Second Annual Writing Competition

The last goodbye was at the airport. She was leaving Canada and the plan was that they would see each other again. She was sobbing. She felt like she was walking through molasses. The ugly, hard chairs at the airport reflected how she felt. She knew deep down that this was the end. She would never see him again. He promised though – he promised he would be with her soon. He loved her. She wanted him to love her. They had talked about kids. She was in a hotel in LA – she woke in a cold sweat shouting his name. Her heart was broken. 

She went to the coast for the weekend with her family – he didn’t answer any of her phone calls. He ignored everything that she sent him. She was still so in love. He called her when she got home. She was sitting in a beanbag on her floor. As soon as she heard his voice, she knew it had happened. 

“I was wondering if she can stay the night?” 
“Why?” 
“We are just going to make some music together” 
“OK – why does she need to spend the night?” 
“Actually – I don’t think this relationship is going to work.” 
“oh.”

The lump in her throat rendered her speechless. 
She hung up. She found a bottle of red wine. She put on Amelie and she sobbed. More than she’d sobbed in a long while. The ugly cry. The cry that made you run out of breath and hiccup. He sent the video of them singing a love song together.  

She was so beautiful. 
Her name was Kat. Nice, easy, normal, white.  
Priya wanted to look and dress just like her. 
She kinda wanted to be her. 
Was it jealousy or was it something else? 
Maybe she envied the ease with which Kat floated through this world.

She continued to work under women like Kat. 
As if politics was beneath them. 
As if because they turned the news off, they could just ignore the suffering. 
Oh, it’s so sad what's happening over there they would say with a wave of her hand and a dismissive tone.
Was this the privilege of whiteness? 
Priya wished she could be oblivious to the interconnected atrocities. 
But she couldn't.

Wasn't bearing witness and having your heart break every single day part of what it meant to be human? 

The mask that these women wore was almost better than her own. 

The more she interacted with people like herself; it confirmed that it wasn't just her that saw through this facade. There was something truly toxic and hateful under the surface of people like this. 

They were living the dream without realising that the dream was also made from a mountain of their own discarded bodies, allowing the white man to keep a flag at the top. 

Years after the heartbreak, after her heart had healed slightly and she had reconciled what it meant to be and embrace herself, she wrote a poem that she thought fit these women perfectly.
It went like this. 

You think we like your voices. 
You laugh about how its all a bit too hard.
Whilst sitting in your privilege
And throwing glass shards.

With your voice. 
With your eyes. 
You don’t need to tell us you hate us.

Some people you say. 
They don’t listen. 
They can’t talk like us. 

We are the knowledge. 
We will gatekeep
With our cracked lipstick 
And 
Our fake allyship 

We don’t need to say it.
But we know we are better than you. 

Why can’t you be civilised? 
Eat with fork and knife? 
Just ignore it when black and brown babies die.

We take your language 
Twist it 
And use it to stab you in the back. 

We only have friends that look like us 
Because we just get it.
Our friendship is easy because we maintain the status quo 

We would love to have you around, 
But play by our made up rules. 

We encourage self-reflection for YOUR growth
But the only self-reflection we like is how we look in the mirror. 

Your thinly veiled threats 
Hide that you want to be like us

While you fill your lips with botox 
And 
Lather yourselves with fake tan
And 
Make yourselves something you are not. 

We are the women of white
We are feminists. 
We rule the world. 
And you better remember that. 

Priya reflected on the way that people had said that she was too angry, but all she could think was I that anger was a message. A reminder that this was all unjust. 

That power is unequally distributed. 
That we are all cogs in a killing machine. 
That our world has been designed in such a way that we are harmed by black and brown anger but not by the killing. 
That we tone ourselves down so as to not upset the monsters.

She chose to listen to her anger. It was productive (even though it didn't need to be), but it was also sacred. 
And if you couldn’t hear her because of her rage... it made her ask... why weren’t they raging? 
Shouldn't we all be raging?

I am Nuriye.

But for three years of my life, I was not allowed to carry my own name.

So I became “Noor Ahmad.”

Not because I wanted to.

But because survival has no patience for identity.

And slowly… even my own voice started responding when people called me by a name that was never mine.

The morning my life changed into disguise did not feel like a beginning.

It felt ordinary.

The smell of boiled tea and dry bread filled our small room.

The sound of my younger siblings chewing slowly echoed through the silence—each bite carefully measured, as if hunger could be delayed by eating less loudly.

Cold air slipped through the broken walls, touching everything without permission.

 And my mother sat quietly on the floor, dividing food that was already not enough, her hands moving with the patience of someone who had learned that love sometimes means giving away what you do not have.

My father was gone.

And after his death, there was no one left to earn.

No voice to stand between us and hunger.

No footsteps returning home with food.

Only silence… waiting… and the unbearable sound of emptiness growing inside a home.

Under the rules around us, a girl cannot simply step outside and work freely.

Not to study.

Not to earn.

Not to build a future.

Even when survival is collapsing inside the home.

Even when hunger has already taken everything else.

But hunger does not understand rules.

It only understands absence. 

So I erased myself in the only way I could.

I wore men’s clothes.

Not as disguise.

But as permission to exist outside my door.

A borrowed identity became my key to the street.

A stolen name became my protection from questions that could destroy everything.

I cut my hair to look like a boy’s.

I lowered my voice until it no longer sounded like a girl’s.

I walked into the streets like a boy, pretending to be someone else just to survive.

 The moment I stepped outside, my senses were overwhelmed.

Dust entered my mouth with every breath dry, bitter, like ash.

The air carried the smell of frying bread, diesel smoke, and crowded lives moving too fast to notice a girl trying not to exist.

Voices of men filled the streets loud, unrestrained, free.

And sunlight struck my skin sharply, as if even light could question my right to be there.

But beneath everything, I heard only one sound clearly

my heartbeat.

Too fast. Too exposed. Too afraid.

I worked in a small café.

The smell of tea leaves, oil, and cooked rice clung to my clothes.

Hot trays burned my palms through thin fabric.

Steam rose into my face, carrying warmth I was never allowed to sit still and enjoy.

Each step felt like walking on the edge of discovery.

“Faster,” they said.

And I answered in a deeper voice I trained like survival itself:

“Yes.” 

But inside, I was pleading silently:

Please don’t see through me.

The hardest part was not the work.

It was the pretending.

It was forcing my voice down every time it tried to rise.

It was watching my reflection in metal cups and not recognizing the person trapped inside it.

It was learning how to disappear while still standing in front of people.

For years, no one knew.

Not the workers.

Not the customers.

Not the people passing through that café as if I was only part of the air.

Only I knew.

And only I carried the weight of everything I had become to survive.

Until early 2026.

