By Mahdi Dehqan*
The inception of anything can be disorienting. A street, upon first encounter, may appear as an enigma, yet walk it a hundred more times and it begins to take on an air of familiarity – an obvious transformation. But who can truly fathom the allure of novelty and unfamiliarity? The thrill of the unknown and the first brush with the new and unfamiliar is a joy unto itself, an experience unique in its fleeting nature.
Her name was Zahra. It was inscribed behind two treasured books – “Mafatih al-Jinan,” a compilation of Shia prayers, and the Quran. The Quran bore signs of wear and tear due to her father’s constant use. His fingerprints had faded the colour of the parchment, marking the passage of time. After donating the Quran to the local mosque, they had somehow forgotten about it. The names and birth dates of their children were diligently written on the back cover using a Bic pen: “Zahra, born on February 1, 1997, coinciding with the lunar year of 1417, on a Friday, the twenty-first night of Ramadan, at ten o’clock.”
Everything was unplanned. Isn’t it the truth that our births are accidental, that none of us were consulted before being thrust into existence? Yet, Zahra’s arrival was even more serendipitous; she came into the world two months premature, at seven months. Perhaps the fasting during pregnancy had induced it, or maybe Zahra herself was just too eager to meet the world. Had she been a boy, they would have named her Ali, but she was a girl. They chose the most common name in the village for her: Zahra. And so, her fate was written that very night.
It seemed as though a feverish trend had swept over Facebook, gradually transforming users’ names. Rezadad metamorphosed into Paiman; Khodadad into Shakib; Zakia became Aramish. Mohammad Ali had chosen Arash as a name for himself, and Mohammadreza had opted for Jamshid. It felt like a sudden migration — without a passport, faster than a flight from Najaf or west Kabul to uptown Tehran, faster even than a sweet dream in a deep slumber.
Amid this, Zahra seemed to favor Europe more. She had altered her name to “Rosa Luxembourg,” with no amendments or additions, without prefixes or suffixes. She would post frequently and consistently. At first, many people googled her name: “Who is Rosa Luxembourg?” They would privately message each other: “Does anyone know Rosa Luxembourg? The one whose [social media] location read Qom.”
Zahra’s parents hailed from Behsud. Afghanistan, a land steeped in grand myths, seemed to use these stories as a balm for the human suffering prevalent in its history. In these myths, good invariably triumphs over evil — a testament to the popular saying, “The bigger the lie, the more believable.” These myths functioned similarly. The more grandiose they were, the greater the comfort they provided.
The legend of Zahra’s home held that Behsud, an elder from Jalalabad or Kandahar, fathered several children. Though he later relocated to Behsud, their roots were traced back to Jalalabad. Upon hearing this, a surge of pride would rise within Zahra. The tale suggested that they had Pashtun lineage, which was considered superior to being a juwali (a porter, a social stereotype for the Hazara ethnic group).
Her parents never clarified why this man, affectionately known as Baba Behsud, moved to Behsud. Later, when Zahra delved into “Siraj al-Tawarikh,” she unearthed that “he was expelled.” Subsequently, her sense of pride in having Pashtun blood diminished, yet she would occasionally recount this legend to her friends. Even though she was concerned it might highlight her insecurities, it evoked pride of sharing roots with her beloved president: a man who passionately advocated for Afghanistan, spoke of national unity, and gestured animatedly. To assimilate with the crowds, he had nurtured a beard from the early days of his election campaign, which, according to the grandmother, was purely for a joke. Later, when he arrived in Iran bearing a two-metre-long rosary and became a satirical staple in Iranian media, Zahra harbored no regret for her choice.
One of her Iranian friends asked, “Now that Karzai is gone and this guy, Ghani, has taken his place, how is he?” And she would take a deep breath. Then, with pride and enthusiasm, her voice trembling with excitement and naturally weak, she would tell the Iranians about how their president had taught at America’s Columbia University, She beamed with pride when telling this to her Iranian friends.
