This Act of Kindness

This Act of Kindness – Mahvish Khan

There was No. 1009
an 80-year-old paraplegic
white-bearded grandfather
who clung to me
when it was time
for me to leave

No. 1154
43-year-old
Dr. Ali Shah
choked back tears
as he recalled
the last time
he saw his daughter

No. 1021
Chaman Guil
crouched in his cage
and wept out of fear
that his family
would forget him

No. 977
Izzatullah
a six-foot Afghan
granted permission
to view a home video
of his family
who he had not seen in
five years

When he saw his
children on tape
he inched closer
to the screen
laughing and weeping

Finally he said

For the rest of my life
I will remember this act
of kindness
————————————

This poem is written by Mahvish Khan, a recent law graduate and journalist living in USA. Recently, her book titled ‘My Guantanamo Diary’ was published which, as we can guess, is written on an extremely important issue.

This is how the book is described on its facebook group page:

“Mahvish Khan is an American lawyer, born to immigrant Pashtun parents in Michigan. Outraged that her country was illegally imprisoning people at Guantanamo, she volunteered to translate for the prisoners and eventually began representing an Afghan detainee. She spoke their language, understood their customs, and brought them Starbucks chai, the closest available drink to the kind of tea they would drink at home. And they quickly befriended her, offering fatherly advice as well as a uniquely personal insight into their plight, and that of their families thousands of miles away.

For Mahvish Khan the experience was a validation of her Afghan heritage—as well as her American freedoms, which allowed her to intervene at Guantanamo purely out of her sense that it was the right thing to do. Mahvish Khan’s story is a challenging, brave, and essential test of who she is —and who we are.”

Working as interpreter, she had visited the illegally detained Afghans several times. I would like to share some lines from an article she published on the same issue:

“During our meeting, Nusrat’s emotions range from anger to despair. In his desperation, he begins to promise Peter that he will make him famous if he helps him get home. “Everyone in Afghanistan will know your name,” he says. “You will be a great, famous lawyer.”

As I interpret, I feel a lump growing in my throat. Suddenly, I can’t speak. Peter and Nusrat pause as the tears flood down my face and drip onto my shawl.

The old man looks at me. “You are a daughter to me,” he says. “Think of me as a father.” I nod, aligning and realigning pistachio shells on the table as I interpret.

As the meeting ends and we collect our things to go, the old man opens his arms to me and I embrace him. For several moments, he prays for me as Peter watches: “Insha’allah, God willing, you will find a home that makes you happy. Insha’allah, you will be a mother one day. . . . “

He lets me go and asks me to say dawa, prayers, for him. “Of course,” I promise. “Every day.”

And until the next time I see him, I will.

Filed under: Others, Politik, 911, Afghan, Guantanamo, Mahvish Khan, My Guantanamo Diary, Prison