Love in Despair: A Flicker of Hope in the Midst of Tragedy: Children Orphaned by the War in Afghanistan

By Shughla Karzai

The book will be divided into two major parts, each with a number of shorter chapters. Part I will tell the story of Shughla’s journey and how Sana Orphanage came into existence, in chronological order. Each chapter will tell about a particular step on the way, an incident or a milestone that was significant. Part II will tell the stories of some of the individual children at Sana. Some chapters will be extremely brief, while others will be longer. Not all of the children’s stories can be told, as there are over fifty children now at the orphanage; but a sampling of various stories will be included, to give the reader an idea of the kinds of things these children have been forced to deal with in their short lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 24, 2021
• ISBN: 9781664163539

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Copyright © 2021 by Shughla Karzai.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

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without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 03/24/2021

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CONTENTS

Home

Afghan International Airlines

Aunt Summer’s New Home

A Most Unforgettable Bus Trip

Kandahar

An Idea Is Born

Our Days Of Hard Work

The First Kids Arrive

I Spill The Beans

Rock Skin

I Am On A Mission!

The Blind Grandma

The Father

The Women’s Prison

Ehssan

Aminah

More Children

The Two Brothers

Six Kids With Special Needs

Tragedy

My Condition

The Immune System

From Chemo To Art

Photo Gallery

About The Author

HOME

2006

I plunged my hands into the sink filled with soapy dishes. Outside, the gray, dull Seattle afternoon was settling into a gray, dull Seattle evening, the persistent and rather annoying drip, drip, drip of the ever-present drizzle on the window ledge outside adding a soft, monotonous accompaniment to my nightly dishwashing ritual. My husband, Nazir, was watching television with the kids in the living room before getting ready for bed.

Back in Afghanistan, the rest of our family who had not emigrated was already hosting my mother and my sister, who had gone ahead in preparation for a monumental family event. My brother Ehssan was soon going to join them, to get married in the full traditional way, beginning with the engagement ceremony and culminating several months later with the wedding ceremony, and bring his bride back to the United States.

I longed to see the old country again. I was homesick. It gnawed inside me, threatening to percolate in tears and spill down my face. But I forcefully suppressed those thoughts and brushed them aside, as I always had.

I was flooded with gratitude to God for bringing us to America. There were our two beautiful children: our son, who was five, and our daughter, who was two and a half. They played quietly without a care in the world, knowing that we would always be there for them, that everything would always be the way it should be, and that their lives would be wonderful and happy. They did not have to think about explosions, kidnappings, and brutal violence. They could play safely on the bright-red swing set in the backyard, then have a good dinner and a warm bath and be tucked into their cozy, safe beds at night. They did not have to beg for scraps of food in the cold streets. Thank God we had made it here!

I would have liked to go with Ehssan, but with two young children needing me at home, it did not seem like a good idea. Still, I longed to be there and be a part of it all.

But that evening, as we sat and talked, it was actually Nazir who brought it up.

Well, why don’t you go?

That would be so wonderful! I sighed. But what about the kids?

They’ll be fine. He shrugged. They’re old enough now. You know my folks are always delighted to come over and stay with them. We can do it. I know this means a lot to you. You only have one brother. And this is something that only happens once in a lifetime. I will also take my vacation time off from work. You should go.

I really wanted to go. And I would get to see my aunt Summer again! How I missed her. I saw again in my mind’s eye the gracious and elegant house where she used to live, in the nice part of Kabul, with its fine furniture, the dignified deep-blue velvet curtains covering the large, square windows looking out on the majestic pine tree in her front yard. Every room in that house was decorated in a different color. My favorite, of course, was the pink room. How I loved to visit her as a carefree child! We used to tie a rope to the tree branch and swing on it, flying to and fro, screaming with delight. And in the afternoons, Aunt Summer would have guests over for tea, served in delicate teacups of fine china, guests whom we reverently called Mother and Father, after the ancient Afghan custom. As children, we were taught to use these titles for the grown-ups, showing them proper respect and honor and, at the same time, trust and devotion. And of course, the adults responded in kind, benevolently calling us son and daughter. As soon as an adult addressed me as daughter, there was a deep bond of affection between us that had not been there before. The adults were always delighted to hear what we were learning and what we wanted to be when we grew up.

Yes, your darling little Shughla will be the perfect wife for my Zaahir, a young mother would murmur, nodding and nudging my mother when we had barely graduated from diapers into real clothing. Shughla, my daughter, come and let me see your new baby doll. Oh, my, isn’t she lovely? You look so beautiful, my daughter! Won’t they be a handsome couple? We’ll get my sister to make the wedding dress for her. It will be so beautiful! I will come to your house, and we will talk about it. And they were not joking at all; they were quite serious.

