Vires acquirit eundo

She Gathers Strength As She Goes

Vires acquirit eundo

I was born in Kabul, Afghanistan.

The first memory I have of Afghanistan is seeing a woman being killed by a Taliban—because her ankles were showing underneath her burka.

It was a cold, sunny day in Kabul.

After weeks, we finally could go outside.

I was so happy that I could go with my aunt.

We walked toward the market.

At every corner in the street, there were Taliban—turbans on their heads, Kalashnikovs in their hands—shouting at each other and at the men and women walking by.

I could not recognize the words. It was Pashto.

But I didn’t need to know the language to feel the fear.

Then I heard a woman scream. Men yelling.

I didn’t know what they were saying.

I only knew something terrible was happening.

My aunt gripped my hand tighter.

She said, “Do not show them you’re scared.

They can smell it.” And I froze. I tried not to show anything.

Not with my face. Not with my eyes. I held my breath and made myself small.

We walked further, and we saw her.

She was lying on the ground.

She was wearing a burka—a chaderi—an outer garment that fully covers the body and the face.

There are only small holes around the eyes, just enough for the woman to see a little.

You couldn’t see her eyes.

Her ankles were showing. That was enough. They were hitting her. She was screaming. And nobody moved.

Everybody was scared. Frozen. I stared at myself from above—disassociating before I even knew the word.

I saw myself standing there, tiny feet in place.

There is a stabbing pain in my left arm.

I want to cry. I want to scream. But I don’t. I can’t.

My throat closes. The silence is so heavy, it presses itself into my chest. My voice is gone. Just like hers.

The Taliban yell something at the crowd. No one answers. They yell again. Still, no one moves. The third time, they fire into the sky with the Kalashnikov.

My aunt pulls my hand, and we walk quickly back home. At home, she says nothing. Not to me. Not to my parents.

Not to my grandparents. And I say nothing. My throat is still tight. Like the scream got stuck.

Like it stayed inside me, with her. This scene I carry in my body. It affects my health.

My sleep. And there is a ganglion in my left wrist.

Even after surgery, it comes back.

In 2018, I meet a regression therapist.

We go back to that scene. I feel the pain in my body.

The guilt of not being able to help her. And I speak to her spirit.

You are not forgotten. I saw you. I remember you. I will tell your story.

Your death will not be in vain. And now—go. Go in peace.

You do not need to live in my body anymore.

A week later, the ganglion disappears. My therapist is stunned.

She has never seen that before. This was the first time I realized healing wasn’t something I could intellectualize. It had to move through my body like a storm.

It had to speak through my flesh when my mouth forgot how. Because some of us are born into war— and still find the courage to come home to ourselves.

Et tamen surrexi  | And yet I rose

And when we heal, we gather strength.