• I was startled from my reverie by the sound of another gunshot. As always, Afghanistan was a world that did not recognize the difference between a nightmare and the reality. My teenage daughter, Fauzia was weeping, her whole body trembling between her dusty black burqa, a bright green hijjab, and the little scrunched-up parchment in her hands.

    “Fauzia! Please wear the burqa, my darling! We are going soon!” I insisted, grabbing the parchment away from her.

    “No, I’m not wearing that old piece of rag, and I don’t want to go outside! I’m sick and tired of this Goddamn hell around me!”

    I stood quiet. As if being an adolescent was not bad enough for my darling; God made her a Hazara, a woman, and worse yet –my daughter. She did not deserve any of this. She did not deserve living among these damp, plain stone walls without any means of music, pretty pictures, or any mere signal of adolescence itself. The only music she could listen to were the melody of gunshots. And yet, the sadistic massacre, rubbles, and corpses were the only images allowed to enter the pupil of her eyes.

    That scrunched-up note she’s holding tightly was my source of hope, yet also despair:

    “Farzana Jan,” it said: an endearment term directed to me.

    “I wish I can gaze on your green eyes and petite nose one more time. I also miss our Fauzia dearly. Tell me, how is she doing? Sometimes I can’t believe that our little girl is growing up so quickly. I pray to Allah everyday that you are both under His protection.

    Farzana Jan, please forgive my selfishness. I can promise you this would be the last one. I have fought for Hazara and for the old Afghan days with all my passion and strength. Now that I lost the battle, I want both of you to come and visit me in the address written behind this note. I will be perfectly fine, I can promise you that. But if you don’t mind, I need to see your face for one last time.

    Doostat Daram –I love you, always and forever
    -Ismael

    That particular note arrived yesterday, slipped through our plank wood door; I still can’t figure out who would deliver it to us. I cried when I read that note, obviously. Yet I still can’t decide if those were happy or sad tears rolling down my cheeks. At last I knew exactly where my husband was. But there was one more thing I could perceive: when some of our neighbors received a similar note with that particular address typed behind it; it means that their beloved laying silently in an emergency medical shelter in Kabul. Moreover, when they decided to embark upon the journey, both them and their beloved rarely ever return back home to Jalalabad. Now it’s our turn, and we decided to take the risk.

    We stepped out of our wrecked shelter into the Jalalabad sky. The sun was still in its zenith, burning; and the images of hell were all around us. Our home was like a mansion, compared to what’s left from our neighbors. We are privileged to have a roof above us and only six bullet holes through our walls. As we strolled down the old streets again, I found more and more homes that only consist of a few poles holding together frayed pieces of clothes for their roofs. Children, not less emaciated as Fauzia, are throwing pieces of rubbles that remained from their playroom with all their might. Its times like these that I was truly thankful that I managed to make her wear her burqa. At least that tattered old thing could veil her eyes from this horrific scenery.

    “Mother?” Fauzia inquired, as we made our way to Kabul,

    “Why are these Taliban killing our people? What did we do wrong?”

    I stood idly for a while “Because we are Shi’a Muslims, darling. And they are Sunnis”

    “What is the difference?! We all bow down to Allah, and ask Him for mercy and protection! I thought father said that we are supposed to be… brothers…”

    I stood still even longer “What are you trying to do, Fauzia?”

    “I want to fight for us all!” she said with a passion burning in her eyes.

    “BUT WOMEN ARE NOT MEANT TO BE WARRIORS, FAUZIA!” I cried, suddenly feeling my hands burn against her pale cheeks. She cried.

    No... No... What did I just do? I felt my eyes burning with tears. I glimpsed to my side and saw Fauzia looking exactly the same. I tried to hold her, but she shoved me away. Hence, the rest of our journey was embarked in silence.

    The sun was striking its last benign rays when we arrived at the flimsy medical emergency shelter. There were still walls and an ample adobe roof –that was a good sign. However, the shelter was packed with men, women and a handful of crying children waiting to be treated by a single, constantly occupied doctor. I found Ismael laying motionlessly on one of the front mattresses. He was sharing his alleged bed with a bearded old man who has every single bone practically exposed under his paper-thin skin. They were also sharing a tattered rag of bloodstained cotton as their blanket. Another piece of similar fabric was wrapped deliberately around Ismael’s wounded skull and stomach. My heart broke into pieces when I witnessed what my once vigorous and fierce husband has become: frail and virtually still.

    Immediately, I fell and wept beside his sickly body. My crystal tears wouldn’t stop flowing as I deliberately kissed every inch of what remained of his face and body. I felt his fingers trying to run against my coarse skin just like they used to. He endeavored to search for my face. I placed his fingers on my cold cheeks. It stayed there for a while, before I caught a glimpse of miracle before my eyes: he smiled.

    I returned the smile for him, almost to the extent of chuckling with even more tears running down my cheeks. Fauzia joined us, snuggling between my arms and her father’s chest. We breathed for a few precious moments in harmony, before another miracle happened.

    “Doostat... Daram.. Fauzia… Farzana...” whimpered Ismael between his few last breaths.

    Then, after that very instant, came the moment of eternal silence. It felt like ice running through our veins. It paralyzed every muscle and bones contained in our mortal being.

    Fauzia suddenly jerked herself away from our still bodies; “ALLAHU AKBAR!” she cried.

    There. She faced the dusty, dark Afghan nighttime sky; against the howling of emaciated dogs, against the roaring of missiles.

    “I would not let my father die for nothing!”

    Beyond the stinge of rotting corpses, gun powders, and stolen childhood, she caught a fine scent of freedom. She glanced at her father’s still body. Then, she altered her gaze on every sleeping child that has lost their innocence. Slowly afterwards, she revealed a bright green hijjab that has been hiding under her captive burqa all along.

    There she stood straight, with a fire burning in her eyes, my daughter Fauzia: The Warrior.