The café smelled like grilled meat, strong tea, and smoke that never left the walls.

I remember the moment the door opened.

Not because it was loud.

But because everything inside me suddenly went still.

Even sound seemed to retreat.

Heavy footsteps entered.

The air changed.

Not colder.

Heavier.

Like something unseen had filled the room and refused to leave.

“Stop,” a voice ordered.

My body froze before thought could respond.

The tray in my hands trembled, and the sound of clinking cups betrayed me.

“Your name,” they asked.

I said it.

“Noor Ahmad.”

My voice came out steady.

Too steady.

The kind of steadiness born not from confidence but from repeated fear. 

“Look at me.”

I did.

And in that moment, I felt years collapse into a single breath.

Not just fear.

Not just shame.

But the weight of every identity I had built and buried just to survive.

They looked too long.

Too carefully.

As if truth is something the body cannot fully hide.

As if existence always leaves traces.

“Take him,” they said.

And in that instant, Noor Ahmad disappeared.

Not because he was real.

But because he was temporary.

A survival mask finally removed by force.

The prison smelled of damp stone and rusted iron.

The air tasted old, as if it had been holding sorrow for too long to remember anything else. 

Light entered weakly through narrow gaps, unable to soften what was already hardened by silence.

Even time felt heavy there.

I sat with my knees pulled close.

Listening to metal doors, distant footsteps, voices that treated human life as something replaceable.

Day passed without direction.

Until I finally spoke.

Not to defend myself.

But because silence had become too heavy to carry alone.

“I wore men’s clothes,” I said quietly, “because I had no other way to survive.”

“My father is gone. My mother has nothing. My siblings were hungry. And as a girl, I was not allowed to work or move freely even when we were starving.”

My voice did not shake.

Because fear had already broken and rebuilt me long before that moment. 

Silence followed.

Even authority did not interrupt truth spoken without permission.

After days, I was released.

Not because the world changed.

But because my existence was not considered important enough to hold.

Now I walk again.

But I am still Nuriye.

A girl who became “Noor Ahmad” because survival demanded disappearance.

A girl who learned that sometimes living means becoming invisible.

And I want the world to feel this—not only read it.

To smell it in empty kitchens.

To hear it in silent homes.

To feel it in the weight of a voice forced to change shape.

To understand it in the life of a girl who had to become someone else just to survive.

Because this is not only my story.

It is the story of many Afghan girls.

Still learning how to exist inside silence.

If a girl must erase her identity to feed her family…

If she must change her voice, her clothes, her name just to survive…

Then the problem is not her disguise.

It is the world that made disappearance feel safer than existence.

I am Nuriye.

And I am still here.

But I should never have had to become someone else to survive.

For over twenty years, the red dirt and plastic-sheet roofs of the Kyaka II settlement in western Uganda have been my home.

On most days, if you walk through the paths between our mud-walled houses, you’ll hear the chatter of children playing and the smell of woodsmoke. 

We have built a life here, even if it is a life of constant, quiet struggle.

For a long time, we had a rhythm. Organizations like the World Food Programme (WFP) and the UN Refugee Agency (UNHCR) provided a basic safety net sometimes bags of split maize and yellow split peas, sometimes a modest transfer of about 12,000 Ugandan shillings sent directly to our mobile phones. It was never enough to make us rich, but it meant we could buy soap, salt, or pay a grinding mill. It kept us going, and we were grateful for it.

But recently, everything changed. We started hearing whispers that big international donors, including the United States, were cutting their budgets. Soon, the rumors became our reality. Global humanitarian funding was shifted away to meet new emergencies elsewhere, leaving protracted crises like ours with severe shortfalls.

According to aid agencies, this perfect storm of shifting donor priorities and rising operational costs meant our lifelines had to be rationed. 

The monthly cash transfers we relied on were cut to almost nothing reduced by over half for the most vulnerable, and stopped entirely for others. The clinics and support centers run by humanitarian groups grew quiet, lacking the malaria medication and staff they used to have. When you live in a refugee camp, a budget cut on the other side of the world isn't just a headline. It means looking into an empty pot at dinnertime.

"When we first arrived, we were given small plots of land," says Isabella, one of our oldest neighbors, her hands gesturing to the narrow strip of dust outside her door. " But today, these plots are barely wide enough to walk around, let alone plant crops. The soil can hold up our small mud houses, but it cannot feed our children."

The older men and women in the camp often talk about the early days, decades ago, when families were given larger pieces of land to farm. 

Back then, people could grow their own maize, beans, and cassava. But over the years, as conflicts in neighboring countries forced more and more people to flee to Uganda, Kyaka II grew crowded. Today, there simply isn't enough land left to share.

When the institutional support began to shrink, we knew we couldn't just sit and wait. We had to rely on each other. A group of us started a Village Savings and Loan Association (VSLA). Every Sunday afternoon, about fifteen of us gather under the shade of a large jackfruit tree. We bring a small blue metallic box secured with two padlocks.

Even when we had almost nothing, we would save a few hundred Ugandan shillings from our food allowance money that would have bought a single tomato or a handful of greens.

If a neighbor’s child fell sick with a sudden fever and needed medicine from the surrounding clinics, we drew from the box. If someone wanted to buy a sack of eggplants to start a small roadside stall, we gave them a small loan.

It was our own system, built on trust. It felt good to have control over our own lives. But now, because the cash assistance has dried up, our metallic box often sits empty. It is incredibly hard to ask a mother to contribute a 500-shilling coin to a savings pot when she is staring at her children, wondering how to buy a single cup of maize flour for their evening meal. Yet, we still meet under that tree every week. Even without money to count, we share advice, keep track of who is struggling the most, and make sure no one is completely forgotten.

The road ahead of us feels uncertain, and some days the worry is heavy enough to keep you awake at night. But we are still here.

Yesterday evening, as the sun was setting and the air finally cooled down, I watched my neighbor’s nine-year-old daughter sweep the dirt in front of her family's doorway with a small broom made of twigs. She was humming a song her mother used to sing back home in the Democratic Republic of Congo.

We may have very little left in our pockets, and our metallic savings box may be empty for now, but we still have each other. And as long as we have that, we will find a way through.

Tomorrow morning, the sun will hit the dusty paths and cast long shadows across our mud houses, just like it does every day. 

The rest of the world might look away, caught up in newer headlines and other conflicts. But inside this settlement, our lives keep moving forward. We will still walk these narrow lanes together, stretch whatever food is left in our bowls to feed our families, and listen to our kids playing outside in the dirt. Next sunday, our community group will meet again under the big shade of the jackfruit tree. We will pull out our small, blue metallic cash box. It is dented and scratched, but to us, that box isn't just about the money we manage to save together. It represents our promise not to let each other fall, even as the global funding cuts we keep hearing about begin to hit our food rations and clinic supplies. The people managing aid budgets far away see us as numbers on a spreadsheet, but our dignity cannot be erased by a line item. We are the ones keeping each other alive.

