Seven years ago a young man came to America. Broken in body, mind, spirit but whole in his will to make a new way for himself. Fahim Khairy was born in Mazar-i-Sharif, Afghanistan. After a mysterious illness left him paralyzed from the shoulders down, he was taken to Pakistan where he received some medical help. Fahim lost his physical ability while serveing his countrymen in a bloody war time. He was employed by UN for 7 years. Through the mercy of some people, he was granted to refugee status and arrived in the US with his mother and brother on August 2003. Steeped in his native Farsi language and Sufi faith, Fahim already knew how the soul spoke. Now confined to a wheelchair, Fahim begin to think how he might make a new way for himself. With a limited formal education in Afghanistan he knew that the way to the future was through education. He learned English through practice of speech and writing. Fahim has been painstakingly writing his story about his life of poverty, pain, and triumph in Afghanistan.
Long Suffering City
By: Fahim Khairi
January 31. 2010
Becoming a police officer was my childhood dream. I
used to carry toy guns and play with them all the time. My relatives and
friends liked it when I dressed in military
uniform, questioning the kids in detective mode about who ate the
cookies.
We ran away from Balkh city when I was in the second grade of elementary
school. Kabul was a large city and seemed strange to us. My dad locked
himself inside the house to avoid the communist regime arresting him. My
oldest brothers ran away to the mountains because the regime used to
force young boys to join the army.
As a little boy in a strange city I started selling water in the
streets. It was so humiliating to my relatives to find out what I was
doing. My cousins were all employed by the communist regime in Kabul. I
was afraid of them seeing me. I needed to cover my face while calling on
people to buy cold iced water. For years we were not able to cook meals.
We only had enough to buy bread and sugar.
The war brought huge damage to Afghan society. Money became everything.
In order to earn respect and self-importance, everyone was trying to get
rich no matter how and by what means. I had spent many entire nights in
a queue behind the gas station to try to buy gasoline. I saw children
frozen to death. I had to wake up early in the morning to find a place
in the street waiting for people to rent me as a construction worker. I
turned into a strong hard working teenage boy. Every time people rented
me to work on their house, they kept me working for months.
One day a piece of equipment went missing so the landlord decided to
search every worker before they left the house. I was acting nervous and
avoided the queue every time the person ahead of me was searched.
Everybody was looking at me. I became more suspicious. I couldn’t escape
the line anymore. I dejectedly stood in front of the landlord. He was a
middle aged Kabuli man sitting in a chair. He looked at my face and
asked me what was in my pocket. I couldn’t answer. All the workers were
dying to see what it was. All of them believed it was me steal the
equipment. My hands were shaking and I was too nervous to answer him. He
grabbed my pants and took out something just like a cricket ball. Two
pieces of beef meat with potatoes covered in newspaper. He stood and
angrily asked me ‘’ what is this?’’. I softly said it’s my lunch. All
the boys laughed. ‘’ You didn’t eat your lunch?’’ he demanded. I said
no, I saved it for my mom. He sat back in his chair and asked all the
workers to leave. He forgot his search for the missing equipment. I was
very scared and thought he was going to beat me for stealing his food.
When everyone left, he asked me to come in with him. He took me to his
wife. I told them my story how we ran away from our hometown.
The man drove me home in his car that evening with a basket full of
food. He met my dad and told him that he was going to hire me as his
house cleaner. He treated me like one of his own children. I worked for
him for almost a year.
The regime changed. The Mujahideen replaced the communists. We came back
to Balkh city, Mazar-i-Sharif. Our houses and shop had been taken by
other people. My dad fought till his death, but he couldn’t retrieve his
property and our livelihood.
It was January 1993 when I applied for a job as an office cleaner with
United Nations/World Food Program in Balkh sub-office. In seven years of
working I was highly promoted. I served in many white-collar positions.
In 1999, I was hired as Food Aid Monitor in Badakhshan province. It was
my last mission. I contracted an unknown illness that left me paralyzed.
I am to this day. I got lucky. My boss helped me to immigrate to
America. From my childhood time till now, I haven’t lived one single day
for myself. Coming to America ended poverty in my family.
As soon as I became independent, I got deeply involved in my country’s
political situation. My every second has been thinking about doing
something good for my country, Afghanistan. I have tried many things. I
supported many political parties. But lately I have realized that the
little power I have earned so far is everything for me if I really want
to help. I decided to start thinking about helping disabled individuals
in Afghanistan instead of changing the government or the system. I am
really slow in my schooling. I usually spend most of the time learning
about disability.
The picture you see in this post made me so depressed
and impatient. I cannot wait to receive a bachelor degree or a master. I
have earned enough experiences in my new life in America to know how to
help a disabled person achieve his or her goal.
I became disabled inside of UN building. I had people who helped me
rebuild my life and reach the US. I lived in Afghanistan for three years
as a disabled person. I was treated like an animal. I lost everything I
got in my entire life. I was weak and I had no answer for people
attitudes. I was uneducated. I couldn't fight for my rights, so I had to
leave the country. I regained my freedom as soon as I arrived in
America. Without any doubt, my life was almost as the same as this man
you are seeing in this picture. It’s too hard to get back on your feet
after something happens like this. Nobody can fight it alone, unless
someone stands by them. Now is the time for me to go back and counsel
those people who lost their bodies and bring them to the door of
rehabilitation before they waste their youthful lives. So wish me luck.
I am going to make a plan to return. I think I am ready to help. My
friend Firoz Alizada, who is also a disabled Afghan man living in
Geneva, Switzerland, formed an organization named
Afghan Landmine Survivors Organization working for persons
with disability inside the country. Hopefully, I am going to join his
brave operation.
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ادبی ـ هنری