Pashto Quotes

Outside his office my father had a framed copy of a letter written by Abraham Lincoln to his son’s teacher, translated into Pashto. It is a very beautiful letter, full of good advice. “Teach him, if you can, the wonder of books…But also give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and the flowers on a green hillside,” it says. “Teach him it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat.

Nine-year-old Laila rose from bed, as she did most mornings, hungry for the sight of her friend Tariq. This morning, however, she knew there would be no Tariq sighting. - How long will you be gone? - She’d asked when Tariq had told her that his parents were taking him south, to the city of Ghazni, to visit his paternal uncle. - Thirteen days - Thirteen days? - It’s not so long. You’re making a face, Laila. - I am not. - You’re not going to cry, are you? - I am not going to cry! Not over you. Not in a thousand years. She’d kicked at his shin, not his artificial but his real one, and he’d playfully whacked the back of her head. Thirteen days. Almost two weeks. And, just five days in, Laila had learned a fundamental truth about time: Like the accordion on which Tariq’s father sometimes played old Pashto songs, time stretched and contracted depending on Tariq’s absence or presence.

Thirteen days. Almost two weeks. And, just five days in, Laila had learned a fundamental truth about time: Like the accordion on which Tariq's father sometimes played old Pashto songs, time stretched and contracted depending on Tariq's absence or presence.

Thirteen days. Almost two weeks. And, just five days in, she had learned a fundamental truth about time: Like the accordion on which old Pashto songs were sometimes played, time stretched and contracted depending on his absence or presence.

Thirteen days. Almost two weeks. And, just five days in, she had learned a fundamental truth about time: Like the accordion on which sometimes played old Pashto songs were played, time stretched and contracted depending on his absence or presence.

ته دومره بې مغزه ولې يې چې مخ دې دومره زښت ښائسته دې؟ چې سترګې دې دومره ځلانده دې جې زما درسته لعنتي دنیا رڼه کوي. ولې؟

Za ba wale hairan nah yam za ba wale pa khafghan nah yam. koor zama har waqt wranagey numm zama bad-namakage da wale dase kage da wale nah jor-e-rage da insaf darwazee bande da afghan bachai markagi.

ته دومره بېمغزه ولې يې او مخ دې دومره رښت ښائسته دې؟ چې سترګې دې دومره ځلانده دې جې زما درسته لعنتي دنیا رڼه کوي. ولې؟

مِري هغه ورځ د ریاضۍ په لوست کې رښتینې سوکالي وموندله. هغې شمېرې په دوو ساده فکرونو کې وېشلې شوې: سم او ناسم. خو د شمېرو برعکس، ډېر لږ ټکي به وو چې یواځې یو مطلب يې درلودو. هغه به خوځېدل او بدلېدل، او ناڅاپه به بله بڼه پټ شول او بیا به يې پاس ټوپ کړ. ټکي ښويدونکي او ژوندي وو؛ ټکي به د هغې موټي نه په تاوېدو تاوېدو ووتل او نوي څه به ترې جوړ شول. .ټکي له خطره ډک وو

ښه، نو ایا منزل مهم دی؟ یا مهمه خو د ورتلو لار ده؟ زه وایم چې هېڅ بریا دومره مهمه نه وي لکه څومره چې هلته د رسېدو لار وي. موږ د منزلونو مخلوق نه یو. منزل ته د سفر لاره موږ ته نوې بڼه رابښي. زموږ کلکې شوې پښې، د سفر بارونه په وړلو وړلو زموږ غښتلې ملاوې، د ژوند نوې تجربې په لېدو لېدو زموږ تازه شوې خوشالې سترګې. په پای کې باید په جار ووایم چې په دروغجنو لارو هېڅ ښه نشي ترلاسه کېدې. لامل دا چې زموږ د هستۍ اصل ماده په بریاوو کې نه ده، خپلو کړو لارو کې ده.

