The author, whose name and identifying information are being withheld by The Globe and Mail out of concern for his safety, is a 14-year-old boy living in Afghanistan with his family. They are currently applying to come to Canada as refugees through their lawyer, Erin Simpson, of Landings LLP. The boy has previously written for The Globe.
I was both sad and happy when our family made our final preparations to leave Afghanistan forever – or at least, what I thought would be forever.
It was late August of 2021, a few days after Kabul fell to the Taliban. The sun was shining as I took a look at my room one last time, before getting into a car that my father had hired to take us to a neighbouring country hours away, from where we planned to seek refugee protection in Canada.
When we got to the border, it was very crowded; we got out and walked for about an hour, my father heaving my little sister to his shoulder to protect her from being trampled by others also trying to cross. Dust clouds, rising in the air, left my eyes itchy. Angry-looking Taliban soldiers wielded their big weapons as if looking for their next target, and my heart raced as we walked past them. I couldn’t help but think: What if they turned their guns on us?
So when we reached the other side of the border, getting into another car to take us to our destination, I felt relief wash over me. I allowed myself to fall deep in happy thoughts, thinking we were finally safe.
But then, suddenly, our car flew off the main road and started flipping over and over. When it finally came to rest and we all stopped screaming, our bloody bodies were stuck in the car.
What followed was a whole new nightmare. The authorities in the neighbouring country became involved, and we were subjected to unthinkable cruelty there. In the end, we were sent back to Afghanistan. We had missed our chance at safety.
Having been forced back, I found that much had changed in the new Afghanistan. The Taliban had removed Afghanistan’s tricolour flag, and when it was taken down across the country, it felt like my identity was also erased. In an October game between Scotland’s national cricket team and Afghanistan’s – its first since the fall of Kabul – the players were so moved by the playing of the anthem and the fluttering of the black, red and green flag that they started crying. I also cried. I was so happy to hear my beautiful anthem and see the flag after a long time.
My naturally inquiring mind and the liberal values I was raised with now put me at risk. I was afraid that I might speak my mind and put myself and my family in danger; I knew I’d struggle to keep my mouth shut, so I decided that for my safety, I had to stay in the house, rather than playing cricket with other kids in the neighbourhood.
Still, I was tested. I went out to buy snacks from a nearby shop, and ran into a kid I used to play with. He asked me how I felt about the current government. I replied, “I don’t know.” He asked, “How do you not know?” I replied: “I just don’t think about these things.” He wanted to get an answer from me, but I forced myself not to say anything.
Even at home, my mother told me not to talk about politics, instructing me to live as if the walls of the house had ears. She had grown up during the Taliban’s last time in power, and she told me that her family would be able to hear people through the walls, so I should trust no one, because even my own home could betray me. I felt like someone was suffocating me.
Our whole city was surrounded by Taliban soldiers, and it was terrifying. At night, when I studied, I heard loud explosions; as I looked across my rooftop, I saw Taliban soldiers firing their guns in the air in triumph. It was as if their victory never ended, just like the misery they inflicted on us. On the news, I learned that many soldiers were firing their guns because they were bored and missed the battlefield. I worried that one day, they would become so bored that they would start shooting people at random.
Eventually, I stopped talking much altogether. My family became worried about me, until my father finally asked me what was wrong. “I feel imprisoned,” I told him. “I do not want to live in a country that is run by terrorists.”
Seeing me like this, my parents made the decision to try leaving Afghanistan again, no matter how dangerous it would be.
And so again, we travelled to that neighbouring country, this time with visas that give us the right to enter for 60 days. After that time, we will again be in danger, with no right to remain, vulnerable to deportation back to Afghanistan. I fear we will not survive a second deportation.
Canada has said they will schedule our interview again, but our time here is running out; an entire month has already passed. So I find myself scared of reliving my nightmares, and desperate to run toward my dreams.
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