Author:Mahtab
The night was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the city outside. I, Mahtab, a 21-year-old girl, lay on a worn mattress in our cramped apartment, clutching a tattered blanket as if it could shield me from the world. Then, out of nowhere, a deafening bang shattered the quiet. A brutal kick slammed against the metal door, sending a jolt through my body. My heart pounded like a trapped bird, each beat echoing the terror that gripped me. Another kick, then another, each one tearing through the fragile safety of our home.
I scrambled to the corner of the room, curling into a ball as if I could make myself invisible. The dim glow from a streetlamp barely reached through the cracked window, casting long, menacing shadows. My breath came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the fear choking me. The banging grew louder, more insistent, accompanied by harsh shouts: “Open the door!” But I was frozen, unable to move, unable to think, praying this was just a nightmare I’d wake from.
Time stretched into an eternity of dread. Each thud against the door felt like a hammer striking my soul. Then, with a sickening crunch, the door gave way. Three men in dark uniforms stormed in, their heavy boots echoing like thunder on the concrete floor. Their flashlights sliced through the darkness, pinning me in their glare. One of them, his voice cold as steel, demanded, “Where are your papers?” My trembling hands fumbled for my passport, buried under a pile of clothes. I handed it over, knowing it was useless—my visa had expired months ago. My older sister, my only family here, was lying in a hospital bed, and I hadn’t dared leave the house to renew my documents, paralyzed by the fear of arrest.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice barely audible, “my sister’s sick. I’m alone.” But their faces were stone, untouched by my pleas. One of them began ransacking the room, flipping over cushions, emptying drawers, as if I’d hidden some dark secret. All they found was a small notebook filled with my scribbled dreams and fears.
“I thought I was going to die,” I later confided to a neighbor, my voice still shaking. “Each kick felt like it was ripping me apart. I pressed myself against the wall, but there was no escape. Even now, I can’t shake the sound of those boots.”
The apartment wasn’t home anymore. It was just walls, stained with the stench of fear. That night, they didn’t take me—maybe because my tears softened them, or maybe they just grew tired. But the terror stayed, a constant shadow in my chest. Every night, as I close my eyes, I hear those kicks again, like a drumbeat of despair.
In this corner of Islamabad, I’m not alone. There are others—women, children, elders—who wake each day to the same dread. We’re refugees, guilty of nothing but hoping for a sliver of safety. Yet here, even hope feels like a crime.
Every morning, I tell myself to be strong. But when night falls and the shadows creep back, I know fear is still waiting, ready to strike with the next knock on the door.