مونږ ځانونه څومره غټ ګڼو. اوس خو هر یو کس څه نا څه بچ کوي. ' بوټي بچ کړئ، مچۍ بچ کړئ، ویل سمندري مایان بچ کړئ، سنیل چینجي بچ کړئ.' او تر ټولو زیات غرور خو يې په دې کې دې: زمکه بچ کړئ. مونږ ته خو دا هم نه دي معلوم چې د ځانونو خیال څنګه وساتو. د دا قسمه غ**و خو زه سم تنګ راغلې یم. زه د زمکې غ***ې ورځ Earth Day نه سم تنګ راغلې یم. زه دغه د چاپیریال ساتونکو نه ډیر تنګ راغلې چې ځان ورله ډیر نیک ښکاري، دغه سور پوستکي، منځ پوړي ازاد فکران چې سوچ کوي د دې هیواد یواځینۍ ستونزه دا ده چې دلته د سائیکلو لارې ډیرې نشته. دا خلک د خپلو Volvo موټرونو د پاره نړۍ خوندي ساتل غواړي. هسې هم دغه چاپیرل ساتنې غوښتونکې د زمکې سره هیڅ مینه نه لري. په فکر کې نا، نه يې لري. تاسو ته معلوم دې چې څه سره شوق لري؟ د اوسیدو د پاره یو پاک ځای. خپل استوګن ځای يې. دوئ ناکلاره دي چې په ائنده کې به یوه ورځ دوئ ته تکلیف ورسي. تنګ، په- فکر- تورو مفاداتو سره زه هیڅ شوق نه لرم. زمکې خو د دې نه زیات تکلیفونه تیر کړي. زلزلې، اوراباسونکي غرونه، د زمکې لاندې پتریو خوځیدنه، د براعظمونو بهیدنه، په لمر کې دننه د اور لمبې تیزیدنه، د لمر دننه ځینې ځایونو کې د اور مړیدینه، مقناطیسي توپانونه، د زمکې قطب او شمال برقي وضعې په بل مخ اوړیدنه .........لکونو زرګونو کلونو راهیسې په اسمان کې لمبوزنو شهاب ثاقب، لویو ډبرو او کاڼو په زمکه بمبارۍ، نړیوال سیلابونو، د سپوږمۍ د وجې جوړ شوي غټ سمندري موجونه، نړۍ کې ښور اورونه، د زمکې وروستیدنه او رالویدنه، اسماني شغلې، بیا بیا راتلونکې د واورې دورونه، ..... او مونږ سوچ کوو چې یو څو پلاستک بوجۍ او یو څو د الومینیم ډبي به ډیر فرق راولي؟ زمکه چیرې هم ځي. مونږ ترې روان یو مونږ! مونږ روان یو. یا خلکو! خپل غ* غوشایه مو تړئ. مونږ روان یو. او زمونږ به داسې خاص څه نخښې هم پاتې نشي. کیدې شي لږ د سټائروفوم پلاسټک نخښه به پا تې شي. زمکه به هم دلته وي او مونږ به ترې پخوا تلي یو. د تغیر خوړونکې یو بل ناکامه تجرباتي مخلوق په شان. یو بل حیاتیاتي غلطۍ په شان چې هیڅ ائنده نه لري. یوې بندې ارتقايي کوڅې په شان. دا زمکه به مونږ له خپل بدن نه داسې وڅنډوي لکه کوټک چې پریوځي. مونږ به ترې لاړ یو او دا زمکه به ډیر لوی، لوی او لوی وخت د پاره موجوده وي، او خپل بدن به پخپله روغ کړي، خپل ځان به سپا کړي، ځکه چې زمکه هم دغه شان کوي. زمکه داسې نظام لري چې ځان پخپله رغوي. دا هوا او دا اوبه به بیا روغې شي، زمکه به نوې شي. او که دا رښتیا وي چې پلاسټک په زمکه کې نه ماتیږې، نه وروستیږي او نه ختمیږي، نو په دې کې څه، زمکه به په اسانې سره دا د خپل نوي نظام برخه کړي: زمکه + پلاسټک. زمکه زمونږ په شان پلاسټک سره څه تعصب نه لري. پلاسټک خو د زمکې نه راغلې دې. کیدې شي زمکه پلاسټک ته هم هغسې ګوري لکه چې خپلو نورو بچو ته ګوري. کیدې شې زمکې زمونږ د پیدا کیدو اجازه هم ځکه ورکړې وه چې پلاسټک يې پکار و. خو د جوړولو چل نه ورتلو. نو مونږ ته يې حاجت شو. کیدې شي دا ځواب وي زمونږ د هغه ځان – غټ – ګڼونکي، ځان - خوښونکي فلسفیانه سوال چې دا دې: مونږ دلته ولې راغلي یو؟ ځواب يې پلاسټک دې ...... ک*****و!

Rather I receive your bullet-riddled body with honour Than news of your cowardice on the battlefield (Traditional Pashto couplet)

Although Afghans virulently opposed homosexuality, the segregation of the sexes had led to certain practices, especially in the Pashtun areas. Kandahar was known for older men sexually using teenage boys, usually to show off prestige and power. At weddings, at festive occasions, at male-only parties, dancing boys would often perform, wearing eyeliner and swinging their hips suggestively, before pairing off for the night. The practice was known as bacha bazi, or “boy play.” A Pashto proverb maintained that women were for breeding, boys for pleasure, but melons for sheer delight.

