A City of Prisoners
I am not in a prison. But it seems like the
whole of Kabul has made its inhabitants prisoners of some sort. People like me who
cannot walk out of their homes because they cannot predict what harm might
befall them, families who cannot stroll freely on the streets with their
children unless they are running an important errand or sending them off to
school, young people who cannot simply go to a cinema or café to hang out –
one, because there are no cinemas, two, because the restaurants that are around
are usually not safe places to hang out in as an everyday social activity. When
you are in a place where time ticks slower and you are left with your thoughts,
you begin to think about the word ‘freedom’ and what it really means to be free in a city
of prisoners.
What do you do when you are trapped, somewhat
confined to the same room for many hours at a time? When I am here I realize
that for most of our lives, we are distracted by various preoccupations – work,
study, hobbies, social events. All these necessary evils and unnecessary
trifles. We are busy working, surviving, living, travelling, doing good things,
and trying to fix the wrong things we’ve said or done. In this place, I learn
the art of silence – the practice of listening, waiting, brooding, reflecting.
I learn the peace of non-distraction, of being content to be still, and to quite
literally, ‘sit’ with my thoughts. While it is good to occupy myself with my
list of passions – to paint, play music, sing, write, read, and of late, to cook
– it is also necessary to lay all those things down and to talk to God.
Sometimes, even praying becomes a passion that occupies us so much so that we
fail to listen to God, to commune with Him, to know what’s on His mind.
I reflect on the last few years since 2014
and see how each of those twists and turns have prepared me for my time here. On
my first faraway trip, I found myself in a very conservative and religious Arab-Druze
village in Northern Galilee, Israel, just a two-hour drive from the Lebanese
border. I was there to teach conversational English to Arab-speaking young
people. It was the first time I felt complete isolation due to the language and
cultural barrier. There were only one or two people I found who could speak a
little English and with whom I could converse on a very basic level. That first
time was very hard for me, even though I relished the opportunity to be tested
in that way. In subsequent journeys, I found myself in Zimbabwe, Kenya, Rwanda
and Uganda (on multiple trips), and last year the United Arab Emirates, India, and
the Philippines.
They were all very different places, and
yet they all took me through the same windy roads of life-long lessons. I made
mistakes. Sometimes I almost trusted the wrong people, but God always protected
me and sent me the right people. I learnt to be completely fine with feeling
totally alone and friend-less in a foreign place. I learnt to trust people in
the most unexpected situations. Some of those situations resulted in small and
big miracles, stories that I shall one day recount in a book. I learnt to pray,
and really pray. Out of desperation, in faith, from trust, in fearsome wonder,
through the moments I felt like life was pointless and I wanted to run away
from my calling to those tough places. He kept me steady. He helped me to
overcome fear and embrace the unknown with joy, to conquer loneliness and to
enjoy solitude, to dispel the dark thoughts and discover my destiny step by
step, to see beyond the present and help others do the same, to face questions
and opposition with quiet confidence in His word alone.
In this place of unnerving solitude, where
there is little to distract myself with, I have come to realize that I am not
here for any special (or rather, predictable) outcome or solution. But what if I
don’t get the outcome that I expect or that others will inevitably expect? Does
it matter? Really, I now see that it doesn’t. Because right here, right now, I am
where I am meant to be. Even though it is not easy to be confined, to have to think
about security and bombs and kidnappers and wearing a hijab, to not be free to
walk out or do as I please, I would still not rather be anywhere else, and living
any other kind of life. I am here; and I am satisfied in Him. Right here, right
now – each and every day – I will continue to listen and to act as He wills, as
He leads me in love.
[Cover Photo: "Syrian Children Paint Life in Saddam's Kurdistan Prison", Al Jazeera]
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