Dokhtar-e-Angrez

Daughter of English,
my grandmother jokes.
I am ashamed of myself,
but I wonder if she is proud
her granddaughter did something
she herself never could.

I read poetry in English
but my mother and grandmother
recite poetry in Pashto and Farsi
quietly in my ear
and I understand all of it
in my soul; suddenly
the looping scripts of my languages
become tight strings
around my heart, holding it in place

I have a desk in my room
but I prefer to sit on the floor when I study.
It’s the only time I feel as though I have no
t let my roots disintegrate after all.
wonkier handwriting, the crooked lines
pins-and-needles feet and a posture that will haunt me in my 60s
there’s a comfort in it.

I have an unused dining table in my living room but
I prefer to eat with my hands on the floor
three fingers and a thumb, while I look with a certain
kind of generational disdain at my fork.

No matter how little I feel as though I belong,
I will always sit on the floor.
My red persian rug has seen better days,
but I will always sit on the floor.

I am an Afghan and Pakistani girl.
My countries have far too many differences for me to fully belong to either,
but maybe my forefathers see me from wherever they are,
on my red Persian rug eating rice and meat
and maybe, just maybe, finally agree
that they did the same.

So I will continue to sit on the floor,
speak my broken tongues,
eat the tahdigi from the bottom of the pan,
and laugh at jokes I only half understand.

“Dokhtar-e-Angrez.”
Daughter of English,
my grandmother says with pride.

Hanniyah Ahmad Khan

The writer is an A-level student aspiring to become a professional writer.

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