Chronicles of an Afghan American Social Worker

Lockdowns and a suspension of our daily habits may have given some an opportunity to turn inwards and face our collective mortality, or seek to avoid it. And we know we’re not out of the woods with mutant variants vying…

Imagine walking in an aspen forest on trails trod by all manner of fellow creatures, just like you. You feel the breeze on your cheek, listen to the chirping of birds’ calls.  Taking in the dank moist earth beneath you,…

At the entrance of oinofyta a cluster of men living at the refugee camp are gathered in small groups, smoking cigarettes, thumbing cell phones, face-timing with faraway relatives scattered across the globe, mulling over the uncertainty of their fate, after…

“Khak” is Afghan for dirt. The soil is pulverized to dust in Kabul, beaten down by the bare feet of millions of refugees, milling back in droves to complete a story, abandoned once again to the latest plunderers.  The loot…

The first time I laid my pen down on paper I don’t much remember except for my mother’s gaze as it fell on the scribbled lines and the softness in her eyes as she looked up at me as if…