Al_Imaan
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An Afghan Kid
Written by Mohammad Fahim Khairy
Tuesday, 08 May 2007
My father wished for his son not to be poor like him. Today I am grown but he is not alive to see me. I search all day to find a loaf of bread to feed my hungry mother. Sometimes the street kids beat me up and sometimes the bigger boys take my bread. When I go to collect wood from the garden in my village I am constantly afraid that I will step on a landmine. My older brother is now one-legged because he was not as lucky as I have been in avoiding the landmines. He stays home because he does not have a prosthetic leg to walk with. When I go the main road, the Commanders’ vehicles are going so fast that they send the dirt from the ground flying everywhere. The dust burns my eyes. I thought the foreigners would help us. I see them everywhere; some are armed soldier, some are non-military aid workers. I see people having lunch inside restaurants. I can smell the food. If I come too close to the diners, the waiter kicks me and says, “Go away, orphan b*****d!” The Commanders’ cars are parking at the market. They take their children shopping.
Their Land Cruisers are so big and high. I can’t even reach the windows to ask them for money. My feed hurt a lot because I don’t have shoes. I can not protect my feet from the broken glasses that are on the path. I am only a kid but I see myself as a father. I feel responsible for my sick mother and my disabled brother. I wish I was born into a rich family where no one is sick. I see the rich kids as they enjoy every moment of their life. Their fathers are commanders, ministers, and politicians. They ride bicycles and dress accordingly for each season. I have only one turban. I cannot even wash it because I have nothing else to wear while it dries. If I don’t find bread I sleep hungry.
I wish my dad was still alive. At least I would then be able to go to school instead of having to beg everyday. I live in a different world. A world where nobody cares. I don’t know anything but War! War! War!
Written by Mohammad Fahim Khairy
Tuesday, 08 May 2007
My father wished for his son not to be poor like him. Today I am grown but he is not alive to see me. I search all day to find a loaf of bread to feed my hungry mother. Sometimes the street kids beat me up and sometimes the bigger boys take my bread. When I go to collect wood from the garden in my village I am constantly afraid that I will step on a landmine. My older brother is now one-legged because he was not as lucky as I have been in avoiding the landmines. He stays home because he does not have a prosthetic leg to walk with. When I go the main road, the Commanders’ vehicles are going so fast that they send the dirt from the ground flying everywhere. The dust burns my eyes. I thought the foreigners would help us. I see them everywhere; some are armed soldier, some are non-military aid workers. I see people having lunch inside restaurants. I can smell the food. If I come too close to the diners, the waiter kicks me and says, “Go away, orphan b*****d!” The Commanders’ cars are parking at the market. They take their children shopping.
Their Land Cruisers are so big and high. I can’t even reach the windows to ask them for money. My feed hurt a lot because I don’t have shoes. I can not protect my feet from the broken glasses that are on the path. I am only a kid but I see myself as a father. I feel responsible for my sick mother and my disabled brother. I wish I was born into a rich family where no one is sick. I see the rich kids as they enjoy every moment of their life. Their fathers are commanders, ministers, and politicians. They ride bicycles and dress accordingly for each season. I have only one turban. I cannot even wash it because I have nothing else to wear while it dries. If I don’t find bread I sleep hungry.
I wish my dad was still alive. At least I would then be able to go to school instead of having to beg everyday. I live in a different world. A world where nobody cares. I don’t know anything but War! War! War!