaders, these people are the future who are taught to be quiet, who are taught to be listening and then hearing complain that why isn’t the new generation tull with new ideas but do they let the students have those ideas?

     Do they crush them like a plane does?

     Do they let studentsTalk in class and share their ideas? 

    Are they allowed to talk, incorporate and learn how to be in a bigger society and deal with people they had never seen before or is it important to know the mitochondria of the cell ?

    For me I would say both of them both of them are important in their own ways but also have as teenager I would want more teenagers to be ready for the future life waiting for us because we are going to be the people who will take this world in our hands someday and how it does happens if no one would pick up their heads from their phones to see what is happening around them? If you’re just listening to a teacher, and you are just doing what you are supposed to then who is our leader? The rules and consequences are made the way that no one dared to question it. And you know why don’t they come out with new ideas? Because first of all before everyone the teacher is the one who laughs at them and then the other students get influenced by the teacher and then the idea of the students being crushed down. 

    I would argue with myself about this topic, but for once I want to take this student’s side. I want to tell the teachers that after 9 hours of school work, we deserve to do the homework for a few more hours and many students are also taking sports have to also make time for the sports, and as for the many who likes to read, and for the ones who like to make arts does school give them all of the chances they want?

    Are they getting what they want from life with the help of school?

    Would they all succeed in the same way? 

    I understand that I should be grateful for the free education that I get, but wouldn’t it be nice if you could improve it to be even better? It’s not just about paying for school, it’s about the future of this world. If the older generation is complaining about the younger generation being depressed, do they let the younger generation be happy?

    Am I allowed to talk about these, or am I also going to be shushed?

    Do I really have freedom of speech

    Would they ever want to know what do I think to improve at school better 

    Do they even want to improve the schools for better?

    Then why are the new ideas so scary for (some old fashion) teachers?

    What does all the generation expects from us?

    Why do they expect this happiness?

    there are a lot of teachers around the world and even very different personalities in the same school so I don’t mean any disrespect or dishonor for any other teacher but I just wanted to share my idea of how I think it is better done, thank you.

  • Being just an Immigrant

    In the days leading up to my departure from Afghanistan to Turkey, I did my best to record memories of my life there to remember when I came there. I captured videos of my fish, my house, our plants, and even the streets of Kabul. I no longer have those videos or photos, but I can still vividly remember what I recorded on my memory cards. I wish I could go back—not to live there again, but to relive those moments and feel the warmth of being with my relatives, the comfort of belonging.

    I long to be in our car in Afghanistan again, driving around Shahrak, looking at the houses, and imagining how we could make our home more beautiful like these here. I want to feel the connection with others like I used to there, but now I often feel different in other places, and sometimes people make sure I feel that way. I don’t blame them; it was just unexpected.

    In Turkey, being called “yabancı” means being a foreigner or an immigrant. While I have many things to be grateful for, I feel like the person I used to be in Afghanistan didn’t come with me to this new life. The sense of familiarity I had there is gone.

    Even if I wanted to return, I know I wouldn’t find the same Afghanistan I left behind. I miss my country, but not the Taliban. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t want them in power at all, but at least I am no longer there. If I were to go back now, I wouldn’t be fully accepted by society. Having changed during my time away, I might not be “American enough,” because I’m not a citizen and yet I also wouldn’t feel “Afghan sufficient” since I haven’t been in Afghanistan. Like all the new starts we had it’s a new start to a new life…

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  • My questions to us Hazaras of US

    We love to talk about being Hazara and how we are so getting independent as we move out of our homeland but we are never really united as what it means to be so? Of course it’s not for everyone here but for the majority of us. 

    The unpopular view of us people is that we believe we are better than each other just because we came a few years or a few months ago and even saying I was a big person when I was in Afghanistan, and doesn’t that mean staying away from getting known by the government of America the world?

