We had neighbors in Kabul — a mother, a father, and a son they had adopted. The three of them lived together and had a decent life. The parents were uneducated, and the son had shown little interest in pursuing education either. But the mother and father were deeply religious and kind-hearted people.
At first, their life was peaceful. But due to interference from relatives and the presence of impure hearts surrounding them, their life slowly unraveled. First, they lost their rightful share of the father’s family home. Then, the son was told the truth — that he was adopted.
After learning this, he changed completely. He even began beating his adoptive parents. His mother forced him to marry a girl from their extended family, but he would beat his wife as well. The root of all this bitterness was the boy’s uncle — the one who lit the fire and fueled the chaos.
We loved the aunt (khala) dearly, and she loved us in return. She considered our family like her own. She was graceful and full of good taste. She would bake delicious tandoor bread, make spicy pickles, and always remembered us. In times of joy and sorrow, she checked in on us.
A few years passed. They moved from house to house, and we gradually lost regular contact. Eventually, we heard that the son had divorced his wife, and the now elderly parents were left alone, while the son had become addicted to drugs and was sleeping on the streets.
Our family tried several times to help the boy through organizations that work with addicts, but no one from their family was willing to take responsibility to check on him regularly during his recovery — a requirement for treatment.
The troubles only grew. We grew older, traveled to other countries, and over time, lost regular touch with the aunt and uncle.
After returning from my U.S. trip, I finally managed to visit them during Eid.
The moment I saw them, my heart broke. I realized how fast life can change, how quickly time passes. They had aged so much — both sick and bedridden. No one was there to care for them. Their son was still out on the streets, lost in addiction.
At that time, I was going through my own hell — it felt like I was walking on fire, breathing flames. And yet, every few days, I would check in on them. Until one evening, my Mom enters my room and says that the uncle had passed away — on the 27th night of Ramadan.
Only the aunt remained. Alone.
My life was still in turmoil. Storms and fire surrounded me. Still, I kept calling her, checking in. She cried to me over the phone. She wept. My own family, caught up in my crisis, couldn’t fully look after her either.
But one thing I am proud of is this: despite everything I was going through, I kept calling her, comforting her, making her feel less alone. I visited her a few times. Sat by her bedside. Listened to her stories. Saw her tears of pain and joy. I made her laugh, even if only briefly. Before leaving, she would feel a little better.
She used to recite her own style poetry to me. I’d write it down. I fed her rice and chicken, bite by bite. She was too weak to move. Slowly, her appetite faded. Her pain and wailing grew.
And so did mine.
One morning, I woke up and my sister asked, “Aren’t you going to visit khala today?” I asked why she brought her up so early in the day. She gently replied, “Khala has passed away.”
I was left with a broken heart and endless tears. Her funeral passed. A year since her death went by. And now 5 years.
When I came to Canada, I heard the son had passed away too.
That entire life — the lives of three people — came to an end before my eyes. And I could do nothing. Nor could my family, because they were caught up in my crisis.
There is so much more to this story. So much tragedy. But I will leave it at this for now.
This writing carries a message:
Even if you, yourself, are in dire need of help — do not lose yourself. And as much as you can, reach out to help the helpless. You will never regret it. One day, you will look back with pride and feel that you were a source of light in someone’s darkest of all days.
“Though I was hurting, I chose to heal others.”
“Even in my weakness, I was someone else’s strength.”
“I gave what I needed most.”
You’ll have earned blessings for it too.
I always wished I could do more for her — to support her in a bigger way, to ease her burdens. But all I could offer was what I had.
One day, during one of my visits, I looked at her and asked, “Khala, how much do you love me?”
She smiled and answered softly, “برابر ایمانم دوستت دارم” —
“I love you as deeply as I believe in my faith.”
The End…
Noorin Khwaja Eshaan 