The Broken Circle: A Memoir of Escaping Afghanistan

by Enjeela Ahmadi-Miller

“As long as there is one Afghan in this country,” said another old man at the campfire, “there will be an Afghanistan.” My padar had said that same thing so many times. When we didn’t have any electricity in Kabul or we sat around by candlelight, and he read to us or recited poetry, he’d always end the session by saying that to us. As if he were trying to give us some hope that our country and our people would survive these troubling times. And now sitting up here in this rocky cave, a village man in traditional dress, with a full beard and rustic ways, said the same thing.

“If you look for love and hope in this world, you will find it. Look around you. Look where we have ended up.” He spread his hands out wide to indicate that we should take in the breadth of the garden, as if this ordeal was all part of some grand scheme designed so we could witness this patch of serene beauty. Always a silver lining in Allah’s mysterious ways. That same hand that slaps down some, blesses others.