I am wandering on the Kabul streets; dust all around, I am not able to see anything. I hear a call, asking me to not go forward, but I walk ahead, still not able to see anything, my throat chocking, mouth full of dust, I fell down, and see the street full of blood, my hands also red. My white Kashmiri Kurta seems having got design with the drops of blood. I am scared, my heart beats fast and faster, I had never seen such river of blood in my life except in the Eid of Qurban (Eid al adha).  I look up to sky, to shout to ask for justice, but it is so dusty that I can’t even see the sky. I try to look up, it is rain of blood coming from sky and in my effort to see the sky soon my spectacles gets covered with blood.

Among these all dust and blood, shouts and cries, suddenly everything calms down, I see someone coming close to me. I hear the steps coming forward, and I get scared. For a moment I am scared to death and my heart beats faster as I wonder that a Talib is approaching me. I remember the stories of Afghan women who were beaten by Taliban for not wearing burqa and I quickly try to find my scarf but seem in this dust I have lost it somewhere. I try to run away.

I am lucky though, this is not Taliban but a woman in white cloths walking slowly towards me. This is Mather-Kabul; I shout and run towards her. I try to hug her and cry but Kabul asks me not to touch her, all her body is full of blood as if she has demolished.

I sit in front of her; drops of tears come down from her eyes that cleanse blood marks from her face. Her eyes tells her story: how for many years her own unkind sons murdered her spirit to gain power by fighting with each other, how the door of home of this mother was open to every alien spy, who came and with their knife wrote the faith of this mother. And the drops of blood coming out of her heart was even smuggled, exchanged in ‘deals’ and taken to alien land.

I ask her, my mother you look tired, but in a moment realized the stupidity of my question. Of  course she is  tired, tired of her story, tired of her faith, tired of certitude, tired of river of blood to which she takes bath every day, tired of despair.

I want to give her hope, to hug her, to tell her the popular proverb that my mother always tells me; ( Bahad az har tarike yak roshani ast )  every dark cloud has a silver lining. But deep in my heart, I know that for day to come to this country this mother needs to still to make innumerable sacrifices. And her children need to learn to compromise, need to reach to a maturity level and to have solidarity. I keep mum, and close my eyes.

I open my eyes; it’s full of tears and horror. I see around and notice that I am at home. Everyone is still sleep. I realize it was only a dream. I wake up, go to yard, and notice that in the sky there are still some stars, and that the darkness of the night is about to end as the dawn is taking over. I take a deep breath, and thank Allah for waking me from such a horrible dream, but deep in my heart I know it is a dream with much of the bitter realities in it.