Reciting Poetry Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

I was in Kabul during April/May of 1999, the worst time ever in Afghanistan. Loving books betrayed me. I was approached by Ashrafi, a prophet-looking young man who wanted to set up time for me to meet Mullah Mohammad Omar. Scared of the trap I was falling in, I was planning to run away. I could become involved, or caught and sent to their cave-like prisons. I accepted to attend a session, the poets were gathering to listen to others and also to read their poems if there was a chance. I was well-received as a guest of honor and as a person who, possibly had more experience or knowledge. I had no poem of my own. My host, the owner of the restaurant where I ate and slept, had been warned me to put aside the pen and paper. “That can endanger your life.” He said and I listened. My body was in the room where the poets were but my soul was not there. I felt like the guy in Qazi Stadium. I saw him convicted and shot. He was dead long before being the trigger was pulled, he must have died of fear while the man in turban read his case.