Love in the Geography of Values
When I returned, Kabul was unrecognizable. The air was heavy with sorrow, the café-goers of Pul-e-Surkh were despondent, and the flowers had withered
By: Mohammad Alipoor
On a spring day in Kabul in 2019, I, a Persian speaker living in the heart of a culturally diverse capital, met her for the first time at a cultural event in Pul-e-Surkh, Kabul. She introduced herself as Nazanin—a kind and charitable young girl from Nangarhar who spoke Pashto. Her father was a general in the Afghan National Army, serving under the administration of President Ashraf Ghani.
He was a brave and battle-hardened man, yet at the same time, kind-hearted and compassionate. He had close ties with government officials and had experience working in the Ministry of Defense’s military scholarship programs. Nazanin, his fifth child, grew up with a deep appreciation for culture and occasionally collaborated with the media.
Our connection, though initially casual, blossomed into something profound and beautiful. Her sweet Pashto accent and her eyes, filled with hope, captivated me. Her laughter was like a beacon of light in my world. She often said my Hazaragi accent reminded her of her dreams. I would recite Farsi poetry to her, and she would listen with such attention, as if the Persian language was a whole new world for her.
But our story was far from simple. We came from two different worlds, and in a society where linguistic and cultural differences carried great significance, relationships between people of various backgrounds were often met with scrutiny. Language and culture sometimes built barriers that were difficult to cross.
We had to learn how to navigate these barriers. Nazanin began learning Persian, and I tried to understand Pashto better. Together, we discovered a new world where languages and cultures were no longer obstacles but bridges to deeper understanding.
However, as our relationship grew more serious, so did the challenges and societal pressures. We faced criticism and harsh judgment from those around us. Many of our colleagues in the cultural sector believed that a relationship between individuals from different backgrounds—especially in Afghanistan, where ethnic and cultural tensions had long been prevalent—would not last.
Despite the challenges and societal pressures, we found strength in our differences. We learned that true love doesn’t need a shared language or culture. What truly mattered was our mutual respect and affection. Our differences became a source of strength, not division. Every language, tradition, and custom became a treasure that helped us understand each other better.
Over time, our love grew, and through challenges and hardships, we became even closer. Not only did we become fluent in each other’s languages, but we also immersed ourselves in one another’s cultures. We learned that despite differences, there are always opportunities for growth, acceptance, and deeper connection.
This is not just the story of two individuals; it is the story of anyone who crosses such boundaries and creates a new world through love and mutual understanding. Despite all the challenges, Nazanin and I proved that love can flourish in any language, culture, and land. We gave new meaning to love—one in which differences in tastes were not a source of conflict, and cultural, linguistic, and religious differences were no longer barriers in our path. But the real obstacle was something called “Ethnic Honor,” which gripped the necks of Nazanin’s family and relatives so tightly that it did not allow our love to reach a happy ending.
One day, her father’s secretary called me in a threatening tone, warning me that if I did not cut ties with Nazanin, there would be consequences. But I paid no heed to such words and refused to let fear take hold of me. I knew that Nazanin was an intelligent girl, and her father loved her deeply. She was always present at cultural and academic gatherings, something Nazanin owed entirely to him. Not only was she a great speaker, but she was also a talented writer—the very person who inspired me to pursue writing. She worked with the BBC, producing Pashto-language podcasts, and she also encouraged me to write.
Once, we were invited to Jalalabad with a group of cultural figures for a program called “Pashto Literary Advancement.” At that time, most areas of Nangarhar enjoyed relative security. After the program, we went on an excursion to unwind. Nazanin and I took a commemorative photo beside the memorial of Dr. Nakamura while our colleagues shared jokes, and laughter filled the air around us.
When we returned to Kabul, it was nearly noon. Our usual meeting spots were the elegant cafes of Pul-e-Surkh, which always welcomed lovers without hesitation. We ordered coffee, and Nazanin’s phone rang as the air filled with the haze of cigarette smoke. He was her father, telling her to prepare immediately for a trip to London. She had secured a scholarship to pursue her master’s degree at Oxford University. We were both thrilled by the news. Nazanin turned to me and said, “Let me get you a gift before I leave.”
She adored dark colors and bought me a navy blue suit, a crisp white dress shirt, and a red striped tie. In return, I gifted her a bouquet of roses and a bottle of perfume. With tears and smiles, we bid farewell and parted ways. I headed towards Dasht-e-Barchi while she went to Shahr-e-Naw to pack her belongings for the journey—unaware that her academic trip would lead her to her ruthless uncle’s house. Her uncle, the leader of a mafia syndicate in southern Afghanistan, had discovered her relationship with me. Under the guise of a family visit, he lured her to his house, only to return her lifeless body to her father.
The devastating news plunged us all into shock. My colleagues in the cultural sector quickly arranged for me to get an urgent visa for Pakistan, and I left for Islamabad. Not long after, Afghanistan’s provinces began falling, one by one, to the Taliban. When Kabul finally fell, Basheer Momand, the head of our media committee, contacted me with news of Nazanin’s ruthless uncle fleeing to Pakistan. He advised me to return to Afghanistan.
When I returned, Kabul was unrecognizable. The air was heavy with sorrow, the café-goers of Pul-e-Surkh were despondent, and the flowers had withered. More than three years later, I have had the opportunity to travel to Nangarhar once again. When I arrived at the place where Nazanin and I had taken our photo, I could no longer stand. I sat down, staring into the distance—toward the very spot where, once upon a time, we had gazed together.
