Kabul, My Silent Prayer

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I was born among the green mountains of Kabul, beside rushing rivers and in air so pure it brought peace to every breath. I was still tasting the sweetness of childhood in gardens and grassy fields when the shadow of war fell over my homeland. The fragrance of flowers was replaced by the smell of gunpowder, and the soothing sound of water gave way to the echoes of explosions.

Despite all the pain, I determined. I studied, worked hard, and graduated from some of the best universities in Kabul. I planted fruit orchards, built homes, and raised my family with hope, dreaming that my children would grow in the light of knowledge, not in the darkness of fear.

But once again, fate turned cruel. With the طوقس) collapse) of my homeland and the arrival of dark days, everything fell apart in a single moment. My home became a memory, and my country remained a wound in my heart. With a broken soul and hands full of prayers, I was forced to leave the land I loved behind.

Now I live in exile — a place where everything exists except the one thing the heart truly longs for. Every night, the name of Kabul returns to my mind like a silent prayer whispered in the dark. And every morning, a small hope still lives within me: that one day I may see my homeland again, find my lost peace in the sound of its rushing streams, drink once more from its pure waters, and taste the fruit of its heavy trees as I did in the innocent days of childhood.

Photo caption if needed.

Mohammad Zahir Qaderi • 50 • Petaluma resident

Mohammad Zahir Qaderi worked as a journalist, making him and his family a target when the Taliban took control of Kabul in 2021. Amid the chaos surrounding Kabul airport, he, his wife, and their six children narrowly escaped Afghanistan. Today, he works as a medical assistant at a hospital in Petaluma. He enjoys gardening and learning new languages.