Ties of Heartache

For three agonizing years, I have clung to your two hair ties around my wrist, an enduring symbol of our shattered connection. I surreptitiously retrieved them from your bag, stained with blood, a chilling reminder of the day Mana (mother) informed me that you had worn them. They were handed to her as your final possessions, forever tainted by tragedy. I can still vividly recall the moment I washed them, but I lacked the courage to face the color of the water. I desperately tried to shield myself from the ugly realities that unfolded in June 2020.

Since June 2020, I’ve stubbornly kept them on my wrist, even though they’re in a sad state. They’ve endured the passing years, losing their shine and appeal. Despite my friend’s suggestions to preserve their delicate beauty, I intentionally left them as they are, with holes and fraying threads. I longed to see a tangible representation of my heart, as it struggled under the weight of this painful separation. These hair ties now serve as a poignant mirror of my heart — bound in place but stripped of numerous threads and elastics.

As time goes by, my heart keeps beating, an unwavering reminder of life’s constant progression. But deep within, numerous pieces have faded and perished. As each year passes on this mournful day, a part of me surrenders to the harsh hold of sorrow. Yet, I stand firm, refusing to be defeated, engaged in a solemn conversation with life, seeking elusive conditions that might bring me some semblance of joy.

Natasha, today is June 27 once again, a day that brings back memories of pain, sorrow, and disbelief for the last three years. When the morning of this day comes, it feels like a haunting reminder of the heartache that won’t let go. For the past three years, throughout the entire month of June, I’ve desperately tried to find a way to escape, to avoid facing the harsh reality of this day and its morning. Yet, it arrives unfailingly, and each year the pain seems to grow stronger.

This past year has been incredibly tough, one of the hardest periods I’ve ever experienced. You might argue that I said the same about the previous year too. What can I say? Life doesn’t get any easier. So much has happened during this year, leaving a lasting impact on my soul that cannot be erased.

This year, alongside my deep anguish for you, my mind has been plagued by countless imagined scenarios. I find myself envisioning an alternate reality where you successfully persuade me to pursue your master’s program after completing your undergraduate studies, instead of returning to Afghanistan. There are also times when I envision you convincing me to come and study at my school in the US, even picturing us as roommates. Occasionally, I imagine us clashing and regretting our decision to live together. However, deep down, I recognize my skill in persuasion because, in reality, I convinced you to go back to Afghanistan and work there. The reality of the situation is heart-wrenching. It feels like a betrayal to both you and myself as Afghanistan has regressed to a state reminiscent of two decades ago. Women are confined to their homes, and the country has descended into darkness where young girls can’t dream as they drift off to sleep. I curse the fact that I was more successful in shaping your future. I wish it had been different.

The sacrifice you made with your life, along with the losses endured by countless beautiful souls in this horrific war, feels like an immense waste. Speaking of losses, I want to tell you the way your life was abruptly stolen away, leaving me without a chance to see you one last time. As if you vanished from the surface of the earth, leaving me with your unfulfilled dreams and my scarred heart that gets renewed with each innocent life taken like yours.

Among many losses this past year, three have deeply wounded my soul. The first was the tragic death of a young Hazara girl named Marzia, who was killed while studying at an educational center, preparing for university exams, along with many of her friends. Natasha, on that day, I wished you were here to shed tears with me over her innocent list of wishes. My sister, her simple wish was to someday walk in a park without fear. It shattered me to pieces, realizing that in our own country, young girls die without their dreams of strolling in a park ever coming true. How merciless and unjust this world is for the women of Afghanistan. Marzia also had a dream to write a novel and meet Elif Shafak. Do you remember our last conversation about books? We discussed “Forty Rules of Love” by Elif Shafak. I cried profusely for Marzia, and I made a promise to myself that my first fiction book will be dedicated to her.

The second loss that devastated me was when a sister reached out and shared that she now understands the pain I’ve been enduring. She revealed that her brother was killed in the recent bombing of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. She reached out to me, seeking comfort and reassurance that this overwhelming anguish would eventually fade. However, I couldn’t find the strength to confront her, Natasha. I felt too weak to tell her that the pain would never diminish, that it would never feel justified and that she would never see him again. It was too painful to even imagine the rawness of her wounds and the desperate search for solace she must be experiencing. It was challenging to tell her the truth because I knew all too well the depths of this pain.

