Date: Mon, 29 Jul 2013 23:50:44 -0700 From: Amar Patel Subject: An American in Kandahar Written by: Amar Patel Disclaimer: The following story is fictional. The author (myself) is older than 21, anyone who is under the legal age (according to their country, state, or provincial laws) to view erotic material should immediately dissuade themselves from reading further.The story is fictional and similarities to events and persons (living or dead) are purely coincidental and unintentional. If you are offended by homosexual erotica or it is illegal for you to read such material. Please read no further. Copyright: The story may not be copied, distributed, in any way, shape or form without consent from the author. Opinions and Improvements can be sent to my email: patelamar360@gmail.com or on twitter (PatelAmarNifty) If you wish to continue to read mine and other authors works, it is important you donate to Nifty. They have provided a rich amount of stories for your enjoyment so it is only fair you give back ;). Comments are always welcomed. And encouragement. _____________________________ Story Background : As many of you know, there has been much emphasis on Afghanistan and the Middle East in the media. From bias and other events have spurred an event known as "Islamophobia". This is the fear and or hatred towards those that practice Islam, or those who resemble Arabs. This discrimination is not limited to Arabs, Sikhs and South Asians have experienced this as well. Recently, I met a man from Afghanistan who now lives with me as a roomate. He was kind and brave enough to share his story with me. Coming from a poor family, he was sold by an uncle as an ashna (or sexual servant). He explained to me that it is a common yet underground practice for his ethnic group, the Pashtuns. From age 12 to 21 he served a businessman, and was finally given the money to immigrate to the United States. Unfortunately, here he faced a barrage of persecution for being a Muslim and an Afghan. Being called this such as "Osama Lover", "Camel Jockey", "Towel Head", amongst other things. With this said, I would like to thank my dear Rahat for his story, This story will take place in Afghanistan, a nation that has been riddled by war for nearly three decades. I will utilize aspects of culture, Islamophobia, and practices of Islam. As a South Asian, I have been discriminated against and been called things such as "Dot Head", and "Curry Breath". I ask my readers to keep an open mind. I am sure many of you have faced persecution for being LGBT. For those who haven't, be grateful that you have not seen the darker side of people. I warn there will be some dialogue that has bias, from a Muslim and American. I do not encourage racism or discrimination in any manner. I am a romantic writer and so bear with me. Readers, I hope you relate to the characters and enjoy the story. With best Regards, Amar Patel ________________________ Introduction Being born an Afghan to many is utter damnation, a hapless situation rather than a blessing. We are a people to cast condescending glares upon; a burden to the international community. Western nations especially have taken a liking to wagging their fingers, and labeling us as a whole. Watching their news broadcasts, I see quite an array of colorful terms for us. Insurgents, Jihadists, Illiterate, Women Beaters, and my personal favorite "Terrorists". Walking these mind riddled lands, I cannot help but half heartedly agree. I have seen what sprouts from one of humanity's darkest hours, when people choose to indulge in the darkness of their hearts. Brutality... that is the only term that fits this war torn country of mine. Needless slaughter of innocents through beheadings, stonings, and systematic slayings. I am not necessarily proud of what my nation has become, but I have aspirations of what it can be. The Talibs call themselves Muslim, servants of Allah. I scoff at their claim, but their actions along with other radical groups are what people percieve as Muslims. To them, Muslims are a people whose religion encourages violence. That we as Muslims are willing to blow ourselves up into pieces and claim Jihad. My faith has been defiled, twisted and knotted beyond recognition. I vehemently believe that this is not what the Prophet Muhammed sought his faith to be. Kneeling on my knees, I rest my head against a pomergranate tree. In front of me sits my parents' grave, the stone surface nicked by several bullets. I was fortunate enough that their grave was not damaged as much as others. Tank fire resounded in the background, the sounds of war are like birdsong to an Afghan's ears. Tilting my head back against the trunk, I cannot help but remember the fond memories I have. __________________ Chapter One Jahan was the name bestowed upon me by my parents, for I meant the world to them as much as they did to me. My father was Persian and my mother a native Pashtun. My father Omir hailed from Tehran, he fled with his family with the onslaught of the Islamic Revolution. He was a tall swarthy man, hair a midnight black, and eyes the color of warm honey. His dashing good looks and intense glance gave women weak knees. Studious and bright, my father had studied abroad in Italy and attended a top university. He spoke the tongue with such a degree of fluency that it rivalled his native of Farsi. My mother was simply breath taking, a woman whose charm brightened the room, her lavender scent intoxicating. Like my father, she was studious and enjoyed histories and other literary works. My parents were well to do, and money was not hard to come by. We lived in a spacious house in a newly built neighborhood, it was surrounded by a