the man to man oath i owe my father - middlebury...

The Man-To-Man Oath I Owe My Father

Middlebury Town

Middlebury, Vermont 05753

Phone: 802 349 4814

E-Mail: [email protected] Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/AliBCarpets/?fref=ts

M a n - T o - M a n O a t h I O w e M y F a t h e r 2

1 9 / 0 1 / 2 0 1 6 M u h a m m a d J a w e e d H a z a r a V e r m o n t U S A

Thursday, Dec. 2004, Kabul , Afghanistan. S c h o o l i s o v e r . T h e b u s c o s t s f i v e A f g h a n i , a b o u t 1 0 c e n t s — t o o p r i c e y . T h e b o y a l w a y s c y c l e s t o s c h o o l , h i s b i k e l e a n i n g a g a i n s t t h e w i n d o w o f h i s b l u e c l a s s r o o m a f t e r t h e 4 0 - m i n u t e r i d e . I t i s a s i m p l e s h a d e o f g r e e n , r u s t y m e t a l , i m p o r t e d f r o m a b r o a d b y h i s f a t h e r i n a b i g c a r d b o a r d b o x . N o t o v e r l y a t t r a c t i v e , b u t i t d o e s i t s j o b . T h e b o y u n l o c k s i t a n d m a n e u v e r s o u t o f t h e s c h o o l g a t e , a b i l l b o a r d a b o v e s p o r t i n g t h e l e t t e r s A n s a r i H i g h - S c h o o l . A c r o s s t h e s t r e e t s t a n d s t h e b i g y e l l o w s h r i n e o f S h a h ’ e d u S h a m s h i r a , t h e K i n g o f T w o S w o r d s i n K a b u l ’ s p o e t i c D a r i l a n g u a g e . T h e m a i n d o m e i s a w h i m s i c a l s h a d e o f l i g h t b l u e , i l l u m i n a t i n g t w o m i n a r e t s s t a n d i n g o n t h e b a n k s o f t h e d r i e d - o u t K a b u l R i v e r .



He cycles behind the school to take the road along the Asmaie mountain heights, which stretches from central Kabul towards the west , carving the c ity in half . Atop the mountain stand numerous TV masts, f looding the homes of three mil l ion Kabuli with vital mass media. There are mud houses scattered along the foothi l ls of the mountain, raindrops tr ickl ing down the slopes. Like every other Kabuli , the boy cal ls this place Kohe Television e Kabul , “The TV Mountain of Kabul .”



After a while , the road home reaches i ts

western side where the boy sees four green domes alongside tal l minarets : Sakhi shrine. He has never met a Kabuli who does not venerate this shrine. Historical ly l inked to Ali , the cousin of the Muslim Prophet, Muhammad, known to have been the f irst chi ld ever to embrace Islam and l ive a l i fe f i l led with honesty, strength and glory. Several t imes, he endangered his own safety to save the Prophet from his r ivals among Mecca tr ibes. Thus the Kabuli bel ieve that the shrine can perform spiritual deeds l ike granting wishes or heal ing the sick.



Surrounding Sakhi is a vast graveyard,

which the boy cal ls “The City of Kabul Death.” A barren moonscape, endless gravestones hewn from the rock, occasionally encased in cage- l ike structures to preserve the rest ing place for posterity . Kabulis want to bury their dead here so that the souls of their loved ones can rest in peace in the hope of receiving blessings from the revered shrine. During the last three decades of war, the number of deaths here has skyrocketed and this place resembles a c ity of the



Underworld. It is Thursday evening, the t ime when cit izens tradit ionally gather to pray for blessings and mercy from Allah for those who have passed away. On Thursday evenings, the souls of the dead reunite with their loved ones.

The boy must stop by the graveyard because

his father Ali was buried last week. Last t ime he came here with his family, repressing his tears and maintaining a calm, col lected exterior for the sake of his s ibl ings. But this t ime, he is alone. He opens up his heart and the anguish of his loss escapes him. Arriving at one edge of the cemetery, he takes a deep breath and musters his strength, respectful ly laying down his bike. He places his hands on his heart and recites a



few short chapters of the Quran to bless every death there .

As he walks down the narrow path to his father ’s f inal rest ing place, his eyes water, his heart starts thumping and his feet feel numb, as i f he can walk no further. The graveyard is not yet crowded, of fering the perfect opportunity to let his tears fal l as nobody can see him cry. He remembers weeping only once in public , a few days ago when he heard that his father had been buried after a car crash along the Kabul-Ghazni highway. Since he was seven years old, he has always told himself that he is a man and men do not cry.

