I am scared of the first world narratives, sometimes not wanting to comment; as wherefrom I comment..as I sit in a warm library in London and tonight I’ll return home to a warm room. These nights the temperature bids farewell to kindness; then when I sit to think of the sympathies of student life, on the other side, Maryam is still begging in front of million dollar homes on Karte Se.
I am scared to comment; for I comment on an un-understanding. Maybe affiliation adds no voice. And compassion is yet too poor an experience.
Two emails roll in, in the weekend. Someone needs legal advice. Someone wants to find the needle in the haystack. And I nit-pick things I don’t believe in. But somehow I need to find some resolution to domestic violence and the Shariah. There is not a day I don’t think of Afghanistan.
I did learn something today though! (happy feeling)
I learned that sometimes the difficulties of distance is itself a poetic justice.