Everytime I Think You Kill Me Slowly Lyrics
Everytime I Think You Kill Me Slowly Lyrics – KABUL, Afghanistan – Every time I smile on the street, I see my mother’s eyes. My father, brother and sister were sleeping on the floor in my dark place in the western part of Kabul.
They escaped before the Taliban fled to their homes in Herat and now we are together for the sunrise. The Taliban never knocked on my door, but we know they will, as we know. This summer is bad, the sky is black and our freedom is a mirage.
Everytime I Think You Kill Me Slowly Lyrics
I am 27 years old, a devout Muslim, an educated woman, a woman who asks a lot of questions and I have never worn a hijab. I am a journalist, a member of the Hazara Shia tribe, the daughter of an Afghan soldier. To the newly empowered Taliban fighters, my silence was a golden step on the Stairway to Heaven.
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In my dreams that come every night now, I try to fight. I tried to escape. I ended up walking through the chaos and smoke, hurt by the crowd on the way to the airport. hand holding me The woman cried. Bullet wound.
“What is?” my mother said when I returned. He stayed all night looking at me.
It seems that civilization cannot be rebuilt in a few years in the afternoon, life as you know it may fall before noon, but it can be done and it has been done.
By Sunday morning, the Taliban were out of Kabul. I got a warm cake from the bakery, as I like to do, and went to the ATM because someone was worried that the bank was going to close. The ATM was broken, so I waited an hour with a few people, then went out and went to the office in my usual jeans, jacket, scarf and sneakers.
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“The Taliban are not knocking on my door, but we know they will. When Afghanistan falls to the Taliban, Hosseini and his family flee.
The streets are full. Hundreds of shoppers flocked to the streets to eat fruits and vegetables while shouting, “Apples! watermelon! Mango! 20 fresh tomatoes per kilo!” I wove their frame among women in colorful clothes. It might be one of the biggest cities in the world.
I passed my favorite restaurant, Taj Begum, full of hookah smoke and laughter. She was named after an Afghan warrior princess and had the worst wife in Kabul. He drives through the streets yelling at other drivers, all of whom are men.
Now in the Kabul office of the English department of the Etilaat-e-Roz news agency where I work, the phone is ringing as the Taliban advance.
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News has spread that President Ashraf Ghani has left the country. No one can look away. The men who came to work in the morning wearing clothes, they came back with long dresses, long shirts and long shirts. The Taliban are currently in the presidential palace, but we don’t know.
In the morning I decided to go home, but my colleague stopped me. She said I can’t do it without my husband. This is what I know to be true.
I took the car almost all the way. The shops were closed this morning and the streets were almost empty. At Taj Begum, the owner locked the door and beat all the hookahs. A bus full of Taliban was blown up. I only went at the last minute. Few men I know look at me for long.
This is the story Fatema had to tell. I can help explain how he became the center of a military rescue operation as a result of a happy relationship. But as many people were mobilized to support him, Fatema’s escape was finally behind him.
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Today I am an international reporter in London, USA. Fatema is a reporter for one of Afghanistan’s major news agencies and a freelance reporter for USA TODAY. We cannot cover the world without journalists like Fatema who live and work in the places they report on. They are our eyes when we can’t be there and often our friends when we can.
Fatema never lived under the Taliban regime and she doesn’t think so now. Her family left Iran when she was 3 years old due to persecution and violence against her by the Haraza. He returned aged 10 after the 2001 US invasion ousted the Taliban.
She interviews Taliban fighters and reports on women’s lives now and then. Dark times when women and young women were cut off from wider life and education. When they are beaten in public for dating without a groom, for wearing shoes, for listening to pop music. He reported from a faraway place where the Taliban had never been.
No one expected Kabul to fall soon. The Taliban have promised to improve women’s rights, but their bloody history shows that I can see that they will not.
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I contacted Fatema shortly before noon in London that Sunday. The Taliban have just taken down the Afghan flag from the presidential palace.
If the Taliban come to my office, all the necessary evidence of my integrity will be at the front door. I covered the wall with pictures of my friends and did the normal thing: eat cream. Smile. Stupid glasses. fly Lying on the grass in the sun.
The Taliban don’t want to see my face. They don’t want to see me with my friends from the American College for Women in Bangladesh or the friendships I made in Dhaka. My studies and work threaten their thoughts. The hair around my eyes is an affront to God.
The Hazaras are one of the most oppressed groups in Afghanistan and the most progressive group in terms of women’s rights and education. Before he joined the Afghan National Army, my father maintained a library full of books he could not read. My mother was a housewife who loved school but couldn’t continue studying because she needed her mother-in-law’s permission, then she got pregnant with my younger sister.
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I remember my mom reading Disney books to me when I was 5 and giving me a notebook so I could copy what my sister wrote.
He took out a loan to send me to Afghan Turk High School, a high school in Afghanistan. There I learned Farsi, English, a little Arabic, a little Turkish, a little Pashto. My family and neighbors are worried. “She’s just a girl,” they said. “It’s pointless to use this level on him.”
But I became a journalist investigating corruption and giving voice to women. I interviewed a Taliban fighter who told me I was a good Muslim and wore a hijab. He promised that the Taliban would take back the country, if not for his generation, then for his children, because they fought voluntarily.
My job is to listen, not argue, but there are some things I can’t do.
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Now I know the Taliban will be at my door in a few days. I immediately photographed them because I couldn’t see them. I put the poem I wrote on the wall: “Nobody can tell who we are, so why don’t we rewrite it? Maybe our world.”
Fatema mailed my passport information, ID, and visa application to the US State Department. He received a confirmation letter, but no application number, no instructions on what to do next.
The only safe exit from Kabul is Hamid Karzai International Airport. The land route from Afghanistan is blocked and dangerous in all directions – west to Iran, south to east Pakistan, north to Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Tajikistan.
Kabul is 3½ hours ahead of London time, 8½ hours ahead of Eastern time. It is now midnight in Afghanistan and Fatema needs to rest. But I have another question. “Are you ready to go without your family?”
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One of the pictures hanging on her office wall has two pictures of Fatema smiling and laughing with her family and friends.
The next day, Monday, I woke up early and started posting whatever I could think of to do with Afghanistan or the Middle East. Connect with US military and members of Congress. European diplomats, humanitarian workers, journalists. I wrote to the editor-in-chief of USA TODAY, telling them that Fatema was hiding in her house. They started calling contacts.
In Kabul, Fatema was searched on the fifth floor of the apartment building where she lived. He started asking questions that I didn’t answer.
As the US withdrawal increased, the US left its embassy in Kabul and thousands of Afghans fled to the airport. Women crowd. The children who were screaming on the walls of the airport were handed over to the American soldiers. Afghanistan is dangerous
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