The December snow wil l start fal l ing in a

few days to herald the arrival of yet another unforgiving Kabul winter . Foreboding dark clouds hover and the death-f i l led earth is mirrored in the elements. Grey air is trapped between an angry sky and a dead world. The graveyard emits a s i lent melanchol ia , feel ing to the boy l ike a desert consumed by blank gravestones. He knows there are many chi ldren, men and women buried here, every type of



Kabuli , some murdered in war, some dead of i l lness, some of o ld age.

After a few minutes he sees a red caged tomb in approximate distance to a sol i tary tree. He recognizes the new home of his father. The boy had always cal led him Haji , the t i t le for Muslim men who have embarked at least once on the obl igatory pi lgrimage to Mecca, the House of God. Once he sees the grave, he remembers to be respectful to the soul of his father, as honorable Is lamic tradit ion requires of a son. He takes a deep breath and wipes away his tears, remembering how his father undertook the very same rituals in l i fe . When he feels ready, the boy picks up a stone, which he scratches on the cement tomb after recit ing each verse of the f irst chapter of the Quran. He repeats the r itual a total of three t imes. Once done, he holds his hand towards the Sakhi Shrine and looks up into the sky searching for his Khoda, the Dari word for God. He prays:

M a n - T o - M a n O a t h I O w e M y F a t h e r 1 0


Now his eyes are distracted by the stone

anchored above the head of his father. Unable to ignore the Arabic and Dari cal l igraphy carved on the gravestone, he reads it repeatedly, unti l he feels the words carving ever more deeply into his chest .

“Khoda jenem, my dearest God, you know well that in life my

father was a most devoted Muslim. He always tried his best to

altruistically live for the good of others and of humanity. Khoda

janem, I urge you, in the name of this holy shrine, rest my

father’s soul in peace and award him an eternal place in the

highest garden of paradise, Jannate-e-Firdaws!”



Suddenly, the boy ’s pain erupts and his tears start f lowing. Body shivering, hands c lenched in f ists , feet heavi ly pushing against the earth below. His fear of being seen suddenly dissipates and he bursts into tears, a bottomless pit of grief .

“In the Name of God, the most Merci ful and

the most Compassionate, we are all f rom

Khoda and our return is a lso to Him. This

tomb is the solace of the deceased Haji Ali

son of Ahmad from Bedra Village, Qarabagh

Distr ic t o f Ghazni province . He died in a

car crash on Tuesday, Dec. 21, 2004 on his

way from Kabul to Ghazni. May his soul

rest in peace and his memory remain

glorious.”



Abruptly he real izes that a woman and

several chi ldren are coming towards him. “Khoda jan, bless your deaths. It is almost

Friday night. Do you have any Sadaqa, charity, to of fer my orphaned chi ldren? Their father died many years ago in the war.” Tears stain her pale face .

“Haji janem, I am sorry for everything. I am

sorry for trying to kil l myself two weeks ago

when I fa iled to jump of f the second f loor . I

am sorry for trying to cut the main blood

vessel in my arm to bleed to death . I am sorry

for disappointing you after your 14 years of

fatherhood. I am sorry for not f inding the

courage to face you to apologize for shaming

you because your son wanted to ki l l h imself . I

am sorry Haji , I am sorry …”



“ I have no money,” he repl ies s incerely. “I only have f ive Afghani and I have to buy some water to wash my father ’s grave.”

One of the orphans comes forward bearing a jug of water. The boy pays him and starts to wipe dust of f the tomb. Even i f Haji is dead, his son is al ive to wash his grave.

The widow and the orphans leave. With new determination, the boy ref lects . He won’t let anyone cal l him an orphan. He resolves that he wil l never accept pity because his father wil l l ive a strong l i fe through him! He grasps a f ist ful of earth c lose to the head of the tomb Khake Mazare Haji , the soi l from the new eternal home of his father. He t ightens his f ist and presses the hal lowed soi l f irmly in his hand to make an oath for eternity to his Haji .

He slowly bikes his way out of the graveyard. He knows that Haji ’s soul now l ives on. His body may be anchored to the ground and his bones may disintegrate, but everywhere the boy goes he knows his father watches over him: he l ives on through his son, in his blood, and in his f lesh.



That day when I tugged (made an oath) at a s ingle thing by grasping a f ist ful of Earth in nature, I found myself attached to the rest of

the world.

(THE END) Based on True Story

Written by : Muhammad Jaweed Hazara

“I wi ll continue your legacy, your way of l i fe .

I will f ight for what you fought for s ince

your bir th. I will accomplish what you

accomplished! I wi ll become everything that

you expected me to become. I wil l be the best

son that any father ever wished to l eave

behind in this world. I will never give up

until I prove to you that I am a worthy of

being your son!”

the man to man oath i owe my father - middlebury...

Documents