Sometimes the adults brought us little toys or trinkets, which we treasured and showed off to our friends. It made us feel so important to be included in the adult conversations on those hot, lazy afternoons. For some reason, I was my aunt’s and other families’ favorite kid; I always got some nice dolls and other toys. Some of my dad’s friends brought me very special dolls from Russia. My grandmother made me a doll with her hands. That doll became my all-time favorite toy, maybe because it was a handmade rag doll with a bit of red thread for a mouth and two black buttons for the eyes. And it was, of course, made with a great deal of love. From a young age, I spent most of my time with my grandmother. She used to teach me valuable lessons of life and how to pray daily and be grateful for the life I am blessed with. This doll went everywhere with me, until we left for Pakistan, and she stayed behind. Poor old doll! Where had she ended up? I felt the dull ache tightening on the inside of my stomach, and my eyes filled with hot tears since that was the last gift from my grandmother. Oh, how I loved my grandmother!

Should I go? Should I stay?

I’ll go! I said.

I had four days to pack and get ready for the flight. I gave my short vacation notice at work. I scrambled to pack, to run out to the clinic and get my shots, to buy food and make meals to put in the freezer for Nazir and the kids, and to shop for a few gifts to take along. I packed my suitcase with more vigor than skill. Then I dumped everything out and started over. I had left out quite a few necessities and instead mindlessly packed a lot of heavy junk that I would never use. Toothpaste! I needed to buy some toothpaste. Where was my passport? What would the old country look like? Would I still recognize it? Would it be hot over there? Should I pack an extra sweater? I stuffed three bulky sweaters into the poor, protesting suitcase. It wouldn’t close. How about two sweaters and a raincoat? Would it be rainy over there? How about an umbrella? No, dumb idea. Good Lord, I was almost out of shampoo! Was the drugstore still open? Ugh! What if I never came back? If I never came back … Hahahahaha! Not from the drugstore but from Afghanistan. What would happen to the kids? Would Nazir remarry? Would his new wife be a good mother? I don’t want my kids to have a wicked stepmother. I want them to have a mother who would love them more than life itself and give them the best of everything. Was I a complete fool for going to Afghanistan? Should I call my family and tell them I had reconsidered? Surely they would understand. But then I would miss out on seeing all the folks I missed so much.

You’re going to Afghanistan? My friends were aghast when I called to tell them. What on earth for?

My brother is going to get married, I explained. You know how we Afghan people are about that. There is nothing more important than your family.

Oh my goodness. You’re going to hate it over there. It’s going to be the worst experience you’ve ever had. I wouldn’t go if I were you.

Well, I’ve already promised to go, so I guess I have to now.

Oh, dear. It’s awful over there. You probably don’t remember much. You were so young when your family left. But it’s even gotten much worse than it ever used to be. So much poverty, so much suffering! We hear from my cousins Kamaal and Fairooz and their families every so often, and you can’t imagine what it’s like! They don’t have electricity. At night, it’s pitch-black. You can’t just go and flip on the light switch. You have to light a candle if you want to see anything. And that’s if you’re lucky enough to have candles.

Well, that’s OK. I guess I can handle that for a short time.

And you can’t just take a nice, hot bath whenever you feel like it. You have to be very careful how much water you’re using. They ration the water over there, and you never have enough. It’s going to be hard to get used to!

Well, thanks for the warning. I’ll be prepared! I tried to be as positive as I could.

And the violence! My gosh, it will give you nightmares just to think about it. They will shoot people in front of the doors of their houses like birds. It’s worse now than it was earlier. This is 2006. The security situation is getting really bad. They’re trying to make it into a democracy, but there are so many suicide bombers. It’s just terrible.

Oh, dear, that was not quite what I wanted to hear.

Others, however, tried to reassure me that it wouldn’t be so bad.

My cousin Arzo, who lived in Texas and whom I love so much—she is closer than a sister to me—was shocked at first. Then she tried to calm me down, reassuring me that I would be fine and that I would have a great time and make beautiful memories. Well, yes, things like that happen, said Arzo, but really, you have violence everywhere in the world. And if you just don’t go out anywhere without a male relative and just keep yourself covered up in a burqa, you’ll be fine. We have some relatives still living over there, and they say it’s not so bad.

