#naderias

[polkadotmotmot]

Iñigo Navarro - Naderias rojas, 2022

[xaiper-moony]

Y ahora... Tiempo fuera

¿Qué sucedió? No lo sé, no puedo explicarlo, un día simplemente comencé a escribirle en este espacio seguro, y ella respondía a mis escritos, como si el mundo hubiera detenido el paso del tiempo para acercarnos un poco más y nuestros sueños nos hubieran guiado a escribir.

¿Por qué? Aún no lo comprendo, nunca he buscado razones cuando se trata de ella; le dije que la extrañé y ella a mi, no necesité saber más, bastaron unas palabras para volver a ser amigos, como antes de todo.

Y aunque quizá no lo sepa, me ha ayudado mucho a sobrellevar mis días últimamente, su simple presencia hace que me sienta animado y felíz, hace que sonría al pensar en pequeñas naderias y en lo que acontece en su vida, me alegra mucho saber que cuento con ella y ella conmigo.

You're here, and I don't need anything else to fall asleep in peace this night.

(Si estás leyendo esto, gracias, por volver)

[millonesdelibros-blog]

El sufrimiento no es otra cosa que la falta de alegría.

★ Naderias ★ ☆ Jose Ortiz Petricioli ☆

[erwinmanfred]

He cometido el peor de los pecados que un hombre puede cometer. No he sido feliz. Que los glaciares del olvido me arrastren y me pierdan, despiadados. Mis padres me engendraron para el juego arriesgado y hermoso de la vida, para la tierra, el agua, el aire, el fuego. Los defraude. No fui feliz. Cumplida no fue su joven voluntad. Mi mente se aplico a las simétricas porfías del arte, que entreteje naderias. Me legaron valor. No fui valiente. No me abandona. Siempre está a mi lado la sombra de haber sido un desdichado.

-El remordimiento, Jorge Luis Borges.

[leagueoflegends-confessions]

I would KILL for a Star Guardian Caitlyn skin.

Artwork by naderia

[oqued-ad]

El mal-arreado.

Era de noche y él no podia dormir, merondeaba de acá para alla. Se sentaba 5 minutos y ya se colvia. Los años pasaban y era cada vez peor.

Algo lo inquietaba lo despabilaba. Eso no le importaba, casi ni lo rejistraba. Ese día cumplía 40 años pero los días eran todos iguales. Lunes, domingo qué más dá, son solo días. El sol se ponía y la noche caía.

Viento, lluvia todo se secaba, se marchitaba y lentamente moría, dias, horas, minutos qué más da.

Brotes de vida nuevamente asomaban. El ritmo retomaba. Movimiento, pero qué más da. Así se repetía la rueda de nunca acabar, todo se secaba, se marchitaba y moría, siempre igual pensaba.

El tiempo no existe, es solo un concepto vacío que los primates se han inventado para ser productivos. Se decía.

Pequeño hereje su única certeza era la muerte, certeza incomprobable pensaba porque solo sabia de ella a traves de la alteridad. Siempre la alteridad.

Pequeño ermitaño habia pasado gran parte de su vida dentro de su pequeña ermita, entre hojas y nubes cuidando de ella, prisionero de ella.

Cada tanto amanecía con el pie derecho y le permitia a su niño salir a dar un paseo sin correa.

Se consideraba un andrógino sentimental, es que habian dias en que la vida le pesaba, le dolía, lo apabullaba en demasía. El dolor de existir lo aplastaba.

Sin motivo, sin sentido aparente esa naderia se le incrustaba en el pecho y se leía en su mirada. Es que su mirada era transparente como el agua y eso no le gustaba.

Recluído, ensimismado no encontraba palabras. Se sentía sucio se sentia humano.

En esos dias solo oía un sonido violador uno tan particular que no admitia adjetivos. Se le incrustaba por los oídos extendiendose por su cuerpo y lo paralizaba, lo inmovilizaba.

Los días pasaban. Lunes, martes, domingo qué más da.

