Javid Ibadullah

Today is my birthday. I have turned 90 years old.

My grandson sits beside me, eager for stories. He asks what the world was like when I was young. I smile, but not with joy.

I was born in 1935, in a Kabul, Afghanistan, that no longer exists. Zahir Shah was king, and life was simple. Politics belonged to the elite, until Daoud Khan took power in 1973. He spoke of progress, but five years later, he was dead. The communists took over, and with them came fear.

The Soviets arrived in 1979. I saw young men dragged from their homes, never to return. My brother disappeared in 1982. We searched, but found nothing. When the Soviets left, warlords ripped the country apart.

Then came the Taliban. They promised order, but it was a prison. Books burned, music vanished, women were silenced. My daughter, once dreaming of university, was told her only place was at home.

The Americans arrived in 2001. They spoke of democracy, and for a time, hope returned. Schools opened, voices rose. But corruption thrived, and power-hungry men never left.

In 2021, the Taliban returned. I had lived long enough to see my country fall into the same darkness. My grandson asks what freedom is like. I have no answer.

Ninety years. I have seen kings fall, empires invade, ideologies rise and crumble. But I have never seen a truly free Afghanistan. Perhaps my grandson will. That is my only prayer.

For now, I sit by the window, watching the city that has buried so many memories. The mulberry trees are gone. But I am still here. And as long as I breathe, I will carry the dream of a free Afghanistan within me.