When a neighbor is sick, we carry their water jerrycans. When the evening settles, the older women sit by the cooking fires and teach the children the songs from our old village so they don't forget where we come from. We are not just waiting here helplessly for the next distribution truck to arrive. With our own hands, we took this red earth and these blue plastic tarps and built a place where we can live with honor. As the sun goes down next sunday, we will lock that blue metallic box, pocket the keys, and walk back to our homes in the dark, ready for whatever the next week brings.

TRIGGER WARNING: Description of self-harm.
 
White Nights by Fyodor Dostoevsky triggered what felt like my last day on this earth.

In an old, barely working car, under the noon sun burning through the rusty metal roof, I was sitting in the back seat with Sarah, my best friend, and an old man with a stinky smell. All three of us were tired and drained after a long day either in college or work.

The ride from the north to the south is only an hour, but it is never just an hour. It is the journey between the farthest two points in Gaza. And even though Gaza is tiny, whenever we head to the north, we pack our belongings as if we are traveling to the other side of the world. Maybe because we never got the chance to travel outside this well closed box; controlled by them and a countless number of checkpoints.
 
That day was long, humid, and carried the smell of misery. I smell it from afar. That damn aroma often finds its way towards my nose. He’ll kill it though. I wonder who will slaughter the other first?
 
I took the book out of my bag. White Nights, a short novella. I had forgotten the rule: don’t judge a book by its cover. White is supposed to be light, gentle, promising something soft. I thought it would be an easy read.
 
Sarah looked at me. “White Nights, ya Lama?”

“Girl, you read love stories? Are you in love?”

“No, I’m not.”

It’s just my habit. I buy books without knowing anything about them. I let them surprise me. I let characters reveal themselves to me. I don’t wait for people to experience something first and then tell me what to think of it. What I might detest, others might love; and the same with books. That’s why I don’t trust good reads reviews or even have a cursory look at them.
 
“I forgot my wallet in the library,” she said.

“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
 
I knew she hadn’t forgotten her wallet. I also knew she couldn’t afford the ride. She knew I knew. But that’s how we moved through life; each one helping the other with whatever she could offer.
 
“Today is my cousin’s henna,” she continued. “I don’t want to go but Mama is forcing me”
 
“Oppp. Stop. Don’t change the topic,” she cut herself off.

“Why did you even buy White Nights by Dostoevsky?”
 
“I liked the cover,” I said.
 
“You liked the cover? How silly!” She slapped my back and burst into loud laughter.
 
“Shut up. I’ll read it. And then you’ll know the story — from me. Don’t spoil it.”
 
“It’s a love story between two lonely people and it ends in…’’
 
“Shut up, Sarah. I want to read it.”
 
A donkey cart crashed with the broken car. I panicked as if someone threw a bucket of freezing water over my head. The driver got out of the car and started cursing the universe “A donkey driving a donkey,” he said.

A young lady with ozon holes beneath her beautiful brown eyes was by me. With torn out slipper and pale scarf, sitting still, gave no reaction, neither to the accident nor the shouting nor the 500 meter away explosion, staring at nothing, or who knows, maybe gazing at everything.
 
Where is Sarah? Did they kill her? No. Maybe she missed her little girl. She called her Dusty for it turns everyplace she enters to a pile of dust. But Dusty cleans Sarah’s heart as she often says. They killed Dusty. I’m sure of that. But Sarah killed herself for she couldn’t find food to feed Dusty. She slit her wrist to make him drink her blood.

TRIGGER WARNING: Description of domestic violence.

I was twenty years old when I became a wife. I was twenty-two when I became someone who flinched at the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

No one tells you, when you're a young bride still learning how to run a household, that the person you've promised your life to can also become the person you fear most. I didn't have language for what was happening to me at first. I only knew that love was not supposed to leave bruises. I only knew that a home was not supposed to feel like a place you had to survive.

The abuse did not arrive all at once. It came in increments — a raised voice, a slammed door, a comment meant to make me feel small. And then, slowly, it became something else entirely: hands raised, not just voices. Nights I don't fully let myself remember, because some memories are survived, not relived. I became a woman who apologized for things she hadn't done, who learned to read a room before she dared to speak in it, who began to disappear a little more each day inside a marriage that was supposed to be her beginning.

By the time I was in my mid-twenties, I had two small children — a daughter not yet two, a son barely eighteen months old — and a body and mind that had absorbed more violence than any person should have to carry. I was put on antidepressants, not because I was weak, but because survival at that level takes a toll no one warns you about. I remember sitting with a bottle of pills in my hand and thinking: is this what my life has become? Is this the whole of it?

And then, one night, it ended the way these stories sometimes do — not gently, not with dignity, but with cruelty. I was thrown out of my own home in the dark, with two babies who did not yet understand why their mother was crying, why there was nowhere warm to go. I remember the cold. I remember the shame that isn't mine to carry, but that society hands to women like me anyway — as if surviving abuse is something to be embarrassed about, rather than something to be honored for enduring.

I want to be honest here, because this story only means something if it's true: I did not feel strong that night. I felt erased. But somewhere underneath the fear, something in me refused to stay erased. I have always believed — and that belief did not leave me, even in the darkest hour — that when everything human fails you, something larger does not. Call it faith, call it grace, call it the stubborn will to live for two small children who had no one else. Whatever it was, it became the floor beneath my feet when I had nothing else to stand on.

I made a decision in that darkness that would define the rest of my life: I was not going to let this be the end of my story. I was going to make sure my children never inherited my fear as their own inheritance.

So I studied. I rebuilt, one certificate, one course, one late night at a time, often with a baby on my hip and exhaustion in my bones. I did not have the luxury of a linear path — my education came in fragments, stitched together between motherhood and survival — but I never stopped stitching. Slowly, painstakingly, I built a professional life I could not have imagined for myself on that cold night. I went on to work across international assignments, in humanitarian and public health spaces, standing in rooms with government ministers and global institutions, advising on crisis response, training others in resilience I had once had to teach myself from nothing.

There is a particular kind of irony in a woman who was once silenced becoming a voice for others. In a woman who was once told she was worthless becoming someone whose expertise is sought across countries and continents. But that irony is exactly the point. The same hands that once shook with fear now write policy briefs, lead teams, and mentor other women finding their way out of their own darkness.

Today, my children are eighteen and twenty-one. They are not scarred replicas of what they witnessed as toddlers — they are thriving, curious, hardworking young adults, still studying, still becoming, unburdened by the violence that once surrounded their earliest years. Watching them grow into secure, whole human beings is, without question, the greatest achievement of my life. Every late night of study, every silent tear swallowed so they wouldn't see it, every year of rebuilding — it led here, to them, laughing and safe and full of possibility.

