I can never speak of Afghanistan without my breath catching,
Without memories weaving beauty and pain into the same fragile thread.
It wasn’t just the echoes of war outside my window that shaped me.
But the quiet battles at home,
Fought in silence, in anger,
Under the crushing weight of unspoken truths.
My childhood was not one of crumbling walls or open wounds.
We had a roof above, food to fill our plates,
And walls that stood firm against the world.
But the cracks were not in stone or wood
They ran through the spaces between us,
Where survival spoke louder than love,
And affection was a language left unsaid.
I needed more than shelter and bread.
I longed for warmth in my parents’ voices,
Softness in their touch,
Love that wrapped itself around me like a shield,
Not love that made me feel small.
Instead, I learned the art of silence,
Walking carefully around their storms,
Burying my own emotions deep,
Just to keep the fragile peace.
My parents, like Afghanistan itself,
Were survivors of endless storms.
They wore their pain like armor,
Always bracing for the next blow.
But in their fight to endure,
They forgot to see the bruises they left on my soul.
Their silence was heavier than the bombs that shook the earth,
Their anger, sharper than the shards of a broken home.
So, I became the child who didn’t ask,
Who didn’t cry,
Who carried the weight of being too much
And not enough all at once.
I learned to fade into the background,
A quiet shadow of the child I might have been.
There were no scars for anyone to see,
But inside, I carried the weight of love that hurt,
Of expectations that silenced me,
Of affection that felt more like an obligation.
I was not harmed in the ways the world imagines when they think of my home,
But the emotional ruins?
They were everywhere.
Now, far from the land that raised me,
I feel the quiet ache of everything I hid.
I thought I was fortunate
To have shelter, food, family.
But love is more than a place to sleep.
Love is safety.
Love is being seen.
And I was not seen.
Afghanistan gave me more than a home;
It gave me silence, resilience,
And an ache too deep to name.
My parents carried the war within them,
But I carried the weight of their wounds.
I bore the legacy of a place where survival is a triumph, And healing, an untouchable dream.
Now, as I try to piece myself together,
I wonder if Afghanistan does the same.
If it aches for the love it was denied,
For the voices it lost,
For the dreams buried beneath its soil.
We are mirrors, my homeland and I,
Both learning slowly, painfully
That survival alone is not enough.
We deserve to heal.
