Flash Fiction

Inspired by interest in Eastern Culture and the struggles of surviving post conflict.

We’ve lived in Wales for over a year now having fled Kabul. I’ve watched my husband struggle with the language, to go to farmers auctions whilst I kept house and prayed for success, Wales is the land of farming and that’s what we’ve done all our lives. We are comfortable with our life but revel in luxury  after the dusty streets of Afghanistan. I have swapped my Hijab for a housecoat and curlers. Religion has fallen into the wayside after what we’ve been through.

Our luck changed one faithful day in Spring when Muhammad came to the kitchen door what was a lazy afternoon. I shuffled outside in my slippers to find shivering sheep and it lovely cloudy ball of wool in the field. My husband and beamed at each other. The next thing I know he’s got the ancient brownie out and snaps a candid photo of me holding our treasure. It was rather soft but it felt like gold.

60 years on that timid housewife is now gone, after my husband is passing I was forced to learn English and fully integrate myself into the community. I’m taking my GCSEs exams. There was a time when I lay in bed dreading the day, it seems so long without him. Without him as my shield I had to stand on my own 2 feet. Of course I’m encountered  racism but as soon as I became mother the other women saw I was just like them. Before people wouldn’t hold my hand but now I’ve lost count of how many henna tattoos I’ve done. People used to wrinkle their nose when I walked in the room, the smell of spice and coconut lotion. Now, people plan off my recipes! it’s nice that I can bring a a bit of Kabul  into our little valley.

I am always tell my grandchildren to persevere and to be grateful of Te smallest things. I was born in Kabul but Wales is my home.

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