I share this story not for sympathy, but because I know there is a woman somewhere tonight sitting exactly where I once sat — thrown out into the cold, told she is nothing, believing her story ends there. I need her to know it doesn't. I need her to know that the worst night of her life can become the first page of a story she never thought she'd get to write.

Survival is not the end of the story. Sometimes, it is only the beginning.

When people hear the name Afghanistan, many immediately think of broken roads, difficult times, and stories of struggle. They see the pain before they see the people. They see the challenges before they see the dreams. But Afghanistan has always been more than its hardships. Afghanistan is the sound of morning prayers, the warmth of a grandmother’s stories, the smell of fresh bread shared with neighbors, the mountains standing proudly beneath the sky, and the hearts of people who continue to hope even when hope feels difficult.

I carry an Afghanistan that the world does not always see.

I carry the Afghanistan of young children who still dream of becoming doctors, teachers, engineers, artists, and leaders. I carry the Afghanistan of students who open books with curiosity, not knowing how powerful that simple action can be. I carry the Afghanistan of mothers who sacrifice everything so their children can have brighter futures. I carry the Afghanistan of people who choose kindness even after experiencing hardship.

A country is not only its history. A country is also the dreams of its people.

For many, education is something ordinary. It is a classroom, a teacher, a notebook, and a daily routine. But for many Afghan students, education represents something much deeper. It represents possibility. It represents freedom to imagine a different tomorrow. It represents a door that leads toward opportunities, confidence, and belonging.

A book can be more than pages. It can be a window to another world. A classroom can be more than a room. It can be a place where dreams begin.

I have learned that hope does not always arrive loudly. Sometimes, hope is a student studying late at night. Sometimes, it is a person sharing knowledge with someone else. Sometimes, it is a young person saying, “I will not give up.”

Afghanistan’s greatest strength has never been found only in its landscapes or its history. Its greatest strength has always been its people—their courage, resilience, and ability to continue moving forward.

I often think about the young generation of Afghanistan. A generation growing up between challenges and possibilities. A generation that has witnessed difficulties but still chooses to dream. They are not defined by the obstacles around them. They are defined by the future they are trying to create.

Every dream carries a story. Every learner carries a voice. Every person has the power to create change, no matter where they begin.

Sometimes, the world asks, “How can one person make a difference?” But history has shown us that change often begins with one person who believes, one person who acts, and one person who refuses to stop caring.

A single candle may look small in a dark room, but it still creates light.

Afghanistan has many candles.

They are the students who continue learning. They are the teachers who continue teaching. They are the dreamers who continue imagining a better future. They are the people who believe that compassion, knowledge, and creativity can rebuild what has been damaged.

I believe stories have the power to connect people. They allow us to see beyond statistics and headlines. They remind us that behind every country, there are millions of human experiences—dreams, fears, hopes, and memories.

Afghanistan is not only a story of what has happened. It is also a story of what can happen.

It is a story waiting to be written by a new generation.

A generation that believes education is not a privilege for a few but a right for all. A generation that believes women’s voices, children’s dreams, and young people’s ideas matter. A generation that understands that rebuilding a nation does not only happen through buildings and roads, but through knowledge, empathy, and imagination.

One day, I hope the world sees Afghanistan not only through the lens of its struggles but through the brilliance of its people. I hope people see the artists, innovators, learners, and leaders who are shaping its future. I hope they see a country filled with possibilities.

Until that day comes, we must continue telling stories.

Because stories preserve memories. Stories create understanding. Stories remind us of our shared humanity.

My Afghanistan is not only a place on a map. It is a feeling. It is the courage of people who continue despite challenges. It is the dreams hidden in the hearts of young people. It is the belief that tomorrow can be better than today.

And I believe that no challenge is stronger than a generation that refuses to stop dreaming.

Afghanistan’s future is still being written.

And I believe its most beautiful chapters are yet to come.scription

On July 19, 2002, at the break of dawn, a child was born into a family filled with joy and expectation. His parents and relatives celebrated not only the arrival of a new life but also the birth of a son who, they believed, would one day carry the responsibilities of the family. Named after his grandfather, Mr. Luh Pong: he inherited not just a name but a legacy- one that symbolized strength, dignity, and responsibility.

He was born as the second son in a remote and marginalized region known as the Naga mountainous area of Northern Myanmar. In this community, life revolved around subsistence farming, particularly shifting cultivation. Education was neither prioritized nor easily accessible. For many families, survival came before schooling, and dreams were often limited by geography and circumstance.

Although his parents did not initially recognize the importance of education, he remained determined to pursue learning. Despite the challenges and seeming impossibility of his situation, he firmly believed that education had the power to transform his life. One day, while his parents were away working on the farm, he went to the school admissions office and asked, “I want to study. What do I need to do to enrol?” The admissions staff informed him that the enrolment fee was only 20 rupees. However, because he did not have the required amount of money, he returned home and brought two packets of salt as an alternative form of payment for the admissions staff. 

At the age of twelve, following persistent appeals, he was finally granted the opportunity to begin his formal education. Though hindered by scarce resources, his journey was fueled by an unwavering determination. As his studies progressed, he recognized the transformative power of learning, maintaining a steadfast focus that allowed him to complete his lower secondary education with distinction. However, continuing his academic pursuits required relocating to an urban center where the regional high school was located. This transition presented a severe financial strain for his family. Faced with these economic barriers, his father made the difficult decision to liquidate their most treasured asset: a traditional gong, which stood as the sole remaining heirloom from his grandfather. By sacrificing this irreplaceable piece of family history, his father fully invested in his son's future, securing the necessary capital to finance his relocation and continuing education.

As he departed from his hometown, the profound hopes and aspirations of his parents became entirely clear to him. This realization instilled a deep sense of purpose, hardening his resolve to one day achieve a level of success that would bring honor to both his family and his broader community.He understood that education was not merely a pathway to individual advancement, but a critical mechanism for breaking the generational cycle of poverty. With every academic milestone achieved, his overarching vision intensified: he would eventually return to establish high-quality educational opportunities within his own community. Yet, the path ahead remained fraught with significant adversity.


In 2019, the world was shaken by the COVID-19 pandemic. Schools were closed, and his educational progress came to an abrupt halt. What began as a temporary pause soon turned into a period of profound hardship. During the pandemic, he experienced unimaginable loss-within a single year, he lost his elder brother, younger sister, and younger brother. As a result, he became the eldest son of the family unexpectedly. The emotional weight of these tragedies shattered his motivation and left his family in deep sorrow. Despite the pain, he chose not to give up.

