With a warm welcome, dear visitor, you are now on Hajira Mansoor Ansari's blog, Andwaal, a Pashto word literally meaning 'Lead Thinker' that shares my thoughts mostly in the form of poetry with you.I hope you find your reading enjoyable, interesting and hopefully informative. Please leave comments on my posts, it is always nice to hear from people that have come to visit. I am eager to improvise writing and your comments will help me do that.

About me

Born in a family of thinkers and educators from Jalalabad - Afghanistan, Hajira Mansoor Ansari is a young Afghan thinker. She is a 12th grade graduated but dreams like an established scholar; she says "I will continue dreaming!"
Hajira, as a lifelong learner, considers herself a new but devoted poetess and is eager to hear ideas on how she can improve her writing and poetic skills and be a prominent poetess and novelist in the future. She says: "I dream of becoming a great novelist in the future so that I can share my thoughts and information on my community and culture with the world.".

Hajira's Ancestry and Family:

Hajira is the daughter of Saifullah Ansari and granddaughter of Maulana Mansoor Ansari (Muhammad Mia) a renowned religious scholar, philosopher and thinker of the East. He was a freedom fighter and strategist who started the Silken Litters Movement during the British occupation of the region. Her great grandfather was Maulana Abdullah Ansari, who served as head of religious studies at Aligarh University, India.


Hajira is a direct descendant of Khwaja Abdullah Ansari (1006-1088) and is 29th in line from him. Khwaja was a great Afghan Sofi Poet, Scholar and Philosopher, known and respected as Pir-e Herat (Pious of Herat) and Shaikhul Mashayekh (Master of Masters) who lived and died in Herat, Afghanistan. Khwaja Abdullah Ansari left several books in Islamic mysticism, philosophy and literature in Arabic and Farsi such as "Munajat Namah" (literally 'Litanies or dialogues with God'), a masterpiece of Farsi literature. It is believed that the poetic and literary talent emerges even centuries latter amongst ones offspring, perhaps, Hajira is getting it from her ancestors too.

My Mother

This poem is for you my mother,
Like you I can't find any other.

You were so nice and sweet,
You were giving rice in every treat.

I never thought that we will be parted,
but one day our separation started,
the illness of cancer came like a wave,
it carried you from me to the grave,
the doctors tried their best but could not save.

You were the only being, my dear,
Whose separation I could not bear.

Your death brought a dark night,
For me your being alive was as a light.

Now often when I on my bed I lie,
I can see you on my inward eye,
Which makes me cry.

You always cared for my education,
You wished me to become a doctor,
At that time I was forbidden to go to school,
You are not here now, but I am enrolled.

I can never forget you my mom, because,
You have raised me from my childhood,
You have trained me as a human,
You were a fixer of my manners,
I am making for you banners.

Memorizing your kindness,
As a light to my blindness,

I am raising up my hands,
Asking Allah to forgive you,
And to give you all the cheers,
And to bless and stop my tears.

Allah, send my mom to Jannah,
Allah, send my mom to Jannah.

(2005, Islamabad)

AFGHANISTAN SAYS…

I am the heart of Asia
and I feel very lonely
because I don’t have
a true friend
I have many enemies
they harm and destroy me.
They kill millions
of my innocent children
without any mercy
and handicap
the survived ones.
I see their bleeding bodies
their eyes full of tears
and their broken hearts.
I tolerate seeing the image of
my martyred children
and burying them in my chest.
I am very wounded
and there is no one
to treat my wounds
I feel very much pain
a terrible pain in my heart.
which is broken
and blood drips from it.
I suffer from the
cruelty and harshness of others
over me every moment
bullets, rockets and bombs
showers over me
for thirty years,
making streams and rivers of blood
of my children.
I feel so poor
and in this critical condition
no body volunteers to help me
and give me the hand of friendship.
I am fed up of my life
I want to get freedom
and go to a place far away
where nobody exists
and is clear from my enemies
and their harshness.

(18. August.2007-Islamabad)

I AM A CAMERA

I am a camera
I've records many people
some old records
some new ones.
I've records of two sisters
I made it from their window
recording them
quarrelling over a doll
while their mom
is out for shopping
and there is none to stop them.
Soon their quarrel
changes to a fight
they scratch each others faces
and pull each others hair
when suddenly their mom
enters the house
their hearts slip from fear
and sit quiet in a corner
like good girls.
One day these photos
will have progression
to remind the girls
of their young hood.

