My kitchen is the perfect size. It is square shaped. My kitchen and living room have an open spaced concept. I can sit on the couch and look at my kitchen stove clock to know what time it is. To the left of the kitchen is my white fridge then counter and cabinet space until you make a hard right to reach the stove with a microwave at the top. The counter space continues until you make right and reach the sink which has a garden window that is pushed out. Finally, more counter space continues until we make our last right turn, and reach the kitchen bar stool area. Bar stools are placed outside of the squareness of the kitchen and then you reach the entryway. A perfect square. Originally, I had blue cabinets but when I moved in, I painted them white which really helps the unit feel spacious. I have a blue square rug on the floor. The rug is a 6 by 6 size just to help with the visuals of the space.

I just got home from work and I was hungry for some homemade lunch. I wanted to stop by Trader Joe’s but I decided I needed to utilize what’s in the kitchen. There is no need for me to stop at Trader Joe’s every three days. Truly, an addiction.

I opened up the fridge, I took out my Trader Joe’s bone broth chicken soup, cilantro, bell pepper, some fresh tomato’s from the farmers market, fresh ginger, two eggs and two slices of my multi-grain gluten free Trader Joe’s sliced bread. As you can infer, I am a huge Trader Joe’s fan. I opened up the freezer to grab my Trader Joe’s frozen Spanish rice. I had half the bag on Saturday’s and I was ready to indulge on the next half of the rice.

I turned on three different stove tops fires. I put a dash of olive oil in one pan for eggs, I put the frozen rice in another to have it heat up and I poured some chicken brother into the soup pan..or what is that pan called? I cracked two eggs and mixed them, I added bell pepper, cilantro and three different types of seasoning and poured the mixture into my egg frying pan with the olive oil nice and hot. I kept the temperature low. For soup, I added some fresh ginger ( I am feeling a little sick so I thought this might help), cilantro ( God’s gift ), and tomato sauce into the bone broth and let it simmer. While everything simmered, I diced up the fresh tomatoes, and grabbed my left over half eaten avocado and sliced it up.

I scooped the rice into a bowl, folded the eggs into an omelette ( I was so proud of myself because it didn’t break), and used a spatula to put the egg over the rice. I added the avocado and fresh tomatoes with a bit of salt and pepper. Originally I was just going to drink the soup but a burst of inspiration caught me. I gently poured the broth into the bowl so the rice would have a curry type of texture. It wasn’t much broth so it worked out. Wa-La! Lunch was ready. I almost forgot the bread though! Now lunch is ready!

I set my plate down by the couch. I went back to the kitchen to clean up my mess and make sure all the stoves were off. I am always afraid of leaving them on which I have done in the past.

I sat down looking at my plate. I thanked God. I still thank God. As I was biting the fresh tomatoes, I thought “God, how did you even imagine this fruit? Like how did you think of this?” It’s amazing ( If you have seen Ginny and Georgia, I am saying this in my Georgia southern accent).

How lucky am I? I have my own kitchen that I can make a mess in. While I was preparing lunch, my brain travelled back to one hour ago when my Afghan ESL student, Mursal, was in tears because of how much her family is suffering in Afghanistan. The topic came up when Hannah, my Ukrainian student, mentioned that right now the two worst things to be is a boy in Ukraine or a girl in Afghanistan. I told Hannah that I feel like I’d be a fraud and if I sat here and told you that I knew what the Afghan woman was going through. I was born and raised in Los Angeles. How can I speak about the Afghan experience? All I can really speak about is sharing the stories of the women in my lineage who came before me and had to experience living in Afghanistan. My direct connection who would be my mother and she has nothing positive to say.

Mursal chimed in. We are a Zoom class so I couldn’t see her because her camera was off. She had explained earlier that her camera was off because she was holding her little son who is her fourth child. I am one year older than Mursal but her life experiences have been so different.

Mursal explained that last night she spoke to her little sister in Afghanistan, who tried to fail her sixth grade exam so she can keeping going to school. Girls stopped school after sixth grade and now the new order is that they must marry by the age of 13. Girls were not allowed to walk outside without a male chaperone. Mursal was in tears and kept going as the entire class listened and showed facial reactions of sadness and despair.

Mursal said when she was attending college, the taliban bombed her college while her classmates and her were in class. She said all her classmates died except the five that escaped which included her.

“I will never forget that Ms. M. The Afghan daughters and how they were killed by the bombs.

My eyes are filled with tears. So is every else’s. Mursal’s voice cracks.

She finishes her statement that she wishes that she wasn’t Afghan and she hates her country but she can’t stop thinking about it either. It haunts her because her parents, and her family members are still there with no electricity and no consistent income and scarce amount of food with no way out.

“This is very hard for me. I am sorry Ms. M.” says Mursal.

She said sorry to me because she took time out of our class to tell us where her heart was and all I wished I could do was give her hug.

I was speechless with sadness, grief and helplessness.

Mursal, I should be sorry. I am sorry that I can’t help. I am ashamed.

If a few things in my history would’ve been different in my life then my life would look completely different. If my mother didn’t convince my father to get out of Afghanistan back in the 80s, then I might’ve still been there probably dead. I would not have my square kitchen with my square blue rug, or be able to experience Trader Joe’s every three days.

I wish I didn’t feel so much shame when I am asked about my religion and my heritage. I am a proud Muslim but the questions and the judgement makes me want to just keep it a secret. Do you know how many times I have told “You are so lucky that you are here in American.” My name gives me away. Why do I immediately feel like I have to protect my faith? I know my faith is amazing but non-believers like the tailban ruin it. Do you know how many times I have said this in my life already? It is exhausting.

I am thinking of you, Mursal as I sit on my red couch with my air purifier on. I am ashamed. In front of me, I have a cup of iced coffee, a cup of hot, chamomile tea, and a glass of water. I am sorry, Mursal.

So this post is dedicated to Mursal and all the girls in Afghanistan. All the girls who were killed and all the girls who feel hopeless. To all the little girls who tried to fail their sixth grade exams so they can continue attending school.

I thank God for this life that I have. I thank God for my freedom to receive an education and to be my own person without a male chaperone.

I write you this journal entry with a heavy heart. Pray for Mursal. Pray for the girls.

If you are reading this and if you have any power, say something.

Xoxo

Frsh