Holding onto the belief that education remained essential, he slowly rebuilt his strength.

In 2023, he resumed his educational journey with renewed determination. His parents, though grieving, offered him their unwavering support, telling him, “We believe in you. Do your best in everything.”

Returning to school, he transformed his pain into purpose. He was elected as a school council leader, a role he held for two years. In this position, he actively worked to address community issues, demonstrating leadership and resilience. One of his most impactful initiatives was organizing a town-wide cleaning campaign, bringing together students and local stakeholders. This effort marked the first real step toward realizing his vision for community development.

Today, he stands as a symbol of perseverance and hope. Having overcome trauma and adversity, he understands the deep inequalities that exist in access to education within his community. Many young people are still forced to abandon their studies and enter early marriages, believing that their future holds no alternatives.Determined to change this narrative, he began teaching basic English to youth in his community after completing high school. Through education, he seeks to inspire others to dream beyond limitations and to believe in the possibility of a better future.

His story is not just one of personal resilience-it is a call for social change. It highlights the urgent need for equitable access to education, especially in marginalized communities. Because for him, and for many like him, education is not just a right-it is the only path to hope.

After long nights, the sun rose again, and it has illuminated the entire city of Kabul with its light. Suhrab was asleep on the floor, clutching an old red blanket; the sound of wood burning in the heater reached his ears, while the cold air drifting in through the gaps in the window chilled the room. The sound of birds—seeking refuge near the windows to escape the freezing cold—broke the silence; a sound that awakened the butterfly of hope in every heart.

Suhrab woke up with sleepy eyes and looked at the beauty of sunlight for a while, that sunlight which was shining in the sky without fear.

Suhrab, still tired, rubbed his hands over his eyes and took his fathers Pato —Afghani handkerchief— and got up and went to draw water from the well near the house, and prepare tea. With thick hands—whose scars were clearly visible—it had become like a dried flower. He took the bucket in the well and got water; taking water from that old well was like a fun for him. And for a while, he stared into the deep water of the well; on that pure water, he could see the damp walls, which reminded him of the high, black mountains that had become the soldiers’ refuge and home, and perhaps the place where death followed them. He threw the bucket once again; this time, he took a little fish. A strange smile appeared on his lips, the golden baby fish which was scared and hit the sides of the bucket to escape.

“I will set you free,” Suhrab said loudly and excitedly, and throw the water into the well. A joy appeared in him that he had freed a living soul.

His mother, Ziba, stared at him and felt happy.

“She said, Suhrab, came here. I have something for you.”

“What is this envelope, Mom?”

“I have received this yesterday, and because I can’t read and write, I have waited for my little boy to read it for me.”

Suhrab took the envelope with his wet hands and opened it; there was 1000 AFG with a letter. He opened it, and he paused for a few seconds.

“Read it, Suhrab,” she whispered, glancing nervously over her shoulder.

While his voice trembled, he started reading loudly!

“Salam alikum to my dear son, Suhrab, and my lovely wife, Ziba. I am writing this letter to tell you that I am good. Actually, the general told us we only have equipment and food for three days, and the Great War will begin tomorrow. If I cloud return home, I will definitely take you away from Kabul, and will move to Pakistan. If I don’t come back, Suhrab, remember Dad always loved you, and take care of your family; don’t let our family name be forgotten.

Pray for me.

Your Dad,

Khalid.”

His hands started shaking, and suddenly, tears flowed from his eyes. Suhrab was a young boy who was standing there, there was a heavy responsibility which was put in upon his shoulders. 

With his injured hands that were as red as tulips and dripping blood, he held his father’s letter tighter. He closed his eyes. His lips dry. For a while, he imagined that everything was a nightmare. He was saying to himself, in a very quiet voice that only he could hear, “Everything is fine,” he went back to those beautiful days that had become a memory for him.

“I could hear the sound of a horse’s hooves passing through the alley, and I heard the sound of bells which were tied with red and green strings around the horse’s reins.”

While blood was pouring from his hands, he held the letter so tightly, as if he were holding his father’s hands.

He walked down the alley with his father, the old shops in Kocha Kah froshe; every shop was decorated with wooden cages hanging on the corners and sides, adding to the beauty of the place. The sound of birds breaking the silence, like the voices of singers singing from the heart for freedom, could be heard.

We were only passing the alley. My father saw his best friend, Farhad. Yes, Farhad, who was working there. He had a small shop and was selling different types of animals. He hugged my father and said loudly in a friendly tone, “Salam alikum, Khalid jan, how are you? It’s been a long time, if I am not wrong it’s about twelve years, right? What’s up? How did you remember us?” And he laughed.

“Hey, Farhad, thanks. Today I came here with my brave son, Suhrab. Ooo, come on, I always remember you. Hey, Suhrab, say Salam to your uncle.”

My eyes were fixed on the caged parrot, and I was thinking to myself, “I wish this was mine. What if my father didn’t buy it for me? What should I do?”

Khalid whispered loudly, “Suhrab, you have to say Salam to your uncle; don’t touch the cage!”

“I am so sorry. I was just looking. Salam alikum, Uncle.”

They laughed, and Farhad said, “It’s ok. Everyone loves this place; once you come here, you can’t leave it because one part of your heart always will belong to this place.” Farhad took the cage with his big hands and gave it to me. A beautiful smile came to my lips, and he said, “This is yours, son; take care of it.” We left Uncle Khalid’s shop happily. My father, seeing the smile on my lips, hugged me and said, “Take care of this bird, ok.”

We continued on our way while I was holding the cage tightly. I couldn’t feel how much I was tired or felt uncomfortable; that little bird was like a hope for me.

While Passing the alley, I noticed that every shop and every person had their own stories; you hear traditional songs and poems, in every place.

Kabul was alive! Kabul was alive, with every legend which was passed down from generation to generation. Kabul was colorful with poems and stories.

In the sky, my eyes caught sight of colorful kites that reflected the mirror of Kabul from afar. Kites that made the sound of freedom and the scent of its peace, danced in the air.

I live on the first floor of a three-story house;
a place where I live with my father’s wives.

The moon,
on the night of the full moon,
is looking at me with a smile.

I am‌ tracing the mark of the electrical cable on my body
that my father beat me with.

My tears are gone;
but not my mother’s.

He beat me, but it was as if my mother felt the pain.

My father,
a man who never loved my mother.

How could anyone not love a woman with such beautiful eyes?
A woman with three daughters,
all three looking like her.

A father who, when I was born, refused to take me into his arms.
He did not recite the call to prayer into my ear.

He wanted a son,
and my mother could not give him a son.

So he married again, and again,
until his third wife gave him a son!

He loves him,
his son.

