By [Nangresa Sultan Lur Afghan]
Feature Article: Hila stood by the window, staring at the vast sky, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. The soft glow of dusk painted the city in hues of orange and gold, a reminder of the spring she once knew—a spring filled with laughter, celebrations, and the warmth of tradition. But now, spring had become just another season, stripped of its meaning, its joy stolen by the weight of change.
She had grown up cherishing Nowruz, the Afghan New Year, a time of renewal and hope. As a child, she had spent her early years in Karachi, far from the homeland her parents had fled. Despite the hardships of migration, Nowruz had always remained a symbol of resilience for their family. The year her younger brother Nowruz was born, everything had begun to change for the better. His birth had brought prosperity, stability, and, most importantly, the feeling of home, even in exile.
Hila’s memories of Nowruz were painted with colors of joy—spring cleaning, the preparation of Haft Mewa, the gathering of loved ones, and the echoes of laughter filling the air. Later, when her family returned to Kabul, the celebrations only grew richer. Every year, she had eagerly awaited the raising of the Janda flag in Mazar-e-Sharif, the vibrant Buzkashi games in Baghlan, and the streets buzzing with life. Nowruz was more than just a day; it was a piece of their identity, a reflection of their culture and history that spanned over 3,000 years.
But that was before.
Now, Hila found herself staring at her phone screen, reading messages from old friends—Zoroastrians she had studied with at Mama Parsi High School in Karachi. Their greetings were filled with enthusiasm:
"Let’s welcome the new year in style!"
"New hopes, new goals, new energy—wishing you all a wonderful Nowruz!"
"May this season bring happiness and success!"
Each message felt like a bittersweet whisper from a past life. There was something missing—a silence in her inbox where, in another time, an Afghan friend would have written:
"Wishing all my loved ones a harmonious, prosperous, and joyful Afghan New Year!"
But that message never came.
Since the fall of the republic and the return of the Taliban, Nowruz had been stripped from the national calendar, deemed an un-Islamic, pagan festival. The music that once played in the streets was gone, silenced by an oppressive decree. The vibrant gatherings had dissolved into whispers behind closed doors, where families feared celebrating too openly. Women, once an integral part of the festivities, were now barred from parks, entertainment venues, and even the simplest joys of life.
For Hila, the arrival of spring was now laced with fear. She wanted to prepare something special for her brother’s birthday—perhaps a cake, a small celebration. But even that felt like a risk. What if the authorities disapproved? What if even the mere acknowledgment of Nowruz was met with punishment?
The memories of the 1990s haunted her. Back then, the Taliban had already tried to erase Nowruz, branding it a festival of fire-worshippers. And now, history was repeating itself. The festivities that once defined Afghanistan’s rich cultural heritage had been reduced to a forbidden thought.
As the night deepened, Hila wiped away her tears. She glanced at her brother, who still carried the name of a stolen holiday, a name that once symbolized renewal and hope.
"How ironic," she thought bitterly. "Nowruz is no longer ours to celebrate."
Yet, despite everything, a quiet defiance burned within her. Nowruz was more than a date—it was a legacy, a connection to the past, a reminder that no regime, no matter how oppressive, could erase the spirit of a people who had survived centuries of hardship.
And so, even if she had to celebrate in silence, even if the streets remained empty and the music was gone, Hila knew one thing for certain:
Spring would always return.
[The Article Was Written For Human Online]