During the day, Zahra would join her mother on the carpet weaving loom, humming along to Ahmad Zahir’s song: “What is this ritual, this law, this strategy?” At times, her mother would voice her concern, “Isn’t it bad to be a communist?” Zahra would assert, “No, Mom, it’s not bad … It doesn’t imply atheism … Take Ali Shariati for instance, Dad reads his books a lot, he was a communist. Later he proclaimed that Abuzar [the Prophet’s companion] was the most prominent socialist in history.”
However, her mother was not swayed by Zahra’s explanation, and interjected, “The communists have killed many people.” Yet, Zahra would persist, “No, the so-called communists in Afghanistan were more fascists than communists.” To her, the distinction was as clear as identifying genuine Adidas running shoes from a counterfeit one.
Her mother didn’t fully grasp these ideologies. She had the impression that Zahra had been misled ever since her entry to the university, but she chose not to press the matter too much. She found solace in her own thought, “If it’s indeed this way, then it’s all right.” Subsequently, she would leave the carpet loom to perform her ablutions and pray. While leaving, she would glance at Zahra and gently remind her, “Now that we’ve settled this discussion, go say your prayers.”
When you first set foot on a path, everything is new and confusing, but isn’t it true that this novelty and unfamiliarity is also beautiful? Like the early days of spring or the first days of childhood, isn’t it poignant to see the sadness of people in their thirties and forties who miss their lost innocence and childhood?
Somewhere, she had read from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “The Idiot”: “It is better to be unhappy and know the worst than to be happy in a fool’s paradise.” This fading innocence gave rise to doubt. A few days had passed since her nineteenth birthday.
“Why didn’t you fast? Haven’t you been cleaned by now?” her mother asks.
“Yes, I am clean, but I’m not fasting.”
The terms “clean” and “unclean” irritated her. What did they mean? Why should a natural state for a few days render her impure? She felt disgusted by this nature, swinging from impurity to purity. She thought to herself, “We need to change these terms.”
Her mother had argued about why she wasn’t fasting but hadn’t made too much fuss about it. Her mother was religious, but she didn’t take it too strictly. Perhaps she was like a dam, broken in the face of a mighty flood. After all, was everyone in the house praying that her not fasting would sour the atmosphere too much?
On the first day, she felt a strange sense of guilt. When she heard the clinking of spoons, bowls, and plates, a strange feeling awakened within her even though she pretended to be asleep. She tossed and turned a little, trying to fall asleep. When the sound of the call to prayer twisted through the air, and the grating sound of the mosque’s loudspeaker filled the courtyard, reaching the line “I bear witness that Ali is the Wali of Allah,” a tear trickled down her cheek. She asked herself, “Have I committed a great sin by neither staying awake on the night of Qadr nor fasting?”
***
Perhaps destiny is written in such a way that Zahra, a girl devoid of self-confidence and riddled with pervasive fear, was seated next to Seddiqa, her university friend, behind the barbed-wire fence at the border, on the ground. The back of her coat had become dusty. They had not had a drink of water for several hours. The rapid and astonishing shift in climate, from the snow and storm of the Bazargan and Urmia to the dry and cold weather of Islam Qala border, was surprising.
A mere two years ago, she had visited Afghanistan to acquire a passport and had been met with respect. This time, however, she faced expulsion, marred by derision and insults. A tear trickled down her cheek. In her heart, she cursed Seddiqa, who had nudged her towards Europe, thinking, “Impure being, may you be cursed.” She craved the nostalgic reverie of her childhood, reminiscing about Shah Ebrahim, Saeedi Square, and the Hazrat Masouma shrine. Her quiet sob escalated into a childlike cry. A soldier entered and admonished, “Don’t cry, Afghani!” Inwardly, she retorted, “Damn you, just be silent!”
The border police appeared more compassionate, signaling to the young soldier, whose face bore the telltale signs of adolescent acne, to refrain from his comments. Her vision, clouded by tears, only discerned this action when the salty taste of her tears reached her lips.
As they gradually left Iran, marching in a long column towards Afghanistan, she was reminded of a line from some motivational speech or perhaps a post she’d seen on Telegram or Facebook: “Whatever you flee from pursues you. You must muster the courage to confront it.”
