Afghan Boy
by Khalid Khan, Karachi, Pakistan
When I was a boy
in the refugee camp
my mother was told
not to shriek,
in spite of pain,
and blood dripping
down the cot
to the muddy floor.
Because I was a boy,
they fired in the air
in jubilation
and thanked Allah
in prayer
for the gift
of another solder
to fight in the future.
Later, they decided
not to sent me
to a school,
where I might learn
to read and write
and refuse to fight
for my people
and their religion.
If I survived
the rigours of life,
I would get my gun,
when I can hold one
and join the ranks
of those who are
willing to die
for their salvation.
