Chapter 1: The Takeover

A Chapter by ThatSigmaGuy

How it all began...

"And Spain has beat Afghanistan 23-2! Spain has tooken over the Persian gulf!" Says the commentator. The crowd of Afghani's watching the screen yell at disappointment. We've just been annexed. the screen flickers to the next news headline, the atmosphere in the small café where the Afghani people have gathered becomes heavy with tension and despair. The once-proud nation now faces an uncertain future under Spanish rule. I stand up from my seat, going to walk home.

"Hey Zakir, where are you going?" My friend asks, his spiky blonde hair is shining in the light. His blue eyes sparkle as well.

"I'm going home, my family needs me." I respond.

"Oh, okay." He gets up and picks up his backpack, struggling because of the weight. "Are you at least gonna come to school tomorrow?" He inquires.

"What's the point? All the lessons are gonna be about Spain anyways." I say as I close the door. Najm Looks worried for me, his expression showing it greatly.

"Well, I guess it's what it is..." He whispers.

- As I walk through the familiar streets of my hometown, Kabul, I can't help but notice the subtle changes already taking place. Spanish flags now flutter alongside the Afghan ones, and I spot a few people wearing traditional Spanish clothing, trying to assimilate into our culture. I shake my head, feeling a sense of sadness and loss for our national identity.
  
  "It's only been 30 minutes, how are Spanish pigs already here?" I whisper. After a while,
  
  I Reach my family's small, modest home, I'm greeted by the familiar scent of my mother's cooking. She looks up from the stove, her eyes filled with concern. "Zakir, my love, what's happening? Why do you look so troubled?" she asks, her voice filled with worry.
  
  I sigh, knowing that I can't keep the truth from her any longer. "Mother, you know how Spain won the match today?" I begin, hesitating for a moment. "Well, they've taken over our country, too." The words hang heavy in the air, and I can see the shock and despair wash over her face.
  
  "Oh, my dear child," she whispers, tears welling up in her eyes. "We must stay strong and hope for the best. This, too, shall pass." She tries to offer me a reassuring smile, but I can see the fear in her eyes. We both know that our lives are about to change drastically, and the future is uncertain. "Allah Subhanahu wa ta'ala will punish them, I'm sure." She tries to reassure me, but it doesn't work.
  
  "Basheer, It's or'or." My younger sister yells. Her name is Zargul, which means shining golden flower in Farsi. She's gonna turn 3 years old in May, 3 months from now. Whenever I see her, it makes me smile. She's the only one to make me do so. She runs around me, her brownish hair waving around as she moves. There's no way I can tell her. Right? Basheer soon arrives too, running into me for a hug. He squeezes me tight before finally speaking.
  
  "Zakir, can you buy me baba some water, he's only growing sicker and sicker." Basheer says, looking extremely worried. I grab his hand, responding to him.
  
  "Okay, after i'm done with work. I'll buy you a new toy as well." I grab my work jacket before kissing both Basheer and Zargul.
  
  As I walk towards my workplace, a small shop where I help my uncle sell local handicrafts and spices, I notice that the streets are becoming more crowded with Spanish soldiers and officials. They're talking animatedly, their voices echoing through the once-familiar streets of Kabul. I can't help but feel a sense of resentment and anger towards them, knowing that they're here to enforce their rule over our land.
  
  Upon arriving at the shop, my uncle, Ahmad, looks up from a stack of papers, his face etched with worry. "Zakir, my boy, these new rules are getting worse by the day," he says, his voice low and tense. "I fear for our livelihood, and more importantly, our culture."
  
  I nod, understanding the gravity of the situation. "I know, uncle. But we must stay strong and continue to fight for our identity. We can't let them take everything away from us." I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
  
  Together, we start our day, carefully wrapping the intricate handicrafts in brown paper, tying them with string, and labeling them with prices. Each piece represents a piece of our heritage, a symbol of our resilience and our history. As we work, I can't help but think about how our lives are about to change, and how we must adapt to these new circumstances.
  
  Outside, the bustling market is filled with a mix of Afghan and Spanish voices, the air thick with tension. I glance out occasionally, observing the interactions between the locals and the foreign occupiers. Some are defiant, shouting slogans against the Spanish rule, while others are more cautious, keeping their heads down and hoping to avoid attention.
  
  As the day wears on, I can't shake the feeling of unease. ring, the bell goes off. My uncle immediatly looks to the door and greets the man.
  
  "Assalamualaikum, How is y-" It turns out, the man was a male Spanish soldier, and beside him, a female Aghani translator. My uncle looks at her, incredibly mad. Glaring at her. The soldier says something in Spanish, which we don't understand. The translator responds,
  
  "We're here to tell you to sell Spanish items instead of you're cultural items." She giggles.
  
  "Why... Why would you betray Afghanistan!" I yell at her, no longer able to keep my cool.
  
  The soldier and the translator exchange a glance, surprise flashing across their faces at my outburst. The soldier steps forward, his expression stern but calm. "Young man, we are simply following orders. This is a new era, and we must adapt to the changes in order to prosper. We are offering you a chance to be part of a larger market, to sell your goods to more people." The woman says.
  
  I scoff, crossing my arms defiantly. "At the cost of our culture and our identity? I don't think so." I retort, standing tall despite the fear that's knotting my stomach.
  
  My uncle, sensing the escalating tension, places a hand on my shoulder, a silent plea for me to calm down. He turns to the soldier and the translator, his voice more measured now. "We understand your position, but we cannot betray our people and our history. These handicrafts and spices are a part of who we are, and we cannot abandon them."
  
  The translator looks at my uncle, considering his words. After a moment, she nods. "I understand your position, Ahmad. But know that we are watching, and if you continue to defy our orders, there will be consequences." With that, they leave the shop, their footsteps echoing ominously on the cobblestone streets.
  
  As the door closes behind them, my uncle turns to me, his eyes filled with concern. "We must be careful, Zakir. We cannot let them take away our identity. But we must also be smart and protect ourselves."
  
  I nod, understanding the gravity of the situation. We may have stood up to them this time, but the consequences of our defiance could be dire. As we continue to work, I can't help but wonder what the future holds for us and our beloved Afghanistan. One thing is for sure, though - we will not go down without a fight.