I look forward to reading more of your work. :)

She left behind a six-month-old son. Her name is Nadia Anjuman. She was born in Afghanistan.

In “Light Blue Memories,” written weeks after the fall of the Taliban in 2001, Anjuman addresses the victims of politically enforced silence and asks what is lost when one’s voice is lost. The poem begins with an address to the nameless citizens of her country—the women—and goes on to ask who has “plundered” the riches of their inner lives:

Light Blue Memories

O exiles of the mountain of oblivion!
O the jewels of your names, slumbering in the mire of silence
O your obliterated memories, your light blue memories
In the silty mind of a wave in the sea of forgetting
Where is the clear, flowing stream of your thoughts?
Which thieving hand plundered the pure golden statue of your dreams?
In this storm which gives birth to oppression
Where has your ship, your serene silver mooncraft gone?
After this bitter cold which gives birth to death –
If the sea should fall calm
If the cloud should release the heart's knotted sorrows
If the maiden of moonlight should bring love, offer a smile
If the mountain should soften its heart, adorn itself with green,
become fruitful –
Will one of your names, above the peaks,
become bright as the sun?
Will the rise of your memories
Your light blue memories
In the eyes of fishes weary of floodwaters and
fearful of the rain of oppression
become a reflection of hope?
O, exiles of the mountain of oblivion!

In “A Voiceless Cry,” also written in 2001, Anjuman uses more straightforward language to express her compassion for the poorest women of her country, who appear almost like specters. The poem begins and ends with a metaphor, hopeful in its promise of life in the desert—“The sound of green footsteps is the rain.” It continues with a haunting description of the figures:

A Voiceless Cry

The sound of green footsteps is the rain
They're coming in from the road, now
Thirsty souls and dusty skirts brought from the desert
Their breath burning, mirage-mingled
Mouths dry and caked with dust
They're coming in from the road, now
Tormented-bodied, girls brought up on pain
Joy departed from their faces
Hearts old and lined with cracks
No smile appears on the bleak oceans of their lips
Not a tear springs from the dry riverbeds of their eyes
O God!
Might I not know if their voiceless cries reach the clouds,
the vaulted heavens?
The sound of green footsteps is the rain.

_{Tolerating prostitution is tolerating abuse and torture of women and children.}