“I originally wrote this story in Pashto and have since translated it into English.”
There is a strange silence now — a city where knives are drawn into its heart. Sadly, from this city’s full heart and scorched chest, no fresh news emerges. And if it does, it’s met with laughter at its helplessness.
A girl sat on the roadside, her eyes fixed on her empty scarf. People passed by; she looked at their shoes — would anyone ask for a polish? But no one stopped.
On an idle day, the once-busy city — whose flag of pride had been lowered — watched its own people drift by in indifference, wasting time beneath the Kota-e-Sangi bridge staring at meaningless things.
A Ranger vehicle swerved into Deh’mazang square, splashing dirty water toward the girl as it braked harshly and dropped someone off near her.
Her eyes were still on the man’s feet, but unfortunately, he wore white Servis shoes — not the kind that needed polishing. She slowly lifted her gaze, expecting the heavy vest and the rifle. She gathered herself. The closed doors of her school flashed through her mind.
“Get up!” the man barked.
Trembling, the girl looked up at the armed man and softly asked,
“Me?”
He lowered the gun from his shoulder and grabbed her by the arms, roughly forcing her toward the Ranger. She tried to speak, but he cut her off:
“Don’t you know it’s forbidden for women to walk in the city without hijab and a Muharam (guardian)?”
In a frightened whisper, she said,
“My father is a martyr…”
The Ranger sped off. The girl turned her teary eyes to the leftover dye bucket and the small, worn rug left behind on the sidewalk.
Water Wars: Pakistan’s Dam Diplomacy with Afghanistan
د دعوت رسنیز مرکز ملاتړ وکړئ
له موږ سره د مرستې همدا وخت دی. هره مرسته، که لږه وي یا ډیره، زموږ رسنیز کارونه او هڅې پیاوړی کوي، زموږ راتلونکی ساتي او زموږ د لا ښه خدمت زمینه برابروي. د دعوت رسنیز مرکز سره د لږ تر لږه $/10 ډالر یا په ډیرې مرستې کولو ملاتړ وکړئ. دا ستاسو یوازې یوه دقیقه وخت نیسي. او هم کولی شئ هره میاشت له موږ سره منظمه مرسته وکړئ. مننه
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