     It means to actually stay silent more but believe we are now freed, maybe we did but what about others of us back in our own country that are forced to live hell with Taliban in the country? are they as free as we talk about freedom in the land of freedom when we aren’t asking for freedom but for coal to play ourselves out and be proud we have a kind of music and a dance and someone sacrificed for us, isn’t that a shame for us to hero like Baba Mazari?

     I felt it through their eyes, the dishonesty I’ve seen was not unusual but why did it smell like it was waiting for fame?

    I would say I wish for the day that we are as open to each other and aren’t waiting for an order of someone who is not Hazara like Afghanistan old governments leaders but I also well know that if we don’t have each others back nothing would change even if we have someone like Baba Mazari, isn’t it true? Are we united as what it means to be so? Why? 

    (As a Hazara myself these are my questions not to offend but just what I wondered from the time I learned what is Hazara)

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  • Just a day in misery, today’s Afghanistan

    April/ 2/ 2025

    Martyrs’ blood floating in street streams, 

    students ready to lose their life to learn a new word

    Learn to write “immigrant.” Not a new word?

    God knows Iran for Afghan. Police breaking another kid’s neck

    better than 20,000 kids being deported without a guardian.

    Now, even our guardian angels are chained by the Taliban.

    Draw more Tulips in the city walls for more martyrs, we would never be done sacrificing. 

    read “my dear country Afghanistan” in school books, read, never belief, it was never mine

    My language isn’t Pashto, I don’t understand screamed national anthem into my ear

    My culture isn’t baqarah, genocide ethnicity from my country

    just another day with 40 killed, 2 suicide bombings, and just blood covering the country 

    just like my mother’s newly bought furniture: covered, but in red

    Bamiyan still breathes in my heart, but it was mine

  • Rumors

    Growing up I always heard about people who dreamed and never even got close to what they wanted, at young age it seemed scary that they were getting laughed at behind their backs and judged for wanting, to dream a better life…

    Daring to dream is now bravery, well I can say it has always been, and not everyone can tell people what they want to be in the future or what they want from life, the most asked question as a teenager. I feel guilty for doing it both, for the people I was looking at as unthoughtful and for dreaming unthoughtful.

    To be worried, why does what I want doesn’t meet the standard of everybody but if it did it wouldn’t be mine.

    I wish I wouldn’t say that, I could forget about it just like all the things I had forgotten but growing up I realized how hard it is to just want something with your whole heart without being afraid of what people could say behind your back, maybe I’m talking about it too much or I’m telling not enough but it was my dream to write and yet I don’t dare to say with confidence because what if they judge me? and Can I ever be a writer? If not, I must not tell people that.

    I dreamed of using the most powerful sword and most bitter wounds: words. Of life in the world that lives in my heart and soon in the paper, also when people choose to read what I want to say by themselves without feeling obligated to be nice. I dreamed of my name as an author of a book but saying it to someone makes me feel like I’m speaking nonsense because in the world I live in you never say what you want unless you achieve it. 

    I don’t want it to be just meaningless words wrapped in a sentence but something in me still says, What if they judge you?

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  • A Random Memory 

    I was just walking home from school. I hid next to the neighbor’s doors so the driver would not come with me, I didn’t like the feeling of being watched so after waiting a few minutes I pressed the alarm. There was no electricity so I had to kick the door many times after someone opened the door. I saw our downstairs neighbor’s daughter’s bicycle in the front yard. She was early from school that day, so I went to her door excitedly and asked, “Hey, you came so early today?”

    “Hey, didn’t you see the news?”

    “No” 

    “And you didn’t pass by my school street to Baqerolum?”

    “No, I just got home”

    “We had another suicide bomber” Her eyes widened a bit more still trying not to show the fear and excitement in her voice, “They let us go early today, we’re sort of lucky, right?”

    I remember I wasn’t surprised but it was unexpected for me to know what my friend had to feel today also I knew that suicide bombers are not new stuff, we grew up listening to how many people are killed daily anywhere by these suicide bombers, universities? Not safe, shops? Not safe, walking down the street? Not safe. 

