What I Left Behind — A Personal Memory of Buzkashi

I was born into a traditional family — one that held tightly to its values and did not let them go easily. My father had learned this from his own father, and he was determined to pass it on to us, his sons.

Buzkashi was part of that inheritance.

Whenever a ceremony was held, my father would take us to the grounds with unmistakable enthusiasm. He raised powerful horses with the means he had, so that he and his children could compete with pride. He wanted us to understand something he understood deeply: Buzkashi is not just a sport. It is a school — for courage, for skill, for strength, for solidarity. These are the qualities a chapandaz must build in himself. They are, my father believed, the mark of a man.

I did not see it that way. Not then.

I always found excuses. The sport was too dangerous. The responsibility of caring for horses was too heavy. If I am honest with myself, it was probably simpler than that — I was young, I was chasing my own interests, and I did not yet have the capacity to understand what my father was trying to give me.

Now I live in exile, far from home. Those days come back to me often — the sounds of the grounds, the horses, my father among his friends. And I feel the weight of what I walked away from. I wish I could go back. Not to become a chapandaz, but just to sit beside my father, to listen, to finally understand what he was telling me.

These longings reach further than home. They remind me of other things I have let pass — moments of nearness, of gratitude, of turning toward God that I did not take seriously enough. Perhaps that is what exile teaches you, if you let it. That the things you thought you could always return to are not always waiting.

We must be more awake. More grateful. And perhaps, with steadier steps, still find our way back — to what matters, and to who we are.