I had each anticipated and dreaded a go to to Kabul my complete childhood. I understood it was too harmful: Afghanistan wasn’t a spot you may simply go to. As a small youngster, unable to sleep on a college evening, I snuck off the bed and stealthily crept into the lounge the place my mother and father had been watching tv. The little Toshiba-branded field was lit up with pictures of kids among the many brown rubble of an Afghan village, a 60 Minutes documentary about landmines. ‘Return to mattress, child,’ my mom murmured. I ignored her and climbed into the consolation of her lap. In Afghanistan, I discovered that evening, the Russians used brightly colored bombs disguised as plastic toys to focus on little kids like me.
My mother and father lived between two worlds, at all times sending cash to their households, at all times worrying about their well being, security, safety. There’s guilt and accountability in survival and escape.
Nonetheless, I reside within the shadow of emigration, of struggle, of displacement. In some way I’ve inherited its sorrow. Embedded in my consciousness is the information that the world is on hearth with injustice. Luck, not benefit, is our defining drive. That each one this valuable freedom we have now been gifted is precarious, and we should not waste it. Or perhaps it’s inevitable that we waste it – waste it fantastically and frivolously and consciously – however we should not throw it away.