Monday arrived, and I had not slept much in three nights, except to toss and turn and wake up gasping from bad dreams. It was time to get into the car and go to the airport. Good thing Nazir was driving, or we would have made unexpected contact with a telephone pole, and those darn poles have no sense of humor whatsoever. I turned around and looked at our two children in the back seat, their big brown eyes wide with innocence. They were not quite sure what to think. I had never left them for more than a few hours before.

I talked to them nonstop, afraid that I would forget to remind them to do something essential. I was sure I was forgetting something. As we walked to the security check, I hugged them. I hugged Nazir. I held the kids tight, stroked their hair, and kissed their cheeks and foreheads, their young skin as smooth and soft as the petals of a spring tulip.

I’ll be back before you know it, and I’ll bring you some nice toys and lots of pictures. Now make sure you eat your breakfast and drink your milk every day and make your beds every day and help Daddy keep the house clean, OK?

They nodded solemnly. One more big hug and a kiss for each of them.

I went through the metal detector, picked up my purse and shoes on the other side, and turned around to wave at them. They looked small and forlorn, huddled there with Nazir, waving back at me dutifully.

No, I thought, I can’t leave them. I’m going back. They won’t remember to eat, brush their teeth, drink lots of water, or go to the bathroom if I’m not there to remind them.

No, I’m going to get on the plane. They’ll be fine. Nazir is very capable. Besides, he even encouraged me to go. He said he would take vacation and take some days off from work. Surely he wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t think he could handle it. He’ll be fine.

One more wave and a big smile, and I turned and headed for the gate.

AFGHAN INTERNATIONAL

AIRLINES

By the time Ehssan and I were on the last leg of the trip, on the flight from Dubai to Kabul, my brain was spinning aimlessly, like the wheels of a car stuck in the mud. I had slept very little during the flight. My thoughts drifted off in a thousand different directions. The steady, dull roar of the engine provided a mellow sort of background for these thoughts.

What would our relatives look like? Would I still recognize them? Would some of them be maimed and crippled, disfigured by explosions? How difficult would it be to go shopping for food? I knew that in Kabul, things were a bit more relaxed, but in Kandahar, women were not allowed to go out without a male relative and not without the complete head-to-toe covering. That would take some getting used to. Would there be any people out on the streets at all? Or would the streets be barren and deserted, with nothing but the hot, dry wind chasing clouds of dust and bits of trash around? Would there be any car traffic? Could anyone even afford to have a car? How hard would it be to go out and get the food and decorations for the engagement ceremony? If nothing else, perhaps we could put together some makeshift, homemade decorations. Afghan women are pretty resourceful. They have to be. And surely all our cousins and aunts would pitch in and help. We were all pretty good with a needle and thread. Maybe we could find some bright-colored fabrics and—

Would you like some tea, miss? said a man’s voice in Dari. My daydreams went scattering and disappeared in all directions. What had I just been thinking about? I turned and saw a young flight attendant, appearing to be in his early twenties, with curly brown hair, a chubby face, and eyes as blue as the clear sky. I came back to the present with a jolt. I was sitting aboard an Afghan airplane, headed for Kabul, where the merciless struggles were raging between the government forces, the Taliban, and the al-Qaeda suicide bombers.

I had the sudden urge to shout something in incoherent exhilaration mixed with sheer panic, something like, Do you realize that I am going back home for the first time in sixteen years? I am absolutely scared to death, but I’m also more excited than I’ve ever been in my life because I’m going to visit family that I haven’t seen in sixteen years!

The young fellow was holding an ancient, woefully battered copper teapot with the lid missing and repeated politely, Would you like some tea, miss? It occurred to me that that sad-looking teapot was very much like the elders of my people, their bony hands worn and beaten by the harsh, relentless tide of the passing years yet still faithfully at your service with a cup of hot tea to warm your tummy and to wrap you up in the homespun fragrance of love, like a soft old blanket. I was close to tears.

Yes, I would like some tea, I finally managed to say, hoping that I sounded calm and composed. Mechanically I took the cup of tea from the young man’s hand and sipped it. I was not thinking about tea or food; I had missed a few lunches and dinners during the three-day flight, but food was the last thing on my mind. But when they brought out a traditional meal and started serving it in the sad-looking plastic trays, a bit of an appetite came back, and I finally ate a little.

I just want to be in my aunt Summer’s home and have tea with her, I thought.

Suddenly, the tears welled up in my eyes, those tears that had been either stifled or brushed aside over the years. Now they came down in torrents. The sharp sadness and the longing for my carefree childhood that I had been suppressing overwhelmed me.

Aunt Summer had moved since the last time I had seen her. She was