Pequeño malarreado no toleraba ser amado por esa pequeña nada que era. Reacio se vanalgoriaba por ser indomable, buscaba el odio más que la indiferencia. Odiame por piedad yo te lo pido, sin medida ni clemencia porque el rencor hiere menos que el olvido. Y así poder quedar convencido que solo se odia lo querido.

Por eso por más frío que tuviera su corazón nunca podria ser de hielo. Sus ansias de morir eran como su deseo y temor de vivír.

Pequeño insurrecto la zelva de la vida le parecia imperfectamente armonica. Pero lo que no sabia es que entre encuentros y desencuentros, entre extásis iba buscando ese estado poético, estado trascendente de la vida.

Vivía en el fantasy de Charly y de allí no queria despertar.

[aftaabmagazine]

The First Slap of War: An Uncompleted Tour of My Homeland

By Daud Saba

From the October - December 1999 issue of Aftaab Magazine 

[caption: Paghman 2002 by Farhad Azad]

Daud Saba describes his attempted cross-country journey in the perilous year of 1979.  

The last midterm exam was over heralding summer vacations. We were out from school, Lycee Naderia, in Karta-e Parwan, rushing home. The baking sun of July hung over Kabul's blue sky. The gleaming hot and dry air at the foothills of Mount Aasmaei seemed to be still, bringing every pedestrian to the brink of exhaustion. But for my cousin Zalmai and I, these were moments to re-examine our strength and determination and test our endurance in the harsh arid summer of Afghanistan.

For us, passing the last midterm exams was a great accomplishment worth celebrating. It was a time of jubilance and preparation for a journey that we dreamt for almost a year.

We walked joyfully for some twenty minutes to the bus stop in Shahr-e-Ara and waited for a long time for the bus to arrive. In that busy station, somehow we managed to hang on to an overcrowded blue Tata Milibus and headed home-- a routine we had every school day.

By the time we arrived home, it was two o'clock. Escaping from the noon's heat, everyone seemed to be resting in the cool basement of our Khair Khana house.

"Let's not waste the time, we have a good opportunity to discuss the details of the trip right now," I said.

"Yes. We have to plan carefully to fulfill our dream. But I am not sure whether our parents will let us go," replied Zalmai.

The most difficult task for us was to convince my parents to give me permission. If I could go, Zalmai would perhaps be allowed to join me. We began preparing ourselves to convince my parents to let us materialize our dream.

After a nap, when everyone was up and refreshed, we decided to inform my parents about our cross-country trip to be started in two days. Our request was like dynamite, igniting the unbearable opposition of my parents.

"Are you guys crazy for choosing this hot season for such a stupid trip? What does it mean to see the country? Haven't you been in the villages in Herat? They are all the same, everywhere," my mother continuously recited.

My father started, "Summertime is an extremely inappropriate season for any kind of trip in Afghanistan. Besides, there is news of armed attacks and looting of buses, traveling in the country. I believe you guys are too young and inexperienced for such an adventure. If you are asking for my permission, I do not permit you."

While we were numbed by his long boring speech, he emphasized his objection by saying, "The rest is your own responsibility."

He left the room to join the collective prayers in the mosque. We looked at each other in resentment for not being able to argue at all.

"But we were not allowed to intervene while they were talking to us!" I explained.

"Forget about it. It is always the same," Zalmai replied.

But fortunately, the tough experience of hearing my parent's objections was over. After a brief discussion, we decided to prepare everything and then inform our parents about the trip. We knew they would not be happy with our plan, but they would not impose their decisions on us, either. We were extremely annoyed by my parent's objection. To rebel, we quietly sneaked into my room and started to chat about the plan and reached a decision.

Zalmai returned home. Fortunately, the next morning, my mother told me that they were only worried about our well-being, and if we were so keen on the trip, we could go only up to Herat, and return from there by air. I immediately informed Zalmai of the good news. Our determination seemed to have worked.

On Monday the 18th of July 1979 (28th Saratan, 1358 H.S.), at dawn, we quietly packed our bags and ran out of the house. The morning breeze from the north was refreshing our jubilant minds with the aroma of wild shrubs from the nearby Khair Khana Mountains. At the bus stop close to our house, we took a cab to Sara-e Shamali, where we boarded a minibus to Chaikar.