He has forgotten
that 
I am Elaheh,
his daughter,
once his only child.

He has forgotten
that I used to buy cigarettes for him
from the shop at the end of the street, barefoot.

He has forgotten me.

Today he was so angry that he wanted to destroy the house.
He smelled of hashish.

He wanted to sell me by force
to a man like himself.

My mother said I should not marry.
My mother, my protector.

And I, brave but trembling,
said,
“I will not marry.”

But he
swore that he would kill me.

He had become like a wild animal.
He beat me and beat me,
and I am still alive.

My father does not know that I am studying. Four years ago,
when the neighbor’s daughter said she was studying at an online school, my eyes lit up and I could hardly breathe.

I was shocked. Was it possible for me to study?
And go to university?
Online, from home?

But I did not have a mobile phone,
my mother bought me a phone with the money she earns from the embroidery she does day and night.

On the fabric, she embroiders flowers;
she buys happiness for her daughters.
She buys a secret freedom for us.

I studied;
at night,
in secret,
I embroidered and studied.

This year I will graduate from school.
Teacher Zahra says she will enroll me in an online university.

Teacher Zahra,
a woman who feels like a mother.

She taught me to heal my wounds
and to write poetry.

She connected me to the world; from this dark corner of my room,
at night, secretly, I read books. So many times the internet goes out,
and my tears unintentionally fall onto the screen of my phone.

My mother embroiders, and my sisters learn from her.
This is the only way to make money; our fingers burn with pain,
but it is worth it.

My mother, a woman from the mountains of Badakhshan, with a deep courage like a hidden mineral inside mountains where a white wolf lives.

I look at this house.
A house where my father is afraid of my books,
afraid of a quiet woman with thread and needle.

My father never went to school himself.
From childhood, he worked on his father’s land to survive.

Here,
power means
a man who has more sons.

And I, his rejected daughter,
will break the chain of this dark injustice.

I will go to university and save my mother and my sisters from the claws of this house, from this prison surrounded by barren trees.
We will survive.
And 
I will write poetry.

He cannot sell me
to a man like himself.

Because if I inherited my eyes from my mother,
I learned resilience from the stones of the lapis lazuli mines.

It is the sound of rain
mixed with the crying of my father’s son
and the laughter of his mother.

I am Elaheh,
a pain
and a poem.

We have a history lesson,
with Teacher Zahra;
a woman who says:

Every day, I should write,
write the pain.

My phone has no charge
and I pray that the electricity will come back.

I do not even know which God I am praying to,
a God who does not see us and perhaps does not love us;
because our prayers have never been answered.

On the cold kitchen tiles
I was sitting and playing with my beaded bracelet.

My mother calls me:

“My daughter, come and eat.”

“I’m not eating.”

“Come and do your embroidery.”

“I don’t want to.”

This woman knows me, deeply;
she knows my silence too.

It was 7:15 p.m.
The evening call to prayer.

The rain is gone now, and the scent of wet earth is in the air.

The electricity came back.

My sister screamed.
I laughed.

I plugged my phone in to charge,
and our hearts began beating again;
we came alive.

I connected to the lesson.

I heard Teacher Zahra say:

“Elaheh has joined us too!”

I cried.

As if
the wounds on my body were hurting;
a part of my heart
or my soul,
I don’t know.

What did I want?

My school?
My desk?
Or
my father?

And Teacher Zahra said she had sent us PDFs of new books:

“Study, and study.”

“Elaheh, I want to publish one of your poems in a magazine. Please send it to me.”

“Thank you so much, Teacher.
I will definitely send it.
I love you very much.”

“I love you too.
Take care of yourselves, girls.”

Everything is quiet.
It is the absolute silence of Kabul.

My hair clip is bothering me.
My sisters are asleep.

My mother is praying;
she is complaining to God about my father.

She cries quietly;
a woman with a strange strength and weakness.

I cannot sleep
because of the sound of the crickets.

I took my notebook
to write a poem;
with freedom as my intention.

Word by word,
with hope the color of a yellow wildflower.

Mariam was twenty years old when she found out that she was pregnant for the third time. That night, she felt a mix of nervousness and happiness, unsure of how to explain her feelings. She looked at the moon and stars from her windowed room and said to the moon, “You know, when I was a child, I asked my mother where children come from. She always said to me, ‘They come from the moon.’” She said with a smile, “But now, I am the mother of my own stars. Are you the mother of the stars? Hey moon, don’t laugh at me,” she said to herself. “I will surprise my husband with this news in the new year.”

The weather is a little cloudy. It seems like the first day of the new year will be rainy. When she woke up in the early morning, she could hear the sounds of sparrows and the rooster crowing. When Mariam heard this sound, she knew that spring had come. She guessed that people were still not waking up to go to provinces like Herat, Bamian, Kapisa, and others for picnics, especially Mazar for the “Meli Gul Serkh” or red flower picnic.

She turned on the radio and listened to Ahmad Zaher sing, “Gar zulf perishanat bar dast saba aftad”:
“If your hair is tangled, my love,
Then your lover is restless.
What sorrow can I tell
When you are the cure and the ailment?”

Her husband, Shams, had already left the house. He was a cart driver in Kabul city. Mariam lived with her husband’s family. Her mother-in-law, Shakila, was her aunt.
Mariam had two daughters named Farah, who was four years old, and Asma, who was two years old. All of them had short hair. Mariam always remembered her mother’s advice to dress her younger daughter in boys’ clothes, in the hope that the next child would be a boy.

When Mariam woke up, she didn’t wake her daughters. When they woke up, they would say, “Let me go to the yard. Let me feed the chickens mother.”

Mariam washed clothes for her daughters, her husband, and her mother-in-law. She hung the clothes on the rope to dry. She drew a pail of water from the well and washed every window with a rag. Suddenly, she noticed Freshta the neighbour is gesturing from the second floor of her house and drew an imaginary mustache above his lip to show that his sister-in-law had given birth to a boy; if she gestured with her hand as if wearing a headscarf, it meant that a girl had been born.

With yearning Mariam started to sweep the floors and open the windows, as usual, to air out the house. She used flour to make fresh dough, kneading it the way her mother had shown her. When she pushed the dough, she remembered her father’s advice—he was a farmer. “For a girl: first, pray four times daily. Second, morality. And lastly, cooking is important.”

Mariam pushed the dough with the heel of her hand, folded the outer edge, turned it, and pushed it away again. Once she had floured it, she wrapped it in a moist cloth, put on a hijab, and set out for the communal tandoor, which was located down their alley.

In her neighbour’s house, lived Frishta, a barren woman who had been married for fifteen years and still did not have any children. She was thin and five years older than Mariam. Her husband, Ghani, was the wealthiest man in the city and ten years older than Frishta. Mariam and Frishta often discussed their mothers-in-law. Frishta would complain to Mariam about how critical her mother-in-law was, constantly criticizing everything from the food she cooked to the cleanliness of the rooms.

