Stamped
By Nassim Ibrahimi, translated to English by Rustam Seerat
The stale air of the metro station clung to me as I stumbled out, legs like lead weights. A few paces behind my friend, I longed to collapse. A booming voice shattered the silence. “Look at the athlete here!” boomed a man with a sun-bleached beard, his laughter mocking. He mimicked athletes with clumsy gestures. To escape his taunts, I lied. “Boxer,” I mumbled, throwing a few punches before hurrying on.
A rough hand clamped on my shoulder. “Walking away with your head down, huh? Flaunting your athleticism?” The man’s voice turned harsh. Before I could reply, a badge flashed — “City Police.” Fear prickled my skin, my heart pounding in my chest. I fumbled for my passport, money spilling out. “Show-off Afghani,” he spat, “athletic and wealthy!” Ignoring my pleas and my friend’s desperate bargaining, he snatched my passport.
We walked in silence to a darkened alley. “Eid is coming, unlucky Afghani,” he sneered. “You’ll be spending it in a camp, waiting for deportation.” My resourceful friend interjected, “Sir, a holiday gift for us all.” The man’s eyes narrowed. “What’s Eid to you?” He shoved us forward. “Walk straight!”
My friend, unfazed, persisted. “Sir Colonel, let us celebrate our Eid with our family! We’re just guests here, hoping for a few more days.”…
