Congratulations from “Sangar” to dear readers of the site who have been with us for two years already! Thank you!
Written by Mohammad Osman Najib, retired Afghan Army General
Although we are in a prison called Afghanistan and we have no spring, we will not leave our path without a traveler.
May your spring be happy!
In the last days of winter, a cold tablecloth and a bloody table of the winter are sent to the warehouses of history, which has absorbed hundreds of such years and all that remains of them is their names.
We greet you in honor of the arrival of the New Year's army, defeating the last army of the cold winter and the end of days of this year.
Spring is a time of greenery that welcomes a caravan of purple and bright flowers and tulips. Its heart is a city that receives hundreds of thousands of guests. New Year, especially, is a time of splendor, glory, and the singing of the fragrances of the new rain of thoughts and the joyful manifestation of the new joys of the rainbow from the innumerable bounty of God's love, which is the master of spring.
And you and I, and Mother Motherland, are each other’s guests and hosts, like spring and spring’s guests.
May the arrival of spring be pleasant to each of you. May the glorious steps of the colorful spring flowers be pleasant, touching, and high, and may the steps of spring and its beauty be heralded by the return of peace and tranquility to the place of destruction, the disasters of war and strife.
Besides the fight for freedom. Let every house be filled with many Arashis, every bow owner be Rustam, every arrow be the throwing shoulder of Sohrab Samangani, every oven be the crushing blow of Kava. Let a rebellious and brave girl hide in every forest to shoot the arrow of freedom from slavery.
Next spring, whoever remains alive and breathes the air of independence when reading this letter, let him congratulate everyone on their freedom if by that time I will not be alive. May he embrace the spring of freedom instead of me and pray for me. Let him mention us in his prayers.
Our Navruz holidays have a name, but no sound. It has seasons, but it has no spirit and no glory. It has roads, but no country; It has greenery, but no gardens. It has a samanak, but no cooks...
Shall we sing a sad lullaby or play the flute?
I don't know...
Happy New Year to all of you! Happy Nowruz!