At around ten o'clock in the morning, we were passing the scenic vineyards of the Kohdaman Valley and enjoying the freshly hand-picked grapes in the town of Saraye Khoja. We were in a chaikhana (tea house) in downtown Charikar to have grapes and fresh panir (cheese) with green tea. We did not have any detailed or large-scale tourist map and travel routes of the area. The only map we had was a very attractive tourist map of Afghanistan with many scenic pictures of the country, published by Afghan Tour Agency at a very small scale. So we had to depend on the locals for information. We asked the tea house owner about the major attractions of Charikar.

After an hour of sightseeing and purchasing the very famous Charikari hand made knives (the Afghan version of the Swiss army knife), we took a truck to Ophiane-Sharif, a pilgrimage site a few kilometers to the northwest of Charikar, overlooking the vast Shamali Valley and Jabal-o-Saraj. By the time we arrived there, we were very tired. But, it was an unforgettable site seeing of the country we had seen for the first time.

Knowing we were outsiders, locals were very kind and generous towards us. Resting under the shade of an old wall nut tree, we chatted for a while with an old shoemaker. From that vantage point, under the afternoon's bright sun, the greenery of the valley and the intermittent glow of the water channels at the foothills of Shamali were a very fascinating scene.

After having a refreshing snack of fruits and nuts, we took a small four-wheel truck to Jabal-o-Saraj, a town at the mouth of the Salang Pass to the south. By the time we reached Jabal-o-Saraj, the sun made its way to the west over the mighty Hindu Kush, running North-South in this region.

Under the gloomy shadows of the mountains, the muddy walls in the town were sleeping into the silence that was broken only by the grumbling arrivals of few lorries (trucks) from either direction of the highway to spend the night there.

The earth-fresh scented cool breeze from the Salang was revitalizing. Tired and thrilled, after a long day outdoors, we took refuge on a small red rug, covering part of the only bench of the small samawar facing the highway. The appetizing aroma of kabab mixed with the smoke was filling the interior of the samawar with a perfect warming effect. Enjoying the kabab, we asked for some hot green tea and soon we were asleep under our shawls.

At dawn the next day, with the change of the light, the whole scene looked different. Stepping out, we appreciated the mightiness and the beauty of the Hindu Kush, welcoming the first golden messengers of the sun for their illumination of the silvery bright blue shades of the great mountains hanging over the muddy town. Back in the Samawar, we asked for hot milk, kishmish panir (sun-dried raisins and cheese) and freshly baked naan (hot bread) for breakfast. Having had a tasty breakfast, we were ready to move forward and continue our journey up towards the snowy peaks of the Salang Pass.

Leaving behind the town of Jabal-o-Saraj, we were entering the beautiful valley of southern Salang, embracing a system of winding and bending tunnels and passages to create a serpentine impression meandering into the unforeseeable twists of the valley. Aboard a Russian made pick-up truck, heading towards Pul-e Khumri, we were constantly looking at the changing scenery and the breathtaking beauty of the Salang gorge. The mode of transportation with its slow traveling speed and frequent stops provided us with a better opportunity to enjoy nature along the way. The fabulous scenery of the valley was creating a completely new perception of our country. Frequent stops made by our vehicle to cool off the engine gave us every chance to jump out of the truck and get in touch with the unspoiled nature of the valley, creating unforgettable memories for both of us.

Khinjan, a beautiful village at the foot of the Salang Pass greeted us with fresh "toot" (mulberries) and cool water and an unforgettable overlook at the southern valley of the Salang. Broadleaves and garden fresh aroma of alpine weeds growing along the highway and at the foot of the valley was quite fascinating. 

Truly, they were not weeds but beautiful flowers grown by Mother Nature in the wrong place! We could hardly spot anyone around. The few residents of the Khinjan village might have been busy doing their own chores. Imagining the chilling winter of this village, we were surprised with the stamina of these people and their strive for survival in such a harsh and inhospitable environment.

