by Shadab Zeest Hashmi

 1. Teacup from Russia

The first teacup I use as a child is not for tea but milk which is boiled and mixed with sugar. I blow on it to watch the steam disperse and the cream float. The teacup is Russian. This is just before the Soviet war begins in Afghanistan and America lionizes the Mujahideen, the future fathers of the would-be war orphans otherwise known as the Taliban.

By the time I begin college in America, the Soviet Union fades and the Mujahideen are already darlings of the past, but I hear the story of Stalin that will forever stay with me:

Stalin at the dinner table pets a live chicken whose feathers he plucks feather by feather, demonstrating how, as the chicken becomes colder and weaker, it hovers more desperately around his hand, the only source of warmth. Bloodied and in pain, it follows the trail of the few grains of feed tossed its way.

An image to relive in a time when I see nothing but a pile of feathers and humanity desperate for survival. It is June of 2025. The trail of blood will be obvious to the reader; it follows the trail of fuel, weapons, data, and global capitalism. Read more »