(18 October 2006-Islamabad)

THE CRY OF AN AFGHAN

I remember the day
when some foreign soldiers
entered our house
and took my dad away
my innocent and helpless dad.
From that day on
we never saw him again
and don’t know
whether he is dead or alive.
My mom waited for his return
for almost 25 years,
she did hard work
and tolerated every hardship
to earn something
to raise us
and educate us.
Till one day
Allah decided
to end her difficulties
And shorten her wait.
I can never forget
that day
when a bullet came
and it hit her head.
she collapsed on the ground
with a stream of blood
pouring from her.
I tolerated that scene
seeing my dearest mom
lying in an ocean of blood.
she breathed her last
and I could
to do nothing
except cry.
I buried my mom
with my own hands.
Now I have none
except my younger sister
enjoined on me
by mom
to take care of her
and lavish love upon her.
(11 January 2007 -Islamabad)

MY DREAMLAND

My dreamland is a peaceful Afghanistan

Where every Afghan is equal
And are not divided into
Pushtoon, Tajik, Uzbek, Hazara,
Noristani, Pashaye, Baluch and Turkman.
But all come together
And have the bond of brotherhood,
Be called by a single name of Afghan.

My dreamland is a peaceful Afghanistan
Where Afghans are not involved
In inter-fight, but are united
And always ready
To defend their country and nation
From the cruelty and harshness of others
The Russians, English and Americans
Whose aim is to destroy Afghanistan.

My dreamland is a peaceful Afghanistan
Where every Afghan abroad has a sense
The sense of returning to their homeland
Instead of being immigrants,
Working for other people
And other countries
Tolerating various difficulties
And many problems.

My dreamland is a peaceful Afghanistan
Where all Afghans return to their homeland
And live with their own nation,
Start working for their own country
Reconstruct it's destroyed areas
Develop and improve it's condition
And say farewell to life
In the foreign countries.

(November 2006)

THE STREET OF KABUL

Driving through streets of Kabul
one snowy afternoon,
I see many scenes
each scene in my own image
some collapsed houses
others wounded by rain
the rain of bullets and bombs
pouring down
from almost 30 years.
I can sense grief of the nation
by looking at innocent faces
of the people passing.

I am in traffic lights
Trying to record the scene
in my memory
but suddenly a voice interrupts me
a young attractive girl
with a pretty, fair face
and beautiful blue eyes
having a small scarf on her head
covered in simple clothes
shaking as a leaf from cold
looking at me with hopeful eyes
comes to my window and begs me
to buy some tissues
I refuse her
she goes away and soon disappears
between the crowd of vehicles.

Finally turns the traffic light
from red to green
and I drive on.
thinking about the little girl
I regret my refusal to her
I wish to speak to her
ask her some questions
about her life
I am sure she has a story
that is full of tragedy,
but alas, she is gone
far away in traffic jam
begging people to buy tissues
so she can get some money
and buy a piece of bread to eat.

(12 November 2006-Islamabad)

POEM

I am a girl
who is very simple,
when I smile
I have a dimple.

My favourite food
is chicken and rice,
especially the Pakistani one
which is full of spice.

In housework
I enjoy cleaning,
I mop the house
till its gleaming.

The work I hate
is to cook,
what I like is
to read a book.

I like to be
busy in my studies,
and sometimes
to chat with my buddies.

I want to become
a novelist in future,
through novels I will
tell others about my culture.

My dream is
to be university graduated,
so I can help the poor and orphans
in getting educated.
(19. February.2008-Islamabad)

Old Age

I will be so sad to become old,
To come out of the precious age like gold,

Today or tomorrow, it is a coming doom,
Thinking about which sits on me a gloom.

By becoming old I will have white hair,
Which looking in the mirror I will not bear.

I will have wrinkles all over my face,
I will have a walking stick to walk a pace.

While walking I would fold,
I will shiver as if I feel cold.

I will not be able to have a long walk,
I love to open the “knot of my heart” by a talk.

When someone speaks, I will not hear,
Till they come to me and shout in my ear.

Not being able to wear colourful cloths,
I would dislike it as every lady loathes.

I will miss my youthful days,
While going on in my old ways.

(20. March.2006, Islamabad)

My Dear Brother (Poem)

I remember the days,
When you were here,
It was so fun,
When you joked with me.
Now when I recall,
The image of that time,
It seems that,
I saw a dream,
While sleeping..
I want to see,
That picture again,
To remove,
Confusion from my mind.
I miss the way,
You called me,
With love and sweetness,
By the name,
“Khwaraini Gerami”.
I love and miss you,
And long to see you,
I am disparately waiting,
To see you come back,
As I dream it,
Almost every night.

(2007, Islamabad)