A scene from Spielberg’s “Schindler’s List” flashed through her mind – the grim procession of Jews trudging toward the trains sending them to their deaths. This memory fused seamlessly with the image of a herd of sheep, which her brother once shepherded in Qala Kamkar. With each hurried stride, the border of Afghanistan drew nearer. Setting foot on a new path invariably brings confusion, but isn’t there a captivating allure in everything that’s new and unfamiliar?
***
Half a year later, Zahra found herself bustling down a street brimming with people. She swelled with a sense of accomplishment, having metamorphosed from an Iranian refugee, once repelled, into Rosa Luxembourg, who, these days, dedicates her time between Ibn Sina University, the print shop, and the creation and distribution of banners and posters. No one paid attention to her accent any longer. Her vitality, zealous energy, and adeptness at organizing had eclipsed any linguistic peculiarities. Many were still oblivious to the significance of her adopted name, but in the western quarters of Kabul and amongst the students, she was celebrated as “Rosa Luxembourg.” Her real name, Zahra, had been lost somewhere along the way.
***
The blistering heat of August triggered a headache and a nosebleed in Zahra. It irked her to have to refer to “Mordad” as “Asad,” replacing the Iranian term for August with the one commonly used in Kabul. She was yet to get accustomed to these unfamiliar names, but wasn’t it also true that even strolling around Saeedi Square in the scorching afternoon was an impossibility? This location, while gruelling, was a more bearable purgatory if seen as a prelude to paradise. She doused her face with the refreshing bottled water she carried, in an attempt to alleviate her nosebleed and resume her journey. “That Afghan guy, he’s a terrible fascist,” proclaimed Mohammad Rezaei, who had rebranded himself as “Jamshid.” Then, this very Jamshid darted towards an electrical pole, intent on tearing down the poster of Ashraf Ghani that hung high above.
Jamshid’s words and actions bothered Zahra, though she still harbored a sense of respect for the man who studied at Columbia. Wasn’t there a certain dignity in being Pashtun compared to being a labourer? But none of it made sense. Had she stumbled upon a contradiction, a paradox? Wasn’t it true that when she was in Iran, she identified as both a Marxist and a Shia, and paid her respects when passing by the Shrine of Hazrat Masouma? She needed to reconcile this discord somehow.
A quote from Mao sprung to mind: “The law of contradiction in things, that is, the law of the unity of opposites, is the basic law of materialist dialectics. Lenin said, ‘Dialectics in the proper sense is the study of contradiction in the very essence of objects.’” She comforted herself, “Contradictions are innate to phenomena. This is the essence of dialectics. This paradox isn’t detrimental.”
During the great march, she repeated these phrases under her breath like a soothing mantra: “The law of materialistic dialectics … contradiction … unity of opposites … the law of materialistic dialectics … contradiction … unity of opposites.” It was reminiscent of when she would count her prayer beads in the shrine of Hazrat Masouma. Abruptly, a deafening explosion shattered her reverie, sending a shock wave through the throng of people and hurling her onto the searing ground. Now, it wasn’t just her nose that was bleeding; blood was pouring from her head, too. Her hand lay splayed on the scorching ground, the intense late summer sun beating down upon it.
A gust of wind stirred up a whirlwind, sending a poster spiralling through the air. The poster, showing the torso and head of a teacher at Columbia while he passionately lectured, came to rest beside Rosa Luxemburg’s severed hand. Several minutes later, a man named Arash, who was actually Mohammad Ali, combed through the pile of corpses, desperately searching for Rosa Luxemburg. He approached a sobbing woman, pleading, “Have you seen Rosa Luxemburg? Do you recognize Rosa Luxemburg?” The woman, shaken, could only reply, “No … no … no … I don’t know her.” Amid the chaos, a voice emerged, “Are you referring to Zahra?” and directed him toward a lifeless figure, just two metres away, soaked in a pool of blood.
Mehdi Dehqan is a writer and cultural commentator from Afghanistan.