The land is extremely scarce in Khinjan, as is the case in most valleys in the Hindu Kush. All that is available to work on is the narrow strips of steppes at the foothills covered with a thin layer of poor sandy soil, which could be cultivated during the short summer time. A few mulberry trees on the steep slopes of the mountains below the snow line are the luxurious elements of life here. Later in life, I got acquainted with some locals of the area and found out that the people were indeed very poor, but real survivors among Afghans to be proud of.

While we were enjoying the drive over the meandering root along the edges of the hanging Salang valley, our vehicle was struggling hard to overcome the challenges of the beholding forces of the Salang Pass. After an hour we were at the mouth of the highest tunnel of the world, the Salang Tunnel. Here, we had ten minutes to look down at the valley behind us and once more see the winding highway running down the slopes like a thriving snake to the bottom of the deep gorge. The noise of the cool wind gusting through the tunnel emphasized the power and greatness of the pass.

The azure-blue sky and the sparkling silvery snow cover on the slopes of the bluish-gray mountain peaks created a soul-freeing mood in us. In those short moments, to our eyes, the soothing warmth of the golden sun rays pouring on the snow-sprinkled granites enhanced the beauty and majestic grandiose of the Salang Pass to unsurpassed quality.

Entering the dark and cold tunnel, we were occasionally faced with the lack of oxygen resulting from poor ventilation, which in later years caused many passengers to suffocate to death. The freezing water oozing through the ceilings, smog and poor illumination of the tunnel was a big disappointment for us. Thankfully, our pick-up truck made its way out of the long dark tunnel with no technical problems or any sign of illness in us. Seeing the blue sky and the blinding sun reflections of the snow-covered mountains north of the tunnel was a sigh of relief for us and a few other passengers of the pick-up truck. Right in front of our eyes, another window was opening to unfold the cascading beauty of a country we had not seen before.

Standing at the northern entrance of the tunnel, we were overlooking the northern valley of the Salang Pass, winding its way through a narrow gorge towards Dushi. At this lookout, everyone had a sip of the vivid cold and gaseous water rushing towards us from the top glaciers through a narrow stream on its way to the bottom of the valley to join the Salang river.

Water so cold that we could not retain our hands for more than a minute in it. Looking overhead, I was amazed at how we were close to the peak of the mountain that accommodates the main tunnel. At the same lookout, facing north and to our right, we were seeing a beautiful lush-green U shaped valley, formed by recent glaciers in the Hindu Kush. For an adventurous student of Glaciology in Afghanistan, those valleys would be the most interesting objects to investigate. However, today I don't know how densely the area is laced with mines and other explosives. Would my generation be able to walk into those valleys without the fear of losing a leg?

Passing through the cool gorge of the North Salang valley, our next stop was the pistachio green valley of Dushi, a tranquil valley of velvet green rice fields and multiple water channels. Though it was not more than half an hour we halted there, the pleasant memories of the peaceful valley created in me a desire to return. I was back in Dushi twice in later years, but that was after the devastating war. Now it is a dream of mine to be there and roam around with peace of mind and the freedom of a traveler in my own country, a right that my generation lost for an unforeseeable time to come.

It was almost noon when we headed towards Pul-e Khumri. Passing from the outskirts of the Dashte Kelagai, we were looking at the very familiar environmental features, the hot and dry deserts we visited many times on our frequent trips along the highway between Herat and Kabul. Traditionally in Afghanistan, little attention is paid to the nature of deserts in comparison to any other geographical feature. This is true for government circles as well as the public. I recall how little we were taught on deserts in general and on deserts of Afghanistan in particular in school.

Presently, I think other than our Kuchis (nomads) who criss-cross these regions frequently, no one else is really aware of these vast parts of our country. What kind of animals live there and what kind of vegetation is out there? Generally speaking, no scientific data exists on our deserts other than some speculative work in the geology of these entities. There is a potent source of natural wealth and richness in our deserts that we Afghans should explore by ourselves. So, in our journey, we complied with the traditions and did not pay any attention to this beautiful piece of the land we were traveling through. At around two o'clock in the afternoon, we were in the town of Pul-e Khumri to stay overnight.