When Mariam and Frishta were young and living in neighbouring houses, Mariam didn’t have any siblings, so she would often come to Frishta’s house to play with her. Mariam could never forget the day Frishta got married and how much she cried when she was just five years old, while Frishta was ten. Frishta would often tell Mariam, “Before going to the public tandoor, knock on my house door. It’s good to go to the public tandoor together.”

Women in groups of two or three, all of them wearing hijabs. When Mariam and Frishta arrived at the public tandoor, they joined the other women. Some of the women were too fat or too thin, some wore panjanbi, others wore long dresses, and the aroma of the fresh bread from the tandoor filled the air.

At that moment, an old woman named Gulali, with a face full of wrinkles and missing teeth, joined the conversation. She directed her words towards Frishta, referring to her as “sterile soil” and suggesting she should swallow a goldfish alive. Addressing Mariam, Gulali asked if she was eating cockfighting. Both Frishta and Mariam simply smiled and chose not to respond.

Shortly after, Shafiqa, a woman who had five boys, arrived. Gulali, who had nine sons and two daughters herself, commented, “Are you still not eating chilijam? But your situation is better than these two queens. Boys are saving the family name when you have a boy. Don’t worry. You have everything. You are honorable people whom others respect,” Gulali said patronizingly.
It is worth noting that Gulali herself lived with her older daughter in the same alley as Frishta and Mariam.
When Frishta and Mariam came out of the tandoor, they put their bread on the top of their heads.

Mariam noticed that Freshta's eyes filled with tears. 

Mariam didn’t say anything. Freshta sobbed, “I wish I had a blind daughter, but I wasn't worthy to have a blind daughter.”

Amina was a simple woman who believed that marriage was a partnership built on love and compassion. When she married young, she thought she had begun her journey to happiness, but she didn't know that her coming years would be filled with trials.

She worked as a teacher, waking before sunrise to prepare her young children and going to work with utmost dedication. At the end of each month, she would hand over her entire salary to her husband, who convinced her that men knew best how to manage money. Days passed, then months, then years, and it became an unquestionable habit. She deprived herself of even the simplest necessities, while her husband spent money as he pleased, without a thought for the family's future or the needs of his children.

God blessed them with five children, and Amina was both mother and father in many situations. She monitored their studies, stayed up with them when they were sick, and rejoiced in their successes, while her husband was preoccupied with himself, quick to anger, and saw his wife only as a source of money and service. Twenty years passed with her patience, telling herself, "Perhaps God will improve things." But one day, she was shocked when her husband coldly told her he wanted a divorce. He made no attempt to repair their relationship, nor did he consider the years she had spent by his side or the sacrifices she had made. A few days later, he married another woman and started a new life, leaving Amina to face the world alone with her five children.

That day was one of the hardest of her life. She felt as if the world had closed in on her, but she looked at her children's faces, wiped away her tears, and said, "I will not let despair defeat us."

She worked in the mornings and gave private lessons in the evenings, using every hour of her day to provide her children with a decent life. She often returned home exhausted, her feet heavy from long hours of work, but she hid her weariness with a smile so her children wouldn't worry. The years dragged on, heavy with hardship. People saw a woman struggling, but they didn't know how many tears she hid in the dead of night, how many times she raised her hands to the heavens, saying, "O Lord, You are my sufficiency and the best of guardians. Do not leave me alone."

And because God does not let the reward of the patient go to waste, the doors of relief began to open for her. Her children excelled in their studies, for they witnessed their mother's sacrifices every day. The eldest graduated as a doctor, the second as an engineer, the third as a teacher, the fourth as an accountant, and her daughter became a pharmacist. None of them forgot their mother's kindness, the sleepless nights she endured, or the meals she deprived herself of so they could eat.

One day, her children sat around her in a spacious house they had bought for her with their hard-earned money and success. The eldest, kissing her head, said, "Mother, today it is our turn to bring you joy, just as you have brought us joy throughout our lives."

Her eyes welled with tears, but this time they were tears of joy. She looked up to the sky and whispered, "Praise be to God who did not forsake me, and praise be to God who made my patience a gateway to good."

As for her ex-husband, he discovered years later that money cannot buy happiness, and that a loyal woman is irreplaceable. But when he tried to return, he found that times had changed, and that Amina was no longer the broken woman she once was. Instead, she had become strong, by God's grace, surrounded by her children who were her greatest support.

Amina knew that life can be harsh, and injustice can persist, but God's justice never fades. She was certain that God may delay relief, but it comes at the perfect time to heal hearts, mend broken spirits, and grant the patient what they never expected.

And so her story remains a testament to the fact that patience is never lost, and that whoever puts their trust in God, works diligently, and entrusts their efforts to Him, God will transform their sorrow into joy, their weakness into strength, their loneliness into support, and make their children the greatest blessing and the most beautiful compensation.

It was my first job interview since October 7, 2023.

I couldn't quite believe it. Nearly three years had passed since I last prepared for something as ordinary as a job interview, since I last looked for formal clothes or worried about making a good first impression.

Dressing for the occasion was my first real battle. All my formal, elegant clothes had burned to ashes along with my house. I wore the cleanest clothes I could find, determined to look good. They had been hand-washed the night before and left to dry in the summer heat. I tried to smooth the wrinkles with my hands. There was no electricity to iron them.
After all, this was my relief interview, my first step toward living again.

I left home two hours early. There was almost no public transportation left in Gaza, so I walked through streets buried under rubble. Rats darted between broken sidewalks, and every damaged building above me felt like another danger waiting to fall. When a livestock cart stopped nearby, I climbed aboard without hesitation. It was uncomfortable, crowded, and humiliating, but it was the only way to arrive on time.

At last, I arrived. I walked into the reception area and, for the first time that morning, sat down on a chair to wait for my turn.

Ten minutes later, my name was called.

I walked into the interview room wearing the warmest smile I could manage. My simple clothes were even more wrinkled from the long, harsh journey, but I forced myself not to think about them.

I sat across from the interview panel.
The first question came almost immediately.

"Could you please introduce yourself?"

My heart froze. The air in the room felt tight, heavy with the sharp, comforting smell of fresh coffee, a stark contrast to the world outside.

It was such a simple question. Yet, after everything that had happened, it felt impossible.

How do you introduce yourself when the life that defined you no longer exists?

What should I say?

Should I introduce the woman I was before the war? Or the woman forged by three years of relentless genocide, displacement, and survival?

Should I tell them I graduated from the Faculty of Commerce? Or that I graduated from three years of surviving?

