Lemar-Aftaab - Oct-Dec. 1997 - Articles - Memories of Days Gone

Memories of Days Gone

By Mahbub Shansab

[Mahbub Shansab in Chara Assyab
modeling for a calendar.]

It was a long time ago, in a place filled with peace, in another lifetime, a time of certainty and familiarity, when we drove outside of Kabul; when I walked barefoot on the green grass of a hillside in the shadow of the historical site of Bala Hissar; when the photographers shot pictures of me in different Afghan dress for next year's calendar. I don't recall the exact date; it was in the early 70s.

I do remember the day; it was a brilliant day drenched with sunlight and laughter and fun. An innocent time that has been lost to me, my friends, and others in a decade that ended with tragedy for our country. When I look at my face on the picture, I can feel the heat of the morning sun, I can see the azure sky, and the crisp air of my native country, and feel the loss of all that was ours and will never be again.

Now when I walk barefoot on the beach, and watch laughing children run at the edge of water lapping the shores of the Pacific, their feet glistening under the swell of tide, their cries blending with the squawks of seagulls and the crash of waves, I think how innocent they are-- how different from the children walking the streets of Kabul and Jelalabad, or the huddled orphans seeking shelter in Peshawar and Quetta.

How far away this world of sun, sand, and water, the laughing excited children, the noisy motor boats, and the sun worshipers on the beach of the Marina seems from Kabul. I wounder if Bala Hissar still casts its impressive shadow on the hillside, who lives in the house where I raised my children, where we had carefree parties full of music and laughter, what happened to the treasures inside the Kabul museum. Is there food for the children, do they find shelter at night? The thousands of women held captive in their homes, what do they do for intellectual stimulation? What will happen to their illiterate daughters?

Dare I wonder who decides what happens where, to whom? Is it all part of a larger design or just random happenings drawn together by coincidence? Is there a higher power out there beyond that clear sky that chose me to be one of the lucky survivors so I could enjoy the sun? How does He make these decisions? Does He hold an abacus on his lap to multiply, to divide, to keep or destroy, by sliding its beads every which way his pleasure takes Him? Eliminating here, adding there, making things happen by randomly selecting areas and peoples. An omnipotent whimsical child—cruel, devastating, playful, funny.

When I think back to my childhood in Kabul, my recollections are a blur of vague memories, my days at school from first grade to twelfth are sketched out in colourful patches. I remember my classmates, my teachers, the attendants, the schoolyard of Malalai High. Some memories bring on a smile and a sense of nostalgia, while others I would rather forget. But, however ambiguous my feelings may be about those years, I would not want them taken from me. They are the memories of my youth, the hopes and aspirations of the young girl that does not exist anymore, just as the school I attended has gone into oblivion, its doors closed, its corridors empty, the sounds of girls' footsteps and laughter ghostly echoes of the past.

Malalai's doors are closed today to the thousands of young girls with the same hopes and dreams that I cherished. In my dreams Malalai's wrought-iron doors will always be open, its spacious green lawns still fringed by wild rosebushes and overgrown brambles, as I walk its long, dusky corridors smelling faintly of dust and chalk. I still see the old female overseers in black ankle-length dresses, sticks in hand, their faces grim, always on the lookout for interlopers. The laughter of a hundred girls, the footfall of eager students, the scratch of chalk on blackboards, the chorus of young voices still in my ears, I refuse to think of half of my country's population brought up illiterate, their dreams squashed under the cruel boots of men bent on destroying a nation.

At night, when I head home toward the blinking city lights, I look back at the beach now deserted, its sands rippling in the evening breeze, the mounds of sand castles crumpled, the rising moon painting a glossy path on the water, I search my mind for a glimmer of hope for the country I left behind and the children who have nowhere to go.