Beyond That Border, Another Me Was Left Behind

Everything began after the fall of Afghanistan to the Taliban; in the winter of 2021, on the 17th of March. We entered a land I had only heard of before, but never wished to step into as a migrant. I was sixteen when we crossed a border called Dogharoon and entered a country called the Islamic Republic of Iran. As we passed through, it felt as though behind that border, a world of dreams along with all my joys was left behind, and I stepped into another world.

On this journey of life and migration, I gained many valuable things, yet lost even more precious ones myself and all the girls of my homeland. Separation from loved ones, leaving behind our birthplace, our country, and the dreams nurtured in our hearts since childhood, for which we had worked tirelessly to build a name for ourselves, our families, and our nation.

That cold winter night, in the house where we had lived through moments of joy and sorrow from childhood to adolescence, everyone was saying goodbye with tears, as if it were our last farewell. We entrusted our home and belongings to my aunt and set out on a new path.

Throughout the journey, I slept through the night not from peace, but from fear. Since childhood I had heard: “Nighttime road trips are more dangerous than daytime ones.” That thought made me sleep through the darkness, waiting for the sun to rise.

But when morning came, I would not close my eyes for a moment. It was the best chance to see the beauty of my country’s provinces and nature—the attractions others spoke of. I didn’t want to miss it, though the longing to see the ancient city of Bamiyan still remained in my heart. I had always wished to see it, even for a brief moment.

We were not alone on this journey. One of my father’s acquaintances, with his wife and child, traveled with us. His wife had not managed to come on the same bus, but followed after.

Our first stop was Salang. Heavy snowfall had blocked the road. When I stepped off the bus for the first time, weary people walked toward the direction the drivers pointed. We entered a large hall.

Looking around, I saw no elderly women. Most were around forty, accompanied by their children. Everywhere was cold. Children with rosy cheeks, colorful jackets, scarves wrapped tight, and tiny gloves ran about as if they felt no chill.

But my only worry was my mother. For her, the cold was like poison—silent, creeping into her body. Because of a surgery she had undergone in India, she was not supposed to stay in the cold. Nothing mattered more to me than her health. How painful it is to want to help your mother but be unable to. All I could do was give her my jacket and bring her hot tea. I sat beside her, hoping my warmth might ease her pain.

My father had suggested traveling by plane, but my mother refused. She said: “We’ve already spent too much. First we sent our two sons by air, now should we also go by plane? The costs are too high.”

She endured all the pain, but would not choose her own comfort over her children’s future. I am certain no one is as strong and selfless as mothers.

We stayed in that hall for about five hours. Darkness fell, and the road was still blocked. Finally, news came that we could move, and everyone returned to the buses.

After several hours, we reached Kabul. It was night, and the only acquaintance we had my mother’s cousin’s daughter was waiting. She welcomed us kindly, served hot green tea, and the fatigue of the road melted away. We stayed the night, though we declined their insistence to remain longer due to lack of time.

At dawn, we set off again. On the way, I saw a small waterfall among the trees and whispered to my father: “I wish we could stop and take a photo.” He smiled and said: “God willing, when things are calm, I’ll take you to see these beauties and Bamiyan.” I only smiled.

On the road to Kandahar, we stopped at a restaurant for the night. They served food, but I couldn’t eat a single bite. I chose hunger instead. We boarded the bus again and finally reached Herat.

In Herat, we went to my uncle’s house. They too were planning to migrate. After a short visit, we decided to head to the border that same day. But when we arrived, it was closed, and we had to stay the night.

Early the next morning, we returned to the border. After passport and baggage checks, and passing through inspection, we finally crossed. At that moment, we stepped onto Iranian soil.

Sometimes crossing a border is not just moving from one country to another, it is the beginning of another life, one you never chose.