Which version of me did they want to hire? The woman who managed development projects? The woman who lost her home? The displaced woman? The woman who had forgotten what it felt like to plan for tomorrow? The woman who had learned to measure success by simply surviving another day? Or the woman who was still trying to believe she had a future?

In that breathless second, I finally knew how to introduce myself. Not by the career I used to have. Not by the house I lost. But by the simple, undeniable fact that I was still walking forward.

If I told them about my true experience, would they believe it after looking at my wrinkled shirt? If I spoke to them about leadership, would they notice the deep exhaustion etched across my face first? And if I spoke about resilience, would it just sound like another hollow buzzword people use when they don't know what else to say about Gaza?

My hands were trembling beneath the table, though I tried not to show it.
For a brief moment, I forgot every interview I had ever attended before the war.

I looked up.

No one interrupted.

No one looked impatient.

They simply waited.

The room fell silent.

For the first time that morning, I wasn't thinking about my wrinkled clothes anymore.

I wasn't thinking about washing them by hand because there was no electricity.

I wasn't thinking about cooking over firewood.

I wasn't thinking about searching for an internet signal just to send a single email.

I wasn't thinking about another day of displacement.

I was thinking about one question:

Who was I now?

I took a deep breath.

Then, at last, I found my voice.

"My name is Heba..."

I paused.

“And I'm still surviving."

It was seven in the morning, in the cruelest heat of August. There was no electricity, so we had slept on the rooftops, beneath an open sky.

Everything was still. I was deep in sleep, somewhere untouched by the morning, where nothing was urgent, where nothing was ending.

In my dream, the world was quiet. There was no running. No voices. Nothing to leave behind.

Usually, it was my mother who pulled me gently from sleep— because I was late, because she needed something from the market, because mornings had ordinary reasons.

But that morning, another voice reached me before my mother’s.

“Get up.”

A pause.

“We have to leave the house.”

Leave? Why would anyone
have to leave their home?

I lifted my head.

The dream disappeared.

Around me, people were waking from their places, one by one, slowly, uncertainly—as if everyone had opened their eyes to the same words I had just heard.

I looked at the faces around me.

No one spoke.

Fear had arrived before understanding.

Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone to explain what was happening.

But no one did.

And among those faces, I saw Dalou.

For the last time.

I never said goodbye.

How could I? I did not know
that someone could disappear
between one morning and the next. I did not know that a face you saw in the morning could become a face you would spend years trying to find again.

We climbed down from the rooftop. We began getting ready to leave the house. And I think, somewhere inside all of us, we wanted to stop time.

To pause that morning.

To remain there just a little longer.

To sit beneath that same sky, inside that same home, and pretend that nothing was asking us to leave.

But we had to go.

Not because we wanted to.

Not because we had somewhere else to go.

But because, that morning, staying was no longer a choice.

We left the house that had given us a life. The walls that had watched us grow. The rooms that knew our voices.
The corners that had witnessed
ordinary day we never thought we would miss.

We had never called anywhere else home.

We took almost nothing with us. Perhaps there was no time. Perhaps we thought we would be back before long.

Or perhaps we wanted our things to remain where they belonged. Inside the house. Because at least
they knew their destination. They knew where they were.

We did not.

We were going somewhere we had never chosen, toward a place
we did not know.

Before I got into the car, I turned around. I looked at my home. I tried to hold it with my eyes—every wall, every corner, every familiar piece of it.

I wanted to remember it exactly as it was.

I don't remember closing the door.

I don't remember checking whether it was locked.

I only remember that we left, for the first time, I was leaving my house
because I had to.

For the first time, the house was empty. For the first time, I did not look back to make sure the door was closed. Because we had never imagined that leaving home could mean leaving it behind.

We drove away.

And through the car window, I watched my village.

For the first time, I saw it empty.

Not quiet.

Not asleep.

Empty.

The streets that had once carried voices held nothing. The houses stood beneath the morning sun,
silent and open, as if they, too,
were waiting for someone to come back.

I kept looking.

I wanted to find someone.

Anyone.

A familiar face.

A child.

A neighbour.

Someone standing at a doorway. Someone waving. Someone who could make me believe this was still the village I knew.

But there was almost no one.

Only one family behind us. They had no car. They were running. I could see them through the window — their bodies moving as fast as they could, their faces carrying a fear that needed no explanation.

I watched them.

I kept watching until the distance swallowed them. And the car kept moving.

That was the last picture my village gave me: an empty road, and a family running along it, trying to reach a safety that was already moving away.

I did not know where they would go. I did not know what would happen to them. I only knew that I was watching them from behind a window, and that I could not stop.

Inside the car, no one spoke.

We sat close together, but silence had filled every space between us.

No one asked where we were going.

No one asked when we would return.

Maybe because there was no answer.

Or maybe because everyone already had an answer they were afraid to say.

Perhaps we were all still waiting to wake up.

Waiting for someone to tell us this was temporary. Waiting for the road to turn us around. Waiting for home to still be there when we come back.

But the car kept moving.

And perhaps the last words anyone heard before everything changed were the same words that woke me that morning: We have to leave the house.

And we did.

We left.

And the years passed.

Twelve years later. I almost arrive, but I never do. It is the same city, unchanged, untouched. The streets still whisper the names I once knew, but one thing is different — silence.

Never before has it been this quiet. What has become of it?

On my way, I wait for someone to greet me. Will my mother come? Will the children run to me? Will someone call my name from a doorway? Who will come?

I walk for hours.

No one arrives.

This is the longest journey of my life.

The city is the same. I recognize it. But it does not recognize me.

I call out— it does not hear.

I cry— it does not answer.

I look for the voices I remember, but the streets give me nothing back.

For the first time, I am a guest where I once belonged. Or perhaps only a passerby.

Everything stops as I walk through the streets.

The houses remain.

The roads remain.

The walls remain.

And yet, something is missing that I cannot name.

I wonder— where will the wheels rest? Where do you stop when the place you once called home
no longer knows how to receive you?

But the wheels do not stop.

I pass through without resting.

For the first time, my city is not a destination. It is only a crossing. And as I leave, I see sorrow in its eyes, as if the city itself is whispering, “I have no choice.”

And I want to answer— “But you know me. You have always known me.”

I want to tell it that I did not choose to become a stranger. That I did not choose to leave. That there was a morning when we were told to leave the house, and we did not know we were carrying our last pieces of home
with us.

I leave my heart behind, just as I did before. Only this time, I know exactly
what I am leaving.

And perhaps that is the cruelest part—
the first time, I left without knowing what I was losing.

The second time, I return knowing
exactly what is gone.

I almost arrive.

But I never do.

Because somewhere between the home I remember and the home I return to, there is a distance that twelve years could never cross.