For the CSTs, who were busy getting used to their unusual new assignment, the ideal “terp” was a female who understood Pashtun culture; spoke American English as well as they did; grasped how special operations functioned; could relate to and connect with Afghan women and children in a hot moment; embraced the women’s mission; was athletic enough to keep up with the Ranger men while wearing body armor; and could speak most dialects of Pashto. Ashley

glanced around the tree to get a good look at the vehicle. “That’s one of Hassanzai’s men from the warehouse.”  The passenger door opened and one of the men got out and eased toward their wrecked car with his weapon trained. She recognized him—the Caucasian man she’d seen at the warehouse.   “We should keep moving, Kaiden.” They headed deeper into the woods while Sidney pushed branches out of their way, her injured wrist throbbing with pain. “There’s no one here,” the Caucasian man standing near their car shouted to the driver. He spoke in the Afghanistan language of Pashto. Shock ripples charged through Sidney’s body. Who was this man? “Let’s find them.”  Where was their backup? Sidney tried to shut off her troubled thoughts and keep up the fast pace. They couldn’t be captured.  “Up ahead. I see them!” the same man yelled. Seconds later, a bombardment of bullets whizzed past their heads. Sidney hit the ground next to Kaiden. Both returned fire, forcing the man to retreat.  “Others will be coming. We have to get out of here. Now.” A second man announced with a thick accent. The man who fired on them didn’t budge. His partner turned and headed back toward their vehicle. After another second’s hesitation, he followed.  “We can’t let them get away,” Sidney said. “There’s a chance we might be able to convince them to talk.” She slipped from behind the tree coverage and aimed at the fleeing men. “Stop right there.” Both men whirled with weapons drawn. Kaiden opened fire forcing them to dive for cover. “Drop your guns,” Sidney ordered. “Put your hands in the air.” One of the men’s weapons peeked out

Outside his office my father had a framed copy of a letter written by Abraham Lincoln to his son’s teacher, translated into Pashto. It is a very beautiful letter, full of good advice. ‘Teach him, if you can, the wonder of books . . . But also give him quiet time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and the flowers on a green hillside,’ it says. ‘Teach him it is far more honourable to fail than to cheat.

My interpreter, Ashraf, a Pashtun like the Talibs, thank God, walked around the taxi to the man with the upraised AK and began to murmur something in Pashto. I didn’t know what he was saying, but as he spoke, he reached out and grasped the Talib’s beard and began to stroke it gently, running it through his hands, like he was putting a cat to sleep. Slowly the Talib relaxed his arms and put down his gun and told us we could go. It was like a magic trick. You

The practice was known as bacha bazi, or “boy play.” A Pashto proverb maintained that women were for breeding, boys for pleasure, but melons for sheer delight.

In Pashto, Afghanistan’s second official language, there is even a deprecating name for a man who has no sons: He is a meraat, referring to the system where an inheritance, such as land assets, is almost exclusively passed on through a male lineage.

On the choppers were twenty-three SEALs and a Pakistani-American who spoke the local language, Pashto. If crowds gathered at the Abbottabad compound, he would tell people there was a Pakistani military exercise going on and they should go home. Also on the flight to Abbottabad was a dog named Cairo, who would prevent “squirters” from sneaking out of the compound, sniff out any explosives, and hunt for possible safe rooms.

Years after the war started, the U.S. military still had almost no uniformed personnel who could speak Dari or Pashto fluently. Few troops possessed even a remote grasp of Afghanistan’s history, its religious customs or tribal dynamics.

This avoidance of voiced aspirates in the languages of the North-west suggests that modern Punjabi, Sindhi, Balochi and Pashto have what looks like a Dravidian substratum. Even Burushaski, a ‘language isolate’ with no known relatives from the remote Hunza Valley, has aspirates, though not voiced aspirates, and a dental-retroflex distinction.

...I remember that his first question concerned the centuries-old Buddha statues that were dynamited by the Taliban in March of that year, shortly before our encounter. Two Taliban combatants from Kandahar confidently responded that worshiping anything outside of Islam was unacceptable and that therefore these statues had to be destroyed. My brother looked at them and said, this time in Pashto, ‘There are still many sun- worshippers in this country. Will you also try to get rid of the sun and drop darkness over the Earth?

And, just five days in, Laila had learned a fundamental truth about time: Like the accordion on which Tariq’s father sometimes played old Pashto songs, time stretched and contracted depending on Tariq’s absence or presence.

I remember that [my brother's] first question concerned the centuries-old Buddha statues that were dynamited by the Taliban in March of that year, shortly before our encounter. Two Taliban combatants from Kandahar confidently responded that worshiping anything outside of Islam was unacceptable and that therefore these statues had to be destroyed. My brother looked at them and said, this time in Pashto, "There are still many sun- worshippers in this country. Will you also try to get rid of the sun and drop darkness over the Earth?

Bahr sang in Arabic, Pashto, Persian, and English, but even if our brothers or the guards didn't understand the words, his voice was enough to free us all from our caged lives, even if only for a moment. Music and poetry are the soul's languages, and when Bahr sang, all the blocks quieted down so they could listen. His voice and his songs carried with me into solitary confinement, where I listened to Bahr and the sea in my head.

The stone of Pashto does not rust in water,” which means we neither forget nor forgive. That’s also why we rarely say thank you, manana, because we believe a Pashtun will never forget a good deed and is bound to reciprocate at some point, just as he will a bad one. Kindness can only be repaid with kindness. It can’t be repaid with expressions like “thank you” and then forgotten.