Fawad Mohammadi, star of the short film Buzkashi Boys, boards a plane bound for Los Angeles and the Academy Awards. Co-star Jawanmard Paiz is in the background. (Photo: US Embassy Kabul)

As I surf my Facebook newsfeed, a photo catches my attention. Two Afghan boys smile broadly as they board a Turkish airplane. The boys are Fawad Mohammadi and Jawanmard Paiz, the lead actors in “Buzkashi Boys,” an Oscar-nominated short film about friends who dream of becoming horseback riders in Afghanistan’s fierce version of polo. These two young actors are traveling from the dusty streets of Kabul to the red carpet at the 2013 Academy Awards in Hollywood.

This journey is especially auspicious for Fawad, a 14-year-old who sells maps to foreigners on the streets of Kabul, and was chosen for the role because director Sam French, who lived in Afghanistan, would bump into him on the street (French described him as “the kindest and most warm-hearted street-kid”). The youngest of seven siblings, but also a breadwinner for the family, Fawad is about to make his Oscar debut beside prominent movie stars such as Daniel Day-Lewis, Bradley Cooper, and Jennifer Lawrence.

Fawad Mohammadi and Jawanmard Paiz filming a scene for Buzkashi Boys in Kabul (Photo: AP)

However, this picture soon kindles other thoughts in my mind. I ponder over the matters of destiny and coincidences; what would have happened if director Sam French had not met Fawad on the streets of Kabul? Was it fate or mere coincidence that took Fawad to the red carpet?

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The unique world of college. Is it a four year break from the real world or a preparation to join adult society? Does it matter? (Creative Commons photo by Flickr user Barbara – Jorbasa)

“The situation in the Middle East is getting even more complicated. Hamas just doesn’t want to sit down at the negotiation table. They are terrorists. They should stop killing Israeli civilians.”

“But you can’t blame one side for all the atrocities that are happening. The Israeli government also should stop bombing Gaza strip and killing all innocent children, women, and men. Besides, for many Palestinians Hamas is a freedom fighter.”

“Well, yeah, but what do you say when Hamas uses school children as shields. Obviously many children will be killed.”

“But don’t you think …”

And so goes a typical conversation with my friends at my university. Here we are, a group of college kids, analyzing the situation in the Middle East, appointing the next U.S. President, and discovering the best solutions for global issues with as much seriousness as if we were making the policies ourselves, and as much authority as if we were Ban Ki Moon himself – our knowledge drawn from that one political science or history class we took last semester.

And then, in the next breath, our conversations subconsciously move to classes, drugs or sex.

That’s the thing about our crazy college life. It’s supposed to be preparing us for our futures, for living in the real world, but so much of it approaches the surreal instead. Are we approaching our education correctly by allowing ourselves to fall down a metaphorical rabbit hole? When I try to think about the answer, my brain dissolves into a muddy mess filled with more questions than answers.

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Two weeks ago, I was standing among a throng of students in Hotung Café at Tufts University—a crowd burning in anticipation to learn the outcome of the presidential election.

I had left my quiet dorm room just ten minutes before with a friend of mine, after finishing my assignments, to witness this historic moment.

The area was packed; I could only cram into the room by jostling and shoving other students aside. The predictions for most of the eastern and southern states had already been announced; Governor Romney had a marginal lead over President Obama. After a while, the emcee announced that CNN’s prediction for Ohio, one of the key swing states, was out. Breaths were held, dead silence prevailed, and all eyes were fixed on the two TV screens.

***

In my mind I was transported back to the Afghan presidential elections in 2009.

The number of candidates was 22 times the number running in the American elections – 44 candidates – yet the thrill of the election was barely noticeable. In fact, I don’t even recall following the news about it. No matter how many candidates there were to choose from, there was little faith that any of them could or would bring much change.

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“Hey, who are you?” The straightforward question came to me in my first day as a high school student in America.

I was about to begin the biography-like chronicle of my life, as I would when I was back in Afghanistan, when it hit me. Who was I, indeed?

What do Americans think of when they see this? Probably not me.

It was then that I truly realized I no longer lived in Afghanistan, where I was Abuzar Royesh, a moderately well-known student in one of the best high schools in Kabul. At that moment all the adjectives I would normally use to describe myself felt hollow and empty. Who cared what my name was or how popular I was back in Afghanistan?

I realized that the farther I got from Afghanistan, the more pieces of my identity fell away. Here in the U.S. I no longer was a Hazara, a tag that distinguished me from the people of other ethnicities, a Ghaznichi (from Ghazni Province), as the inhabitants of other provinces would identify me. My most important piece of identity was not even “Abuzar Royesh,” the birth name my parents chose to for me.

Here in the U.S. I was first and foremost an Afghan: a title that conjured up Taliban and al Qaeda, war, killings, and explosions.

Cough. I cleared my throat, “I am Abuzar. I am an exchange student from Afghanistan…” Before I finished my sentence I could already see the astonishment in his eyes.

“Wow! So cool. How did you make it here?”

I started to explain my story. But just as I began the entire monologue I had memorized in response to this question, he spurted out the next one.

“What is life like in Afghanistan?”

I now attempted to answer this question. Again, before I could get my words out, further questions started showering me incessantly. I couldn’t understand his thirst for interrogating me about Afghanistan. Having lived all of my life in Afghanistan and Pakistan, to me Afghanistan was merely a country; a homeland, just like all others. I felt as ordinary in my country as any kid from the U.S. or France would feel in theirs.

Would you imagine that this is Afghanistan? It is. (Photo: Reuters)

But seemingly this wasn’t what he thought of my country. As I would learn later on, to him and many other Americans, Afghanistan was just a remote land where thousands of American soldiers sacrificed their lives in a doomed attempt to bring democracy and stability, and where billions of American dollars had vanished. They were apparently startled to meet someone actually from there; someone who had a different story from what they knew.
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