Personliga Berättelser och Reflektioner

I was born in Deh Khodad, the God-given village—a name that felt less like a blessing and more like a truth, carried on the breeze that stirred the leaves of the ancient chinar trees. Nestled between the Maranjan Hills and the Kabul River, our village seemed eternal, a world unto itself. The stream that wound through its heart was a silver thread of life, binding the land and the people in ways words could scarcely capture. To the north stretched the fields, golden with grain, and to the south, the homes—modest, mud-walled sanctuaries that opened into courtyards alive with color and fragrance. Grape trellises hung heavy with fruit, beds of murcel roses swayed in the breeze, and herb gardens bloomed in neat rows—basil, mint, and coriander, their scents mingling as though the earth itself was preparing a meal for the soul.