I didn’t write anything on this past International Women’s Day because early in the morning, I received the news of the passing of Kaka Ghafoor (Dr. Ghafoor Wahdat) in India, far away from his home and children. Consoling Nasreen, his daughter, was incredibly difficult. I spent the entire day in tears, reminiscing about his kind smile. Every time I visited their home, he would ask me in his Herati accent, “Ishtani Lima Bachim?” I remembered our days together in Pakistan. He dedicated his entire life to women’s education, and his daughters were a testament to his desire for empowered women in Afghanistan. I was heartbroken that he left this world at a time when women in Afghanistan have once again been stripped of their basic human rights. His daughters are scattered across the world because Afghanistan is no longer safe for women. So, on March 8th, I cried for a father, and for all those fathers who may never witness an Afghanistan where women are truly free.

And finally, I want to share with you about Hasti. Natasha, I am a mother now. Can you believe it? I truly wish I could hear your thoughts on me becoming a mother. From the moment I found out I was pregnant with Hasti until now, when she is six and a half months old, not a single day has gone by without me missing you and longing for your presence. My pregnancy was quite challenging.

Sitting at the operation table, my body trembled uncontrollably as the anesthetist inserted the needle into my spine. Overwhelmed by fear, I found myself questioning, “What are you scared of, Lima?” I had witnessed unimaginable horrors, endured immense pain, and been exposed to relentless violence. So, what could possibly induce such fear in you, Lima, now? Was it the looming prospect of death? Perhaps it was the uncertainty of whose life it would claim — mine or the life I carried within my belly. But even the loss of a child had already scarred my heart. How could this be any worse? I admit, I didnt have all the answers. Despite everything, fear still grips me, and a desperate yearning for life remains.

In the face of it all, I cling to my desire to live. I refuse to surrender to the embrace of death. I still hope that there is another side to my story, a happy side; that there is a better world waiting for me, and a peaceful tomorrow that I need to wake up to. I can endure more pain, but one does not have to. In the realm of tangled thoughts, colliding and intertwining, I sought solace by closing my eyes, yearning for a moment of respite. However, the relentless symphony of existence beckoned with a resounding cry, an unmistakable voice that compelled me to pry open my eyes and confront the raw essence of life itself. And I saw her! Hasti arrived two and a half months early. She was incredibly tiny, weighing only 2 pounds. I was unsure of how to take care of her, but it seemed like she knew exactly what she was doing. She had a strong determination to be here as soon as possible.

I feel that Hasti somehow knows you. Whenever I talk to her about you, she becomes still, as if she understands every word I say. She has been a source of strength for our family, helping us navigate the painful reality of losing our home, our country, and everything we once knew. For the first time, I feel a deeper connection with Mana, my sister, thanks to Hasti. It’s as if Hasti has brought us together on another level. Finally, we are friends rather than just mother and daughter, something I’ve always wished for.

Hasti has become the best of friends with Baba. I don’t think Baba has ever loved me as much as he loves Hasti, and he openly expresses his affection for her. I’m sure you would have been jealous if you were here, but I also know you wouldn’t mind sharing Baba’s love with her. I believe you would have adored Hasti just as much as we do.

Personally, this year has been a time of deep despair for me. There have been moments when I felt utterly alone, lost, and lacking confidence in the future. However, I’ve come to realize that these emotions are valid and necessary for growth. I need to embrace them, as they may help me discover a different version of myself, even if it’s different from before.

The rest of the family seems to be doing okay, but we struggle to see eye to eye. We avoid talking about you, as if discussing you among ourselves would only intensify the pain. But I refuse to hide my feelings or refrain from speaking about you, Natasha. Your loss is profoundly unjust on every level, yet removing it from my life would be equally unjust. I despise the fact that you were taken from us, but I cherish the pain that serves as a reminder of the life we shared together. As I preserve your hair ties on my wrist, I make a solemn promise to continue breathing and wholeheartedly embrace life, even with my weary and scarred heart.