If I had a choice to live in my own country, I would have lived many years of my life in Pule-Khumri. This was the first lively and green town I saw in Afghanistan. It is located in a comparatively narrow valley of Pul-e Khumri, walled from the east by a beautiful blue mountain chain and from the west by a continuous chain of hills, called Dahana-e Ghori. 

Nature provided everything necessary to live a comfortable life here: a town right at the crossroad of all northern provinces of the country, plenty of running water right at the middle of the valley, which has been cleverly exploited for power production and irrigation, plenty of lime and clay at the same geological setting for cement production, plenty of coal just ten kilometers from the town and a very welcoming and cultured people.

In such an atmosphere, business was booming, food markets were full of commodities and seasonal fruits and vegetables. Happy faces were seen in every corner of the town. We enjoyed the rest of the day roaming in the bazaars, feasting on figs and melons and looking for unusual things we had not seen before. 

For the night, we had already reserved a room in a modest lodge in the core of downtown. The only disturbance we got was from the mosquitoes; otherwise, it was the most pleasant part of our journey.

Unfortunately, in recent years, the over the development of the resources without appropriate planning followed by fighting devastated the beauty and harmony of nature and the natives' lives in the town. It was later in 1993, that I spent two months in Pul-e Khumri and witnessed how nature had been devastated in the region.

Next morning, at around nine o'clock, we boarded a minibus to Mazar-e Sharif. Although it was a beautiful and pleasant part of the trip, it was not as rewarding as the previous sections. We were more tired, and the bus was traveling at a higher speed. Other than Tangi-e Tashqurghan where we halted to shop for local figs, which the town is famous for, we did not stop at any other location. 

Besides the aromatic fresh figs of the valley, Tangi was the most fascinating scenery on our way: overhanging cliffs forming a narrow gorge, cut through the brick red mountains by a vivid water channel, suddenly opens to a wide green valley of orchards and gardens named Tashqurghan. Exploring the grandiose and beauty of this valley required at least a few days that we could not afford at that point.

After the heavy feast of fresh figs at the roadside, we were back on board the minibus heading towards Mazar-e Sharif. Soon we were in Chashma-e Shir, a beautiful steppe of rice fields on both sides of the highway. By this time, it was peak noon. The weather was very dry and hot and we were almost worn out. 

Occasionally, we would look outside through the windows of our bus to hunt for attractions, hoping to reach Mazar-e Sharif for a cool place to rest and prepare ourselves for the more challenging trip to Faryab via Jozjan and subsequently Badghis and Herat. At around two o'clock, we were received in Mazar-e-Sharif by a family friend and went to Dehdadi, a suburb to the west of the city.

We spent two more days in Mazar-e Sharif, visiting the beautiful blue-green jewel of the city, the Shrine of Hazrat Ali at the center of downtown; surrounded by shops and crowded restaurants from all four sides, creating a rectangular plan. We were very interested in visiting the ruins of Balkh, the most ancient city of Central Asia, twenty kilometers to the northwest of Mazar-e Sharif. But rumors of rebel uprisings made us think twice and listen to the locals' advice.

Thus, we canceled our trip to Balkh and booked our tickets directly to Sheberghan, the center of Jozjan province.

Besides the kindness, hospitality and warm reception of our Mazari people, the unforgettable memory I have from Mazar-e Sharif is the interesting habit of the people in the bazaar; of the way, they guide strangers to the unknown directions and corners of the city if asked. For them, everywhere one asks is "just over there", creating a sense of closeness and a short distance to the destination. Before we got used to this, we were frustrated about not reaching the places we expected to be in two to three minutes, as they promised us.

Next morning, we were on board a bus to Jozjan, sitting right behind the driver's seat to see the best of the scenic journey. We were happily chatting on different fantasies to be materialized on our way. At least we were close to the wildest part of our journey; the rough dirt roads crossing deserts and mountainous terrain of the Band-e Turkistan in Faryab and Badghis provinces leading to Herat, but we never thought of another wild scenario to happen. Departing from Mazar-e Sharif, initially, everything was going quite well. 

