I walk down an alley—quiet, deserted, so silent that it makes you doubt whether any living soul exists within it. I look up at the faint, thin moon and remember Sohrab’s line that “the moon is above the settlement,” but I tell myself that Sohrab wrongly assumed there was a “settlement.” Why didn’t he say the moon is “above ruin”? What guarantee ever existed that a place called a settlement was truly built or thriving? And then I remind myself that perhaps this is what distinguishes poets like Sohrab from someone like Shamloo, who once said of Sohrab’s softness: “When they are beheading someone at the edge of the spring, I cannot say, ‘Let’s not muddy the water.’” Lost in these scattered thoughts, I realize I’ve reached the middle of the alley—narrow, and worse yet, dark. The same darkness that replays every winter—indeed every autumn and winter—in this city.
I continue walking, and in the darkness, a handheld flashlight shines into my eyes. I raise my hand to shield them. Someone approaching asks, “Who are you? What are you doing?” As they get closer, I see they are two long-bearded officers of the regime. I say I’ve come to retrieve a book I lent to a friend, and lie: I have an exam on it tomorrow. Ignoring the book and my lie, they ask for my friend’s name and where he lives. Once they realize that whatever intentions I may have, they do not involve harming their regime, they leave me alone and warn me not to go out at midnight again because it is “dangerous.” And though the real danger stands before me in the form of these two fearsome men, I suppress a laugh and think: You are the danger. Danger has already won. But outwardly, I accept their warning and move on. Every few steps, they turn back to check if I am who I claim to be. I knock on my friend’s door; he comes out, notices them, and invites me inside. It is strange how easily these people have learned to terrify a city this large.
Inside, I ask my friend when the electricity went out. “Since morning,” he says. As usual, we assume something broke. But then we remember that yesterday we saw the electricity in the “elite” neighborhood was perfectly fine. We know the blackout exists not because of a technical failure, but because someone decided this part of the city should be dark. I ask him why people tolerate this. Don’t we say, “The people’s power is God’s power”? How can so many people accept such conditions for so many years without protest? He remains silent, choosing not to respond. I ask how his studies are going. With a lifeless laugh, he says the blackout has disrupted his schedule—engineering coursework is impossible without a laptop. I ask why he doesn’t find another solution, but again he is silent, and his silence tells me that solutions exist only for those with deep pockets.
Leaving his home, I walk out angry—angry at the kind of darkness that does everything: obstructs, harms, destroys. Then I recall the hollow promises made by those clowns who once claimed Afghanistan would become an exporter of electricity. Now we see the only thing the country has exported is misfortune—and clowns like them. And again I wonder why people do nothing.
Among words used to refer to a large group of humans, the most common in modern times is “mardom”—the equivalent of “people” in English. As political philosophers have explained, this concept fundamentally differs from terms like “subjects” or “the masses.” A “people” possesses agency and self-determination, conditions necessary for becoming modern political subjects. And the reason the trampling of rights in this country does not lead anyone to rise and act is that this population has not yet become a “people.” They are far from it. They will only become one when they believe in their own power and their right to determine their fate—when they stop surrendering themselves, like a flock handed to a shepherd, to the mullahs of the Taliban regime.
Darkness—whether the literal darkness of power outages or the deeper darkness of girls being denied education—will persist until the people become people, rulers of their own destiny. Until they cease walking with heads bowed and instead carry an inner flame that refuses to accept being “subjects” under those who claim to be their “shepherds.” As one clown from the former republic once said at a gathering in the east: “We leaders are like shepherds, and you are like a flock—we tell you what to do.” Hearing this from officials of a regime that was supposed to be a “people’s government,” a “democratic” system, proves that this land still has not reached political agency. And these people continue to pay the price for their long history of submission and self-pity—an attitude that has never solved a single one of this land’s countless problems.
I realize I’ve reached home again. I turn back and look down the length of the alley—dark as a grave. And I think: perhaps these are the real graves of these people—those condemned to live under the yoke of a group infamous for cruelty and terror, unable—or unwilling—to resist, watching the deterioration of their fate worsen day by day. And in this endless chain of condemnation, they suddenly look back and realize that the cup of life has emptied, that they lived entirely in the grave of darkness without ever mustering the courage to say “no” to it. Now, they pay for that fear with their misery.
I go inside and wait, so that if the “shepherds” decide, they may “graciously” allow a bit of light to return to our home.