    I wasn’t shocked about what happened I just asked her if she got hurt and she hadn’t so we went to go and play as this was all that I cared about after hearing that many people died just from her school, still I can’t blame myself for lack of empathy, she didn’t expect it either, suicide bombers were every day hear for us and also an 8-year-old wouldn’t care about something they heard all the time. I later passed her school street and I saw the whole tiny street covered in black smoke like paint and somewhere blood on the ground, most of the blood had gotten absorbed into the soil before I came to see it.

    Still, that wasn’t a huge surprise because I thought it was how everyone lived. A life where so many people were losing the gift given by God, to live.

     Every stone of there is witness to so many tragedies but you wouldn’t know how cold you were if you didn’t feel the warmth, of course, some people didn’t go through much in Afghanistan neither did I, and even though I didn’t feel as much as I would if I was in their shoes I saw them and how they lived. 

    As in my thoughts, life isn’t the same for everybody and it’s not our fault if we grow comfortable or not it’s just that we can at least try to help each other as much as we can but of course, if you will to change the world starting from you…

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  • Unwanted in any land

    Why is it so difficult for us humans to live on the planet we were born in?

    Why are we hating each other this much if we are the same kind? Why do we hate each other?

    Just the kind of questions that a kid asks. 

    At least I’m asking this now, when I’m older when I understand more, and when I can answer myself with my less but convincing logic. However, my 11-year-old self couldn’t answer these… 

    I was 6, my Mom had already told me the stories of how she was treated in Iran. An Afghani in Iran in my Mom’s generation, the perfect victim of politics. But she wasn’t the one bullied much, her siblings were, and she was the one who saw the most effect.

    For years I grew up thinking I wouldn’t survive Iran because of racism, at least for living there. I thought every Iranian person would insult me and judge me for my ethnicity,  I thought they would hit my head with the basketball and then laugh and say that now the ball was dirty to touch an Afghani just like how my aunts were treated. 

    I always thought I was less than other people in other countries but I didn’t know many countries so it wouldn’t bother me much also I was going to a loving school, restaurants, and to my grandma’s. 

    I remember when I used to read books from Afghanistan school books, when it used to say Our dear precious country Afghanistan, well as a 6-year-old I never believed that. I always thought that was way too much. Also when I was in Turkey, I never wrote my beautiful country Turkey.

    I never wrote them, because I never felt like belonged

    I was unwanted in Iran but also in Afghanistan, my Mom was born and raised in Iran so she had the accent, me too. So I was never Afghani and never Irani enough, it all got better and worse when we moved to Turkey. 

    Now, it didn’t matter if you were Iranian or Afghan; it only mattered if you were Turk now. 

    I was 11 when I wanted to be proud of my country, I wanted to feel special because of my blood, my people, and my history but felt like I would be more loved by Turkish people if I said I was from Uzbekistan they weren’t in war like me, I was ready if someone asked me which part of the country I was from but of course who would ask for proof right?

    When I was 11, I wanted to live in my country, in my house, with my whole family together just like before. But where was the ear to hear?

    What politician cares about us people? We are just all a part of their agreements, or the opposite, who cares?

    Who cares where we people go to?

    Who cares who will help us out?

    Who cares if we are people with feelings if we have a life? 

    Now this is what my now 14-year-old would ask; 

    Why war? Why steal each other’s opportunities in life that were given by God? Who are you to take my life, my most basic right of living?

     I had to start 2 lives with my family again because of migrating but do you know how migrating already feels? When you leave yourself there and come to a new life to start it with nothing but a few suitcases and, that’s where natives tell us to leave their countries like we came here for fun with all the life conditions to populate their countries.

    My 11-year-old shouldn’t have said these, shouldn’t have felt this. But would any of the people who brought my country to this point give back my life, my time, my childhood, and my dreams? Give my tears back to me, give me back my childishness I never wanted to grow this much in a year…

     But what about the people whose family was lost? They are the ones who owe them their loved one’s blood. 

    This world owes Afghani’s a happy life and to Hazaras a life…

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