high white wall and provided a haven from prying eyes. My father was the sole source of income, he worked as a businessman from the early mornings to dusk. He came home exhausted, but still had the energy to tuck me in and kiss me good night. From a young age, I was taught to be a devout Muslim. We prayed five times a day as required and donated to the local masjid. My mother taught me Arabic, and made sure I memorized the Quran from cover to cover. In her belief, one couldn't devote themself to Allah if they didn't understand what the Quran said. When it came for me to start school, my parents took the task into their own hands. My father reduced his hours and my mother bought various textbooks. From dawn to dusk would be spent learning Farsi, Pashto, Mathematics, History, English, and of course Italian. Baba would teach me until the afternoon and would switch places with maman. Maman would then quiz me from time to time, and encouraged me to read her extensive collection of books. I had a knack for studying like my parents, and soon my studies became self propelled. My father eventually returned to his normal schedule, and my mother decided to take up a job of her own. She was soon employed at a nearby clinic as a nurse. At first she would leave me alone for the clinic was only three minutes away, but soon her paranoia got the better of her. She nagged my father for hours on end and they decided to hire servants. They would arrive from Hazarajat, a province to the north know for rural landscapes. Like most servants, they would be Hazaras. They were a people known for being descendants of the Mongol invaders in a time long passed. Oriental features and their Shi'a faith made them targets of persecution. History has not been kind to them, they had uprised against the Pashtun majority many a time. Each time was met with the same result, they were oppressed even further. Today, they take upon undesirable jobs such as domestic service for income. Baba sympathized with them, and made it clear that they would be treated with absolute respect. They arrived the following day by train, and Baba took the time to pick them up in his car. I awaited by the front door with Maman as Baba pulled the car into the yard. A Hazara man and child stepped out with their bulging suitcases. The man was named Sohrab, and his son was named Khaled. I have seen many Hazara, but Khaled looked different... almost foreign in comparison to his father. He was two years my senior at age twelve, his skin an olive with a yellowish hue, slightly curled black hair hidden under a taqiyah. His eyes were larger than his father's, double lidded and shaped like almonds. They were a warm brown , complimented by his thick straight black eyebrows. His lips were a darker shade of pink, and his nose had a high bridge. He bowed his head as I approached, lips in a smile that gave him a benevolent disposition. "My name is Khaled, it is nice to meet you Jahan-jan." "Hello Khaled-jan." I shook his slightly bigger hand. "Jahan, would you go and help Khaled unpack? I have to discuss the housework with Kaka Sohrab." "Yes Baba." I smiled at Khaled and led him to the bedroom we reserved for them, Maman remained with my father. Khaled wasted no time in emptying his suitcase upon the bed, his eyes were filled with excitement as he looked about the room. We did the usual introductory chatter strangers engage in, talking about our families and what not. He had come from Bamiyan, a city known for its giant buddhas. It was just him and his father, he did not mention anything about his mother. My childish curiosity urged me to pose the question, and I yielded. "What about your Maman?" I said as I put his clothes in the drawer. He paused then, his smile dropping for the first time "She is with Allah" was his response. He fumbled through his bag and pulled out a frame, he then passed it to me. I took it and looked at the woman captured in the frame. She was stunningly beautiful, she had Khaled's eyes and nose. Her silky black hair was tied in a long braid that hung over her shoulder, and her frame was encased in a foreign garment. It seemed to be made of silk, the top was pink and had long sleeves, with a white collar and cuffs. A violet ribbon was tied at the center of her chest, it trailed down just past her waist. The outfit was completed by a long gray silk skirt with an elegant floral pattern trimming around the bottom. There was innocence about her like Khaled. "Is this your Maman?" I asked with curiosity. Khaled's smile returned "Yes, that is all I have left of her." 'What is she wearing?" "It is called a Hanbok, it is what her ancestors wore." He replied with a slight smile. My father tucked me in as always that night, there I asked him about Khaled's mother. He told me that her name was Nilofer and that she hailed from Tajikstan to the north. Her ancestors hailing from a distant kingdom called Korea, a nation that was invaded by a foreign power like Afghanistan. She had met Sohrab upon moving to Bamiyan, their parents soon arranged the marriage. The two quickly fell in love, and this resulted in Khaled's conception. Tragedy soon struck as Khaled was brought into the world, she died from trauma. Sohrab was heartbroken, but Khaled's resemblance to her put him at ease. I felt pity for Khaled and it became my duty to become his friend. The next day, I spent most of the day chatting with Khaled. He was friendly and open, but his obdience was something else. Maman's prepared list of chores were done to the letter with excellence. We played in the yard with my toys, our imagination quite a spectacle for Sohrab. Time flew and I had to do my studies. Khaled eyes widened as