The city at the foot of the mountain - 28th letter

Dear Khodayar, I dreamt that I journeyed to Afghanistan – to the place where you were born. It was night-time and I was on a bus with other people. We travelled in the dark across a great plain toward a range of mountains. At the foot of the mountain the city stretched out. All along the edge of the plain we could see the lights coming from buildings of the city. I didn’t know the name of the city.

It was too dangerous for us to get out of the bus. All we could do was look out the windows. All around us Afghans walked and rode motorbikes through the light of our headlights. They were mainly young men – like you Khodayar. Even though I didn’t know the name of the city I knew that it was very old; almost as old as civilisation itself. It was time for us to return to where we had come from. With the doors still shut tight, the bus driver spun the wheel, the bus hissed and heaved and our bus turned around back toward the border. Love Stephen

Leaves of Remembrance - letter 27

Dear Khodayar, we gathered in the city at the State Library to stand up for the rights of refugees. There were thousands of us. I took with me a branch from a tree, that was full of long green, curving leaves. Each leaf was beautiful and on each leaf I had written your name. We had all come there because of the cruel treatments inflicted on you. We are opposed to the slogans of humanity that are being used to sentence people to death. How could we not find these crimes abhorrent? How could we not remember your death and the deaths of all the others and all the harm done? We are human beings and we feel your pain. We know your name. To each person I offered a leaf of remembrance that bears your name. The leaves were received and I moved through the crowd distributing more leaves. The sky and the air are witness to your life, Khodayar. We are witness to your extraordinary humanness. After your death, after my death, after the deaths of all of us, the story of our lives will remain with the weight of our failures and the beauty of our success. The leaves became fewer and fewer until the last one had been given out; the branch was bare and my hands were empty. 

Love Stephen