Date: Mon, 29 Jul 2013 23:50:44 -0700
From: Amar Patel <patelamar360@gmail.com>
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.