I said that I would be busy reading and studying. "You can read?!" He was amazed. "Of course, but can you?" His smile faltered again. "No." His face was full of shame. An idea hit me then "Maybe I can teach you. Would you like to learn?" His face lit up "Yes would you teach me Jahan-jan?" Thus, my lessons began with Khaled. He was quite the talent, in little more than two weeks there was astounding progress in his ability to read and write. His comprehension of the material bested mine at times, yet he remained gentle and kind-hearted. Never gloating or bragging, just asking about what the next lesson would be. After each lesson we would go out into the yard or buy pastries. To Khaled and I, the world did not go beyond our quiet neigborhood. For our parents though, the world was not without imperfection and was filled with fear. Fighting had intensified severely between the Mujahideen and Roussi, it was the beginning of a war that would spand to the present. My mother would look out the window everyday and would mouth prayers, the sounds of explosions resounding in the distance. Kandahar was being bombarded by rockets and myriads of bullets, yet our neighborhood remained virtually unscathed. In 1989 the Roussi eventually left, what followed was a further plunge into turmoil. The Afghanistan that I loved was slowly rotting away, becoming what it is today. My parents would be one of the many casualties. __________ Kandahar, 1992 It was nearing my eleventh birthday, things changed drastically over the course of such a short time. People were fleeing left and right, many to Iran or Pakistan where they lived in squalor. My parents and Kaka Sohrab were in the study for hours on end, Khaled and I were doing our usual activities of tending to the yard. We were aware that they were planning to flee the country, Baba and Maman would pay for Sohrab and Khaled to come along. Though it was not a desirable location for Baba, he had no choice but to relocate us to Iran. He felt ashamed having to flee to the country he fled in the first place, but Iran was a better choice than Pakistan. We had family in Tehran who could harbor us, then my father planned to immigrate to Italy in hopes of better lives. It would be a long journey ahead, and my parents decided to go out for supplies. They left me in Sohrab's capable hands, and promised to be home within an hour. Sohrab was packing things that we did not need out, I was unaware that fate would be cruel to me. Perhaps a half hour later, an explosion resounded in the distance. Sohrab paused and perked his head upwards, we saw what was left of our neighbors running towards the market. Khaled and I looked at one another, Sohrab took us by the shoulders and followed his peers. The smell of burning flesh hit my nose, hands covered Khaled's and my eyes. Sohrab gasped and let out a silent sob, his body shaking. "Allah have mercy....." The same phrase was heard from many lips. A land mine was planted just outside the bazaar, and a woman had carelessly stepped upon it. Many Afghans would tell you that it was common for an Afghan to die in such a manner. Exploding into bits and pieces, staining the ground in crimson. Someone shouted that there were two dead, one being the woman, and the other... my Maman. My father was in critical condition, they transported him to the local clinic. Sohrab held me against him in sympathy, some neighbors began sobbing at knowing my Maman was gone. I did not know what to process at the time, the harsh reality cracking my world. Khaled looked at me with those gentle eyes of his,and he embraced me then. Sohrab ran his hand through my hair and reassured me. We walked to the clinic, it was a mad sprint to save my father. I never have seen my father in such a state; mangled with crimson stained bandages. He was cut from head to toe , his handsome face smiled weakly at me. I knelt next to the bed and took his large hand in mine, his hand gripped mine weakly. Sohrab had to step out a few times, but Khaled remained at my side. Baba gently stroked my wet cheek, I could feel his hand growing cold. The doctor told us to head home for now and to come back in the morning. Sohrab had to half drag me from the clinic. I never got to talk with Baba ever again, he passed away that very next morning. I was heart broken unable to accept that I had lost both my parents. My room became my safe haven, I wailed myself to exhaustion. I would hear Sohrab and Khaled moving about the house, the soft sweeps of the broom and whispers. I looked through albums time and time again, from my infancy to just a month ago. Baba and Maman looked so healthy, they were loving and commited no sins. Yet, they were taken away like that.... by sheer negligence of that woman. Dark thoughts swirled in my mind, how I wanted that woman to burn in hell for her carelessness. At one point I even cursed Khaled, he had his father. It got to such an extreme that I wished Sohrab had died too. I felt despicable.... I begged for Allah to forgive my ill-will. A knock came after my parents funeral, I didn't attend because my heart wouldn't be able to take it. Khaled poked his past the door, his gentle face was void of a smile. "Jahan-jan?" "Yes?" I did not want to snap at him. "It is time to eat." "I am not hungry Khaled." I responded coldly. "Oh..." Khaled's reply had hidden intention, I smelled all of my favorite treats. "Khaled?" "Yes Jahan?" "I am coming." I felt a smile play on my lips for the first time in weeks. Little did I know at the time that fate heard my dark prayer. _________________ End of Chapter One Hope you guys enjoyed it, message me your comments via email. More to come if feedback is good enough.