Seemingly, there weren't any recent incidence of sabotage on the highway from Mazar-e Sharif to Sheberghan about which anyone could inform us. But, we were unlucky enough to get the first slaps of the war.

After more than two hours drive from Mazar-e Sharif, by the vicinity of Aaghcha District, it seemed that two locals were standing on the road to hitchhike. As the bus approached them and came to a near halt, one of them signaled with his hand for their other four companions to rise from a ditch a few meters from the roadside. Suddenly the picture changed. Seeing their rifles everyone started to panic, including the driver. We two were shocked! They ambushed the bus as soon as the agitated driver brought the bus to a full stop.

Two of the men got into the bus, searching under the seats, then started searching for some of the passengers and continued working their way from the back to the front of the bus. Before the searching team of two reached our seat, the man standing at the door with a seemingly old pistol in his right hand, turned his face towards us and asked who we are and where we are heading.

Are we "maktabis" (students)? We were scared to death. We had heard a few stories of this kind but had not seen them with our eyes. We were too stunned to reply, so the guy suddenly started to slap my cousin's face, who was sitting closer to him at the aisle.

"You bad". Shouted the man. And then pulled himself towards me and slapped me a few times. 

Fortunately, an elderly sitting behind us stood up and interfered. Grabbing his hand, he politely asked him to spare us from more penalties at this time and the stranger did so! What happened in the back seats, we didn't see. As we were spared from our penalty, we realized that the passengers had already collected some donations for the cause of "jihad" and we, of course, put our share in it. 

This happened very quickly and they rushed out of the bus with the money in their pockets. In a few minutes, they vanished behind the bushes and our bus took us to the end of our journey to the town of Sheberghan. We arrived exhausted and fearful while being received by a relative of Zalmai.

We couldn't understand what had happened at that time. Later, I found that those kinds of incidents were a routine fear-mongering tactic of the rebels to get ground and sabotage the normalcy of the highways' traffic, successfully. In a few months, all the highways of the country were in their control and traffic had to be guarded by military convoys.

Unfortunately in this process, many poor and ordinary people who could not afford air transportation lost their lives and were victimized by these tactics. The normal life of Afghans was in disarray and the country was engaged in a full-fledged war and chaos. We spent two weeks in Sheberghan.

Accompanied by a relative working with the Afghan Gas Corp., we mainly visited the oil and gas wells and development projects run by the government. Here I became interested in the earth sciences and became aware of its importance for our country. We toured many times to well sites and on the way became acquainted with the beauty of Dasht-e Laili's dunes and brackens and sand-blowing winds.

We had many interactions with the locals and found them very kind and helpful. It was the season of melons, but we had our feast on other fruits like grapes, apples, pears, and peaches, as well. Busy seeing the growing Sheberghan's city and suburbs, two weeks passed and we had to prepare ourselves for a flight to Kabul and leave our uncompleted journey to be completed in the unknown future-- a time that has not come yet!

Author's Notes

Later in life, I met many people from this Tashqurghan and established everlasting friendships with them. I found of all other Afghans, these people were extraordinarily friendly and kind, and at the same time, hard workers. One of those friends is Dr. Toora, son of a peasant farmer from Tashqurghan, who is now an internationally known microbiologist with multiple inventions in microbiology; he is a friend and a passionate countryman that always inspires me and makes me hopeful for a brighter future for our country.

It was 1993 when I again visited Mazar-e Sharif. A time when many Kabulis took refuge there to save their lives form the blind bombing of Kabul by Mujahedin factions. Unfortunately, this time I was faced with a brutal and harsh reaction from a few residents of Mazar-e Sharif who saw us as refugees.

A resident personally abused me as " Kabuli refugee" who allegedly "made his life more expensive and his city smaller for him to live."

I was shocked and could not believe my own ears. I was visiting a friend who moved there with his family from Kabul two months earlier and experienced the same kind of behavior in that period. It was very sad to see the kind of a mood was imposed on the soft-spoken and kind people of Mazar-e Sharif by the harsh economic conditions and heavy military presence of uncontrolled militia in the city, promoting a false sense of power over others.

