Dari is an ancient language, a dialect of Farsi spoken in Afghanistan. My Dari lessons have become a haven of blissful escapism where my thoughts and emotions are simplified to the minimal vocabulary I have learned so far. There is no ability to complain about work, no ability to say you miss home, no ability to dwell on far away love.

In my Dari oasis I am always “bseaar khob astum, tashakoor” .Very good thanks.

 In my Dari oasis, “yesterday I drank tea and ate a delicious pomegranate in the garden” and “tomorrow I will go to the big park with my friends”.

In my Dari oasis, “the pink flowers are  next to the green tree”

Oh, if only life was as simple as it is in my Dari oasis. 

Today my teacher arrived wearing a traditional Afghan scarf draped around his neck and over his chest which was unusual for him as he usually preferred to dress in his dapper blue jeans and blazers. It was pleasant to watch the fabric elegantly fold and move with each new word he tried to transfer to my wandering mind. For a moment I wished I was wrapped in the scarf, tightly like a baby, protected from the world outside the gates of my compound. 

I eventually figured out how to tell him “shawletan magbulast” . Your shawl is beautiful. He replied, to my shear joy, with the delightful Dari idiom “bikhatarike cheshman etan magbulast” 

Because your eyes are beautiful.