Young Writers By Zaheda Ghani Jan.-March 1999 Lemar-Aftaab Young writers, usually the under eighteens, are often forgotten in the search for "literariness" in written expression. But for many reasons, it is important to discover this youthful art because it leads to an understanding of who they, and the experiences they draw from. Therefore, I have compiled a few examples of writing from younger Afghans, in the hope that they provide the reader a window into how teenagers see the world. Often, it is very surprising to notice the rich, deep expression, verbiage, themes and the reflections which come through. Enjoy. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - A Word from Me Sometimes I cry out what I can't say, I can't confide but I can pray. I wonder if you hear me so If you hear not then, won't it show? I'm burning slowly deep inside, Though I'm alone, I want to hide. I fear of things too close to me, That if I move they may draw near. I close my eyes and quietly cry, My hands in front, I ask you why. I came not for material things, For I feel not the joy it brings. Instead I pray with all my soul, You'd lift me up if I should fall. I know you're there, though I can't see, My faith has kept you close to me. So I sit here, I whisper slow: Can we meet here again tomorrow? Rose (age 17) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - I Am I am I am mother, Respect me. I am daughter, Accept me. I am sister, Don't hate me. I am wife, Don't beat me. You will know my value one day. I am like a star that shines in the dark. I am like the rose That blooms in May. I shall return one day, Not for revenge but for love. Masooda (age 15) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - My Earth Does a blind man cry? I am confused. You left me here alone, I sit and weep. I am not blind, But I cannot see why I am Here without you. I look up at the world, How much we have in common. I am on the brink of mental poverty, Do you not see? You are my sky, Without you I am but a disaster. My vision is blurred, I make out a figure, Is it you? I rub my eyes and see, A touch, A whisper, A hug. Then there is world peace. Abdul (age 16) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Leaf It danced in the breeze as silent as the morning's fog. It made no sound, preferring to drift silently. It swayed in unison with its friends like blowing paper. It made no impression on the world. It drifted lightly from up above like a bright bird's feather, but it sang no song, it was coated with a yellow color, like the golden sun. It twirled like a ballerina dancing to her death, it lay to rest upon the ground. Lightly like a fragile vase. It had reached its journey's end. Nargess (14) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Other Works by Zaheda Ghani : An Angle on Sydney (article -- Oct-Dec.98) The Music and the Spirit(prose -- Oct-Dec.98) My Journey and My Prayer(poem-- July-Sept 98) Fragmentations(poem -- July-Sept 98) in a tiny black box (poem -- April-June 98) Afghanistan... (short story -- April-June 98) Zaheda Ghani is a member of the Association of Afghan Writers (AAW). Copyright © 1999 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.