No offense is meant towards any of my beloved countrymen, especially, Mazaries, whom I admire for their "Ayari". I wanted to express a fact about the change of mood from a friendly and soft one to a harsh and unfriendly one, promoted by warmongers in our land in the past ten years. Unfortunately, this is a phenomenon all over our country hurting our people's feelings, every day. This is a reality. We should have the courage to face it and to cure it!

About Daud Saba

Daud Saba was born in Herat, Afghanistan in 1964. He obtained his MS in Economic Geology from the Kabul Polytechnic Institute in 1986. He taught in the same institute for six years, and in 1996 obtained his Ph.D. in Earth Science from the University of Mumbai, India. His research interests are focused on the geodynamics and mineral resources of the Hindu Kush, the environmental and natural history of Afghanistan. His work has been published in both Afghan and international publications. In 2000, Saba published the book Gozar Az Tangna, which is his reflections on the socio-political situation in modern Afghanistan. In August 2010, he was appointed as Governor of Herat province. He later became the Minister of Mines and Industries from 2015 - 2016.  

[theneonmoonight]

Con él me tocó la lotería y yo seguía perdiendo el tiempo en naderias

[political-affairs]

Abdullah Abdullah

Abdullah Abdullah (Dari: عبدالله عبدالله, born 5 September 1960) is an Afghan politician and a doctor of medicine. He was an adviser and a close friend of Ahmad Shah Massoud, the Northern Alliance leader and commander known as the "Lion of Panjshir," who was assassinated in September 2001.[2] After the fall of the Taliban regime, Abdullah served as Minister of Foreign Affairs of Afghanistan from 2001 to 2005.

Abdullah ran as an independent candidate in the 2009 presidential election and placed second with 30.5% of the total votes. On November 1, 2009, Abdullah quit the runoff election that would have taken place six days later, on November 7, due to allegations of electoral fraud. In 2010, he created the Coalition for Change and Hope, which is one of the leading democratic opposition movements in Afghanistan.[3][4] In 2011, the coalition was transformed into the National Coalition of Afghanistan, which is supported by dozens of Afghan political parties and members of parliament challenging the government of Hamid Karzai.[5] He stood again as a candidate in the April 2014 presidential election. 

Early life 

Abdullah was born in the second district of Karte Parwan in Kabul, Afghanistan.[1] According to Abdullah, both of his parents were born in Kabul.[1] He is reportedly of mixed Pashtun and Tajik ethnicity. His father, Ghullam Muhayuddin Khan Zmaryalay, was aPashtun from Kandahar.[2][6][7] He has seven sisters and two brothers.[8]

Abdullah's father, Ghullam Muhayuddin Khan, was appointed as a senator by King Zahir Shah. Khan served in Kandahar and was a high-ranking government official who had risen through the ranks. Abdullah's early years were split between living in Panjshir and Kabul, where his father was serving as an administrator in the land survey, and subsequently the inspection section of the Prime Minister's office.

Until he became a government minister, Abdullah had only a first name; demands from Western newspaper editors for a family name led him to adopt the full name Abdullah Abdullah.[9]

Education and medical career 

Abdullah was a top student throughout his elementary and high school years. He graduated from Naderia High School in 1976 and went on to study ophthalmology at Kabul University’s Department of Medicine, where he graduated and received his medical diploma in 1983.[10]

After receiving his degree, Abdullah served as the resident ophthalmologist at Noor Eye Institute in Kabul until 1986. Later, Abdullah left the country due to the social and political unrest during the communist Democratic Republic of Afghanistan government. He worked, briefly, at the Syed Jamaluddin Afghani Eye Hospital for Afghan Refugees in Peshawar,Pakistan.

