My Uncle's 'Accident' -- Pride and Shame Hide Taboo Topics in California's 'Little Kabul'

UNION CITY, Calif.--"He got into an accident. That will be our story," my father said to me. "You can't tell anyone what really happened. It will shame our family. Your uncle was a coward. He didn't think of anyone but himself. But he was sick, I suppose. He had to have been to have done what he did."

When people asked me how my uncle died, I lied to them. My lies were contradictory and they left many loose ends. People in the tight-knit Afghan community in "Little Kabul," California, were suspicious. They knew something had happened other than what my family was telling them.

My uncle lived with bipolar disorder. He lived in a world where his uncontrollable mood swings dictated his life. During his manic periods, he was euphoric. He would work day and night and never feel tired. But then, as quickly as he had climbed to the top of the heavens, he would fall. He would become irritable, confused, and feel enclosed in a prison.

My uncle never spoke of his illness. None of us did. Often, in the Afghan community, issues that are taboo are swept under the rug.

My father thought if he hid the way my uncle died, people would talk less. He thought he might be able to sustain my uncle's pride even in death. He was wrong. People made up their own stories. In some of the rumors, my father's hands are tainted with my uncle's blood.

Suicide is a sin in Islam, and mental illness is taboo in Afghan culture. Often, those who have mental disorders are frowned upon. They are called "daywana," a foul word for insane. Antidepressants are considered pills that Western doctors give patients to make them crazy. Anxiety attacks are defined as occurrences where evil Jin -- spirits -- take over the body.

Because of this attitude, even to this day, I am bound by this secret. That it is why I cannot, for the sake of my family, publish this piece under my real name.

My uncle's illness went untreated primarily because his disease was ignored and misunderstood. He was ashamed, as was the rest of my family, to admit to an illness involving the mind.

I squint my eyes sometimes, mimicking the dazed sensation I had that night when my uncle called. I repeat the deep breaths I took, try to feel the cold of the room, and even make my heart race just as it had when my dad handed me the phone while I was still half-asleep. I want to relive it, so I can understand it.

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