It's 3:00 in the morning. I scroll through my Instagram feed in the dark, my face washed with the screen's white. A video from the Kabul airport. Men of my age are clinging on to the tires of a US military plane, hoping to survive through the freezing temperature that awaits them above. An anxious crowd follows the plane as it begins taxing. Some cheer while some scream, and some break down. I double-tap. A red heart pops on the screen. I am not sure what it means. Did I express my love for those poor souls, or did I love the news agency for ensuring the news reaches me, or did I just become a sadist psychopath who genuinely enjoyed watching those people make choices for an eventual death? I will never know. Instagram doesn't allow you the time to reflect.
Another post is already up there on my screen. It's the picture of a young boy holding a football close to his heart- his hair neatly done, his red jersey looking relatively new, and his eyes brimming with dreams.
I read the captions. Zakir Anwari- seventeen years old Afghan footballer. He's one of them who had climbed the plane's tires to meet with the eventual death. There's another file attached. I swipe right. It's the video of the aircraft taking off while tiny dots come crashing down. One of those dots is Zakir. At 17, due to my unabating privilege, I got to fly for the first time. I was scared to death when the flight took off even though I was seated on a soft chair, had safety belts around my waist, an oxygen mask above my head, and a parachute under my seat. At 17, all that Zakir had was a slippery base to hold on to while a gust of wind blinded him. When I was scared, my mother was there beside me to reassure me how safe the aircraft was. When Zakir was frightened, he was flying down alone, knowing how the end would be. It reminds me of the 'Falling Man' from the 9/11 disaster. His situation was-
Another video pops up. Instagram doesn't care about what I feel about the 'Falling Man.' Moreover, there was no time to double-tap.
Now on the screen are a bunch of Taliban men having a gala time in an abandoned gym. One keeps away his gun and tries bench press. I smile at the irony.
But what about Zakir? What about the remaining dots that crashed down? What about the couple I donated money to an hour ago for their child's surgery?
On the stereo, The Velvet Underground is weaving their magic- "Linger on your pale blue eyes..."
I am not sure anymore what lingering feels like. I want to linger on Zakir, on the 'Falling Man,' on the couple. Maybe these 500 words are as close as it can get to lingering these days. Or, maybe not.
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