 Soviet war in Afghanistan 

In September 1985, Abdullah became the Head of the Health Department for the Panjshir Resistance Front, coordinating treatments and health care for the resistance fighters and the civilian population. Abdullah soon became a close associate and advisor to Commander Ahmad Shah Massoud in the Soviet war in Afghanistan.[11] Following the withdrawal of Soviet troops from Afghanistan, the Wall Street Journal referred to Massoud as "the Afghan who won the Cold War".[12]

Islamic State of Afghanistan 

After the fall of the communist Najibullah-regime in 1992, the Afghan political parties agreed on a peace and power-sharing agreement (the Peshawar Accords). The Peshawar Accords created the Islamic State of Afghanistan and appointed an interim government. According to Human Rights Watch:

"The sovereignty of Afghanistan was vested formally in the Islamic State of Afghanistan, an entity created in April 1992, after the fall of the Soviet-backed Najibullah government. [...] With the exception of Gulbuddin Hekmatyar's Hezb-e Islami, all of the parties [...] were ostensibly unified under this government in April 1992. [...] Hekmatyar's Hezb-e Islami, for its part, refused to recognize the government for most of the period discussed in this report and launched attacks against government forces and Kabul generally. [...] Shells and rockets fell everywhere. Meanwhile, Hezb-e-Wahdat Islami which was one of the most critical powers also stood against the central government for committing systematic injustice to Hazara community. The main reason for the collapse of the Mujaheedin government was not in fact the rocket shells of Hekmatiyar but rather the marginalization of an entire community, the Hazaras. Certainly, if Hazaras were not ignored and given their due rights in power sharing, neither the Taliban nor any other force could have easily overthrown the government. "[13]

Gulbuddin Hekmatyar received operational, financial and military support from Pakistan.[14] Afghanistan expert Amin Saikal concludes in Modern Afghanistan: A History of Struggle and Survival:

"Pakistan was keen to gear up for a breakthrough in Central Asia. [...] Islamabad could not possibly expect the new Islamic government leaders [...] to subordinate their own nationalist objectives in order to help Pakistan realize its regional ambitions. [...] Had it not been for the ISI's logistic support and supply of a large number of rockets, Hekmatyar's forces would not have been able to target and destroy half of Kabul."[15]

Gulbuddin Hekmatyar was defeated militarily in Kabul in late 1994 by then Minister of Defense, Ahmad Shah Massoud's forces. Abdullah worked as an advisor for Massoud. In 1995 Abdullah became the Spokesperson for the Islamic State of Afghanistan.

Taliban Emirate versus United Front 

On September 27, 1996, the Taliban seized power in Kabul with military support by Pakistan and financial support by Saudi Arabia and established the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan.[16] Following the capture of Kabul by the Taliban, the United Islamic Front (Northern Alliance) was created under the leadership of Ahmad Shah Massoud. Dr. Abdullah became the United Front's Minister of Foreign Affairs. Islamic State of Afghanistan elements of the United Front, including the Defense Minister Ahmad Shah Massoud and the Foreign Minister Abdullah Abdullah, remained Afghanistan's internationally recognized government. The Taliban Emirate received partial diplomatic recognition from the international community (from Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and the United Arab Emirates).

In early 2001 Abdullah traveled with Ahmad Shah Massoud to Brussels where Massoud addressed the European Parliament asking the international community to providehumanitarian help to the people of Afghanistan.[17] Dr. Abdullah translated when Massoud stated that the Taliban and Al Qaeda had introduced "a very wrong perception of Islam" and that without the support of Pakistan and Bin Laden, the Taliban would not be able to sustain their military campaign for up to a year.[17] On this visit to Europe, Massoud also warned that his intelligence had gathered information about a large-scale attack on U.S. soil being imminent.[18]

[sesteando-blog]

Abriré una cuenta para guardar naderías.

[rflrflrflrfl]

Naderías

Estoy bien. Es solo ésta absurda incapacidad para olvidar, pero no es nada, es solo que cuando respiro me acuerdo... pero como dije, no es nada; he aprendido a contener la respiración desde mi yo inconsciente... y listo, asunto arreglado. Aunque, también al parpadear me acuerdo... pero, ¡Bah! Minucias, como ya dije: no es nada. Estoy bien.

[millonesdelibros-blog]

Muchas mujeres se pintan porque quieren agradarse a si mismas.

★ Naderias ★ ☆ Jose Ortiz Petricioli ☆