She was the chest of Asia, her anthem said. The land of peace, land of the sword. She'd shine forever and ever, like the sun pressed against the blue sky. She was the heart of Asia. Her sons and daughters were brave and fought through war after war, they were proud. They held their flag up high and sang as the wind whipped it.

The Afghan sunshine pounds against her, through the head scarf. The girl fans herself with her right hand, placing her left on her knee. She's seated outside a small, locally owned store. Her dark hair is hidden underneath a red headscarf. Her eyes are wide and they shine a sea green. She looks no older than 13, she's a small girl. People often ask of her parents, she'll lie and say this and say that.

Truth be told, she has no idea where her parents were, who they were, or why she turned out the way she did.

She watches the people who pass by carefully. The women covered head to toe, their husbands walking beside them, and the children bouncing around, chattering about whatever popped into their minds. She wonders if she was ever like this. She doesn't think so, she never felt like a child, never in her life. Even less now. How could she?

She's bored.

The girl sloppily works her way up, dusting her hands off on her clothes. She sighs, walking slowly down the sandy street. People swish by quickly, occasionally knocking their elbows against her, not saying sorry. She doesn't mind, after everything she's been through lately, she wouldn't say a thing.

To her west, she sees Iran, probably the only person smaller than herself. She, too, is an Islamic republic. Her eyes shine like the Eastern sun that, everyday, rises on the horizon. Her hair is long, hanging around her elbows, and wavy, there's something about it that glitters when she takes off the headscarf. She's only seen Iran's hair once, in private, years and years ago. They haven't talked much since her '79 revolution. She's too busy, doing this, doing that. She understands. Iran has gone through so much, with the elections, the politics, the everything. She barely sleeps knowing her sunny eyed neighbor is in trouble, but she can't do a thing. Not when she too is sinking.

To her south and east, there is Pakistan. Standing as an Islamic republic, like herself and Iran, he's a very outspoken young man. His dark skin is wet with his sweat as he stumbles through life. He works hard, gets nothing in return. Not much in her eyes, but he claims that respect and knowing that his people are feed is enough. He walks and does odd jobs left and right for money. He doesn't even spend it on himself. He's such a humble soul, she knows. The dust he leaves behind as he walks is brighter than the galaxy. Everyone thinks he's evil. Evil right to the bone. Everyone thinks that of all three of them. They're, in the eyes of the Westerners, Islamic terrorists with AK-47's and bombs strapped to their chests, aiming at tall buildings full of innocents.

She understands. They all do.

The American troops stomp on her land, leaving behind footprints. She glares from the corner of her eye, picking up her pace. America, oh America. The trouble maker on the world stage. She hates him. She hates him with all of her strengthen, everything in her body. He tells her that he's doing good for her and her people, but she knows better. She remembers that look on his face. He was trying to look sincere, a few days after his President had announced that 30,000 more troops would touch her land. Her land, her beautiful land. She tries to shake the thoughts out of her head, as she turns the corner, she no longer wants to see those men. She feels violated. She grips onto her sleeve, closing her eyes.

"Why is this happening to me? Why? What did I do?" she feels her eyes sting, but she holds them back, biting her lip. She asks, wondering. No, she doesn't ask what she did as a Nation, but as a person. Why was she this? Why was she picked, among all of the other Afghans in the world?

America isn't like Russia or England. No, not one bit. After eight years, she figures out what they say is true. Americans never give in. He keeps dumping troops onto her land and she doesn't even know why anymore. After his President's speech, she asked him why. The light glared off of his glasses as he stares at the wall behind her. He looks at everything but her. He left without giving her an answer, saying goodbye and whispering to her.

"I'm sorry. You know I am." He had leaned down to her level. "Please, don't be like this – "

"Like what?" She puts her hands on his shoulders, digging dulled nails into his bomber jacket. "You don't understand, you never will." Everything falls silent, his lips still hovering by her ear.

"Get the fuck out of my country." She hisses, pushing him back with all of her might, holding her tears. His back slams into the floor and his eyes go wide in shock. "Get out now, you don't deserve my tears." She watches as he scrambles. She starts to yell, "I don't ever want to see you behind these borders ever again! Get out, get out!"

He scampered off, but his troops didn't.

She spends the rest of her walk thinking. Thinking of things as she wanders the streets of the country. She doesn't even know where she is anymore. Her head is full of these thoughts. When is it going to end? When is she going to flourish and prosper, like the way her people believe she is going to? She feels the envy creeping up in her blood. She envies all of those other Nations, those with lots of money and respect. She isn't a thing but a danger. She had stopped caring what Nations thought of her, herself, but she cannot bare what her people go through. They are not monsters. She hates this feeling and wants it to go away, but it seeps everywhere. It's not right, envy is a terrible, ugly thing.

She stumbles through the sunset, her head hanging low. She wants her home back, she wants it all back. She doesn't want to see the footprints of combat boots or the sounds of the gun going off as the shooter pleases.

"دا وطن افغانستان دى" She says to herself. It will always be Afghanistan.