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My father was an Afghan exile.
Good thing he's not watching the news right now
My father dreamed all his life about the show, the city where he was born, which he left as a child and never returned to.
He hated Afghanistan and also loved it, and mostly missed it.
With that wretched country facing another devastation, it's time to say goodbye, perhaps forever, to the childhood dreams of that Afghanistan, which may never have been
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Afghanistan
Yossi Levy
Monday, 16 August 2021, 22:00
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My father, Abraham, was an Afghan exile. All his life he dreamed of the show, the city where he was born. His imagination beautified her and painted her in enchanted colors. He described to us the mud palaces, the demons flying over the rooftops, the green orchards of almond and grape, the herds of deer, the summer house and the winter house they had there. And also about the evil dwarves of the City of Demons in Elh. Most of all he liked to describe the mutton cooked for hours on wicks on snowy winter days, dripping delicious fat on mountains of white rice.
He told of the mighty kings of Afghanistan, as he remembered their names from his father's house. Nadir Khan was his favorite king. The history of the Afghan homeland he remembered ended with the Soviet invasion. His name will be erased, Babrak Carmel. Dad cursed vigorously the puppet ruler that the Soviets had ruled over the land he had left as a child, and never returned to.
Every night he stuck his nose in the screen and searched for crumbs of information about Afghanistan.
He hated Afghanistan and also loved it, and mostly missed it.
He missed his father Aaron who remained there and his younger brother Yitzhak, the penultimate Jew of Afghanistan, who also remained there and engaged in folk healing.
An unresolved story, bordering on mystery, would lie about the relationship between a father and his father and little brother.
An Afghan story that I was also drawn to, and to this day I can not decipher it.
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DPs from northern Afghanistan in the capital Kabul, last week (Photo: AP)
I once promised Dad: one day we would all go there.
To Afghanistan?
His eyes sparkled.
Yes, I said.
I was sixteen, seventeen.
The future seems to me a great rug that can be walked on without stopping.
Will you take me there?
Dad laughed like a child.
The Pashtuns love Jews, he recalls.
They have a white tallit on their shoulder, and they are believed to be descendants of the Ten Tribes.
On Saturday they light candles!
Dad was proud.
I once saw a Pashtun fur merchant who said to my father, "Agai Aharon, Sir Aharon, I am from the Gaji tribe."
Gad tribe, Dad carried me in amazement.
He's Jewish, Dad hugged me excitedly.
The real Land of Israel was there, Dad called.
And it is said that the golden lamp of the house of the Mukadas was also taken there.
what are you saying?
Maybe one day they will find her?
Taliban fighters stand outside Kabul Interior Ministry today (Photo: Reuters)
Think now of my private Afghan memories, with that wretched country facing another destruction, perhaps the greatest since the Mongol invasion.
Think of hundreds of thousands of terrified women and men trying to escape the terrible fate that awaits them.
Who is beheaded, who is stoned, who is burned in the square and who is amputated according to the commandment of Sharia.
To say goodbye, perhaps forever, to the childhood dreams of that Afghanistan, which may never have been.
Maybe it's better for him that Daddy's not watching this news anymore.
The author is the Israeli Ambassador to Lithuania, and has held many positions in the Israeli Foreign Service.
The text is taken from his Facebook page
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