Sincerely, A Child of the Diaspora

By Khalidha Nasiri

Dear Afghanistan,

I'm a child of the diaspora, doing my best to try to understand you despite the distance. I've visited you once over a decade ago, and I will never forget it. The hustle and bustle of Kabul's markets, the mountains of Salang, the Blue Mosque of Mazar-e-Sharif, my family's farm in Logar. Unfortunately, my brother faced a serious health issue there, which frightened my mother, so she decided not to take us back until later in life. Later never came.

Dear Afghanistan, I'm a student doctor, and while I am not yet able to recite every disease in the universe, yours was not hard to figure out. Your disease is aggressive and unpredictable, a doctor's worse nightmare. Your disease is not improving. In fact, the disease has now spread throughout your body, and it's getting more and more difficult to treat. Day after day, more death, more bombs, more corruption. More empty promises from one side, and then the other, and then the other. Recently, journalists, human rights activists, young leaders, students, and prominent judges have been targeted and murdered. I'm sure you wonder as much as I do when, after over two decades of war, of fighting this disease, things will get better. Your mountains and valleys are like the gyri and sulci of the brain, going up and down, up and down, in parallel with the trajectory of your nation's history.

Dear Afghanistan, I am a granddaughter. My bibi jaan passed away this February. I have been thinking about what you must have looked like when she was child, born around 1940. Like many Afghans, she did not have a birth certificate, so we can only guess. When she was born, Mohammed Zahir Shah held the reins. A new constitution was developed, and with that, a new hope of modernizing the country. A different time. Habiba Bonyadi, that was my bibi jaan’s name. I love her so much.

Dear Afghanistan, I'm a woman. And while I've been heartbroken over so many assaults by your disease, the Dasht-e-Barchi attack on May 12, 2020 shook my soul. Gunmen attacked a Doctors Without Borders maternity hospital in Dasht-e-Barchi, Kabul, a district populated mostly by Hazaras, and killed 24 people: mothers, health workers, and babies. Mothers who barely got to hold their newborn's hand. Mothers still on the delivery table. Health workers who put their life on the line to help bring life. Newborns who will never have the privilege of knowing one. Your disease is not only aggressive, it is ruthless and undignified. It will cross any and all boundaries of human decency, of humanity, of what it means to be human.

Dear Afghanistan, I'm an epidemiologist. How are you doing with COVID-19? Not well, I imagine. You've got bigger symptoms to deal with – poverty, malnutrition, conflict and insecurity, and poor access to health care. How can people be expected to stay home from work when they do not have access to the basic necessities of life: food, water, and a warm place to live? You must find it amusing when people in Canada complain about a two-week delay in the arrival of vaccines. Oh khuda, how selfish we are. In Canada, everyone who wants a vaccine will get it in 2021. You will probably not be fully vaccinated until 2022 but realistically, considering your previous history with infectious diseases like polio, it may take until 2023.

Dear Afghanistan, I'm a community organizer. I know that the diaspora can do more to help – that if we organize, strategize, and mobilize, we can improve your situation and ours. The new generation is more energetic, optimistic, and full of innovative ideas. Still, I feel guilty every time I read about another attack, another assault on your body. Apparently, there's a term for this – survivor's guilt. The risks we face in life are not the same. In Canada, I never have to worry about insurgency or whether I can afford healthcare. This disease is tricky because it can make us feel helpless, but in reality, we are not. We have each other.

Dear Afghanistan, I'm a child of the diaspora. I hope you don't mind that my thoughts are scattered, just as pieces of you are scattered across the world. I'm writing this letter to tell you that this disease is not your fault. Your disease is a symptom of a bigger problem, one that involves vested interests, geopolitical motivations, corruption, money, and a disregard for human life. The cause of your disease is a failure of viewing your 38 million inhabitants as human.

Dear Afghanistan, When I listen to your heart with my stethoscope, I hear pain, exhaustion, worry, anger, and resilience. And hope. I hear hope.

Sincerely,

A Child of the Diaspora

About: Khalidha Nasiri is a medical student at Western University in Canada and founder and executive director of the Afghan Youth Engagement and Development Initiative (AYEDI). She hopes to break down the barriers that our community encounters in accessing spaces to express our voice and develop into leaders. Khalidha has an extensive background in community organizing, advocacy, and research, including interning for a former finance minister and at the World Health Organization’s Department of Reproductive Health and Research. She holds a Master’s degree in epidemiology from McGill University. Khalidha has published 10+ articles in peer-reviewed academic journals and a book chapter in a psychology textbook. Her hobbies are reading non-fiction, travelling, and drinking double doubles. She writes on her blog at www.behindthemd.com.

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Cover Image by Sana Saidi