Figs From Afghanistan: Remembering the Community of Shared Love

Words by Deeksha Sharma (she/her)

As I took the last bite

Of the figs from the Afghani land,

I lost the courage to throw its last packet from my home

Which read, “Made in Afghanistan”

I remember my childhood days

Growing up in the North Indian winters,

When I used to sit warmly in the quilt

With my brother and sister

Together, we took a bite of the lusciously sweet figs

And inserted our small fingers in the center of the round fruit,

Not knowing the trees will witness a crisis

Not knowing who’ll water their roots

Nostalgia – is all I feel now

Remembering the country whose stories,

My history books recited

I wonder what stories our children will read now

I wonder if those fig trees live with the same nostalgia

That I have been feeling for a long time,

Or if my mother will still give me figs from Afghanistan

With warm milk during bedtime

The community of shared love

Still exists today

And with hearts wide open

There’s so much I can say

That I’m hopeful and I believe

That love is not too weak,

And that Afghanistan will rise again

Despite the violence, despite the pain

I miss the sweet taste, I miss the Afghan stories

I miss the waving branches of the fig tree,

But the fig trees will be green again

With the next showers of the monsoon rain

And nostalgia hits me hard today

When the world feels far away,

From the country whose past I now dig

From the country that fed us figs

Rooted in community

Are stories of peace and love,

The more we are globally rooted

The more we rise above

Rise above hate and enmity

Rise above blood and violence,

Remembering the shared community of love

And its stories in silence.