The Day I Was Born
In the 1990, a tiny baby with no name and recognition laid in an angel’s arms for the first time in a mud-made house with loud screaming cries that echoed, hit the restless ears of a small but promising sky scattered with the twinkling stars, and a shimmering moon. I opened my eyes in the night, when the stars and bullets tight a nut together. The rocket’s trumpets and missiles’ notes welcomed me!
My mother said, “My father was across Peroz koh, shielding his young proud Hazaragi chest against these poppet Pashtuns who were lined up across that mountain to kill and steal. But when he returned home, he carried only the dust of rockets with lips dry as dashti dalan (دشتی دالان), Dalan desert but with an everlasting pride. The scent of his young martyred fellows signaled, spread across the room the aroma of victory. The sprouting smiles rising from upon his checks, translated an undefeatable victory, a pride and resistance.
I could hear through his fast-beating chest, the sound of thunder, in his eyes I saw, the reflection of thunder strikes – he stood strong in front of us as he entered the room. He stood like the king of lions and brave like his royal father.”
With a relieving smile said, “Welcome my son.” “He then carefully held you in his warm arms, laid his head on your little chest, and his lips shuffled like the strings of an Egyptian Oud in prayers as every father does – his long black hair fell upon your face; they waved your whole body like the striking feather of a black eagle in the midst that built a nest for you.
He then put his hands on your chest – those fingers that looked like the strings of violin, stroke your soft black hair and said, “Lets call him Abdul Samad (عبد الصّمد), the “servant of the Everlasting”.”