“Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast. It shall not be a glistening film that covers a wound, but an eyelid that guards the eye.” (Gibran Khalil)
The coffee shop is crowded, as usual, the coffee shop that I go to on my days off with the company of my books, pen, and papers to reflect on my thoughts. It is autumn, a time of full maturity. Sun and clouds play hide and seek; the light comes and goes as it wishes. The trees, how can I describe them? They are so compelling, shiny, vibrant, and breathtaking colours that make me sit down and kiss Mother Earth’s hand. The crisp air embraces my face and slightly triggers all my senses, uplifting my moods.
I enter the shop and see a vast lineup; I assemble behind the others with my occupied mind. As the lineup gets smaller and smaller, I get closer and closer to the cashier. I approach the bar. The barista, who calls me by my name with a beautiful smile on her face, is exuberant. She enters my order into the cash register; I am a regular customer, and she knows my order. She still has a grin on her face as she finishes my order. The contagious smile passes from one barista to another; it resonates with happiness. Another lady prepares my order. We greet each other and have a little exchange, and she puts the tray in front of me. Her joyous smile illuminates my heart and envelopes the tone and atmosphere of the shop. Holding the tray, I find my usual spot beside the window and cuddle into the seat.
I take a deep breath and look around, following the same smile circling around from person to person. How noble, I say to myself, how beautiful, greeting everyone with a smile. To live in the moment, not to dwell on personal life? I salute this great demeanor, SMILE.
Spirited and elevated by this tenderness, I collect my thoughts and start drinking my coffee. As I am sipping, I open the computer and go on Facebook. I love social media, how it connects me with my friends and family around the world, and how it unfolds and broadcasts newly received or noteworthy information at any time.
Scrolling down the page, I stop at a story talking about the recent Canadian election of a cabinet of almost 50 percent women. I am curious, and I start scrutinizing the story. I glance at the pictures of the elected women. Triumphantly, I lift up my head from the screen and gaze out the window for a minute with both hands resting on my face. A sudden dance of tears run down my cheeks as I learned about them. I try to hide my tears, tears of pride for each of them and the people who believed in them. Nodding, I stare out the window in confirmation — everything in life is possible.
I pause and pull myself together, examining my surroundings it’s business as usual at the shop. I scroll down, ignoring a few posts that are not crucial. I go back to social media and want to finish my coffee and go on with my daily routine.
I push back the computer; my heart sinks within me. An appalling picture of a woman covered in blood pops up before my eyes. She is struck down on the ground with men around her standing with stones in their hands. With trembling fingers and a gaze of disbelief, I try to understand what is written underneath the picture. I read that Rokhshana, a young woman, has been stoned to death in central Afghanistan after being accused of adultery. Not long ago, I remembered Farkhunda Malikzada, who was publicly killed and set ablaze in Kabul, Afghanistan, in March of the same year.
Panic suspends the flow of air, and my breath locks in my chest. My heart starts pounding; I hear the heavy striking beats. A piercing cry echoes from every corner; Rokhshana and Farkhunda’s faces, covered in blood, appear behind the coffee shop window screaming for help, their arms extended out, asking for human dignity and rights.
My head drops low almost hitting the table. Tears flood its surface, and I try to clean them with the back of my sleeve. I can no longer hide my tears; I just let them stream down. I plead for an answer to voice Rokhshana and Farkhunda’s pain.
How barbaric! These women get murdered, tortured, burnt, and stoned, in daylight, in front of people, by ordinary people, the people who are their countrymen. I want to scream for help for morality. I want to go to the global Supreme Court and strive for justice. Is humanity’s compassion, tolerance, and philanthropy, maneuvered and operated by geographical regions? Why can’t we value and practice freedom, love, sympathy, independence, and respect everywhere globally without any deviation? Are we all not from the same mankind? Why can’t we give every individual the opportunity to grow and have an objective reality without the importance of location, race, ethnicity, or religion? What is the difference between these women and the land they reside in?
I swallow my sorrow as tears pour from my eyes. I ask myself, “Where is home? What can I call my land?” HOME IS WHERE HUMANITY IS.
