Narrated by: Anonymous
I am an Afghan woman—once a literature teacher in Kabul, now an unwelcome exile living on the outskirts of Shiraz. I am neither a journalist nor a political activist, but I carry a notebook filled with words no one has read.
For the past two years, I’ve lived in a narrow alleyway tucked between the crumbling walls of old houses. The city smells of orange blossoms, yet for people like us—refugees—the air is always heavy.
When tensions erupted in the Gulf, rumors began to spread like wildfire: Afghans were allegedly aiding “foreign agents,” building drones, smuggling arms. Neighbors started looking at me differently, as if I were a ticking time bomb.
One day at the market, I heard sirens. Several police officers were forcing a young Afghan woman to the ground. She screamed that she’d only come out to buy bread. A small crowd gathered. The shopkeeper beside me muttered, “They’re all trouble. They should go back to where they came from.” I stayed silent. My heart trembled.
At home, my little boy asked, “Mama, why are we here?” I had no answer. I just held him close, hiding my tears in his hair.
I teach a night class for refugee children. Their parents whisper about deportation notices, midnight raids, and forced sales of homes at impossible losses. Some families have already fled across the border in the dark. Others—paralyzed by fear—wait for the inevitable.
Whenever a crime is reported, the first suspects are always Afghans. But when the truth reveals an Iranian culprit, silence follows. We are seen only as problems—guilty until proven otherwise, and forgotten even then.
I’ve written to refugee support organizations multiple times. The last response I received said, “You are not a priority.” That sentence hit harder than any border guard’s shove.
Now, in the stillness of night, I open my notebook and write: “We are people without a place. This city is not ours. That homeland is no longer home.” And I pray my children never ask, “Mama, where do we belong?”
