Kabul, too, was not happy…
The weather had become bitterly cold. It was mid-November, and as the saying goes, we were nearing the forty-day winter period. The cold wind blew, and yellow, red, orange, brown, and even colors whose names might not exist—or maybe I just don’t know—had filled the alleys of Kabul. Dust and dirt swirled around, occasionally hitting my eyes, burning them. The sun rarely showed itself, and I, like the weather, felt gloomy.
At dismissal time, I stood in the schoolyard with three of my friends. As usual, I said goodbye to them casually. After they left, I went to teach English to the second and third-grade students who were struggling. After the lesson, I headed to the school library, started reading a book, and teased the new girl in charge of the library a little.
On my way home, the streets were empty and lifeless. A unique sadness crept into me, as if time was freezing inside my heart. The walk wasn’t too long—about ten minutes—until I reached the gate of our house. I knocked. Two minutes or so passed, but no one answered. I knocked again. This time, my four-year-old sister opened the door. Her eyes were red and filled with tears. Without hesitation, I asked, “What happened? Why are you crying?” She hesitated and said, “We’re leaving.”
My heart skipped a beat. A sudden chill ran through my body, but I didn’t take her seriously—she was small and often overly emotional.
As always, I quickly entered the courtyard and rushed downstairs, taking off my shoes. But when I entered the house, I felt like my heart had shattered into pieces. Everything was packed. Everyone was busy. I already knew we would go to Pakistan soon—Kabul’s situation worsened daily: harsher laws, fewer jobs, more hunger, less peace, and more anxiety. But I hadn’t expected we’d be leaving that very day.
It shocked me. I walked through the house, taking in every corner. I was seeing it for the last time. What broke me even more was the thought that I was leaving my city and country. The pain was unbearable. I went to the back alley and stared at the city in silence. Tears rolled down my cheeks. Time was slipping away, and I desperately wished it would stop so we wouldn’t have to go.
Evening came. I tried to call my closest friend to let her know, but she didn’t answer. On the third try, she finally picked up and, without giving me a chance to speak, said they had many guests over and had gone shopping that evening. Hearing this tightened the knot in my throat and made my eyes sting. She said we’d talk more tomorrow at school. I, knowing I wouldn’t go to school tomorrow—or maybe never again—was overwhelmed with sadness. I struggled to tell her, “We’re leaving.” She thought I was joking. I replied, “You’ll see tomorrow,” and ended the call.
The stars were visible. I sat and stared at the sky, sorrowful, as childhood memories flashed before my eyes.
It was time to leave. I picked up some dust from the alley and held it tightly in my hand. My mother kissed the earth, and I did the same. We said goodbye to our neighbor and got into a small van. I saw many emotions on the neighbor’s face—grief, strength, and a bit of tears.
The van drove off toward a long and difficult road. As we passed Darulaman, the palace looked more beautiful than ever. Few shops were open. The roads were dark and empty—just like our vehicle. I liked that because when I cried in silence, no one saw me.
I cried the whole way until midnight—not consciously, but because I couldn’t help it. I didn’t want my eyes to be swollen by morning. Still, the tears kept falling. Suddenly, drops landed on my hand—I realized my aunt was crying too. Later, my mother told me she cried the whole way as well.
It was incredibly painful to leave my homeland—the place where I was born and raised, the land my skin and bones belonged to. But we had no choice. We stayed a year after the government fell, but things only got harder.
That night was the hardest night of my life—and maybe it always will be. Kabul, in that final look, seemed broken, destroyed, and tired. It wasn’t the Kabul I grew up in—strong, joyful, and beautiful.
That night, Kabul too was sad—because of oppression and restrictions, because of ignorance and injustice. Kabul, too, was not happy.
Tahera K.
Guest Writer
Girl Museum