In the Remembrance of Honoured Commander of Motherland

Reza Moradi Ghiasabadi

Translated by:

Afghan Solidarity

The following writings are taken from the speech which me, the writer, had given in the year 1380, which I had no access to, and now, with the grace of a kind friend, I have got it and is thus published in here. These words and discourses have also been published at official website of Ahmad Shah Massoud.

Massoud is gone as well. That courageous lion of Panjsher, that champion of the motherland of Rustam...that great free-born commander of the country....that great man of sacred land of Aryana.

Massoud is gone as well. That deep and bright and kind eyes...that rough and stormy forehead, those hopeful, inspiring and promising smiles, those firm and solid steps, those open and determined hands, those agreeable and lovely words/sayings, those deep and hard thoughts and those high hopes and desires.

How hard it is talking and writing about Massoud; about that hard and corpulent rock, about that limpid, melodious stream, about that colourful, perfumed flower, about that vast, extensive and wide blue sky.

Oh Massoud! You were not a small hope. You were the hopes and cravings of a nation.

Oh Massoud! Tell me how shall I tell that little boy who comes back to his mother and his ill sister after a very harsh, heavy work everyday and says: "one day Massoud shall come and shall take us back to Gulbahar, to our home", that Massoud has gone, he is no more there? How shall I tell that little boy that you have lost your only hope in this massive world, this world full of wealth and awashed with power? How shall I say that your hope have become the victim of fanaticism, bigotry and intolerance and ignorance of "Siyaah pooshaan"?

Oh Massoud! The sacred and holly nation of Aryana will rise up and will wake up and will blossom, from midst of the powerful seeds that you have sprinkled, sowed and scattered.

All mountains of HinduKush will boast and will take pride for you; for you the lion who never left its slopes and it's extends for the tune of any other land. All the great mountain ranges and all the valleys of Iran-Zamin, great Iran, will envy the Panjsher Valley that has your sleeping figure in its embrace and bosom. Mountains of Panjsher are taking pride that you have come from their slopes. Mothers of Kabulistan, like Tahmina Kabuli, will boast for nurturing another Rustam.

Oh Massoud! The Panjsher River will deliver the delightful tunes of ancient Khorassan's hills and mountains to the edge and side of your resting-place, to the edges of that tree you said was your "forbearer’s memorial and monument".The wind and elation of Badakhshan's every early morning will bring the delightful scents of desert roses and songs of Pamir's birds, the roof of Iran, to you as souvenirs, the sweet-singing birds and birds with tragic anthems.

Massoud! I recognize that the peaks of ancient Alburz and mountain ranges of Hukar, will envy the peaks of your stature and your ideals and aims; for your steadfastness and resistance and firm purpose all mountain ranges, all refractory and unruly peaks, will be envious. You will not see the freedom of the nation, the country; the same way that Kawa Ahungar and Arash Kamaangeer did not see!

Oh country! Where is that high flying falcon of “Apureseen”? Where is that assistant providing "Si Murgh" of Iran? Where is that lion of forgotten, sad valleys? Where is that fast deer of honoured, proud mountain ridges of Hindukush? Where is that reminder of tunes and anthems? Where is that man who poured and dedicated all his youth underneath your desires, for your honour and greatness?

Where is the man whose heart only beat and palpitated for love of your freedom and who used to say: "We fight for freedom. For me living under the umbrella of slavery is the worst kind of living. If our freedom is taken away from us, if our national pride is broken, life for us will not have the slightest of pleasure and worth."

Massoud! What if you had told everyone what they did to you? We know the enemies. We wish you had told what the "friends" did to you. Countrymen, compatriots, neighbours, what they do to you and those who had extended the hands of unity and friendship? Regret and pity that when you were alive you spoke only in riddles and mystery.

Panjsher was never captured! Since you were there! Wherever you were, there were no enemy. Panjsher was not captured and stayed unconquerable. Our nation shall remain unconquerable, with manly freedom-loving seeds that you spread in its arable land….the seeds that you had taken from the hands of Rustam and Kawa and Aarash. And this is why even your sworn enemy gave you the title of "Lion of Panjsher".

Where is that poet to lament Massoud in a dirge? Where is the poet to lament the lonely days of his time in small tents in mountains of the motherland? The moments drowned in thoughts of far and long, remedying and curing the sufferings, failures, calamities and hardships of people whose eyes were awaiting the arrival of hope. Moments in which he would gave his son council and advice: "Lest you leave and loose your country, chastity and principle for the refuge of other country"…...the moments in lap of his small, mobile library, or seeking asylum in sad, doleful dusk of Takharistan's sun to warm and tragic voice of Ahmad Zahir, the biggest vocalist of Iranian lands. Oh, where is the poet to lament Massoud and the mournful verses and weeping of many Tahmina's of Kabulistan, the mothers of champions of Iran?

Why can't you people hear the mornings and lamentations of Tahmina of Kabul? These repeated frequent groaning of history from mothers of Iran, these sorrows and grieves of motherlands’ children, these tranquil and hidden cries of the girls, these people who unknowingly consider there hopes diminished and destroyed. Didn't you notice that bringing Massoud down was at the hand of "Siyaa darafshaan" [terrorist running dog Pashton Talibs and there Arab and Paki sugar daddies], not at the hands of "Surkh darafshaan".

Rest, oh honoured, great commander! Sleep well, for you never were able to sleep comfortably and peacefully. Rest peacefully, for in the days of our ignorance, all your age and youth was spent in slopes of mountains, and your sleep and rest on the bed of rocks. Rest and allow your soul to be in the presence of peace and tranquillity.

Sleep, the great commander of motherland, sleep! Sleep peacefully and comfortably in the bosom and embrace of the motherland, the embrace of the country which, with the bless and proclamation of our glorious ancestors souls and with the command of ancient Iran's custom, formality and rule, always and consistently been the nurturer and nourisher of great sons like you, and will be.