Originally published in Zan Times (April 8, 2026)
Exactly three months ago, I was at work in Pakistan when my phone rang inside my bag. It was my father, a watchmaker in the Dir region of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa. I hadn’t even finished saying hello when he said, “Come home … a notice has arrived. We have to go to Afghanistan.”
By the time the call ended, it felt as though everything had suddenly come to an end. It was the hardest day of my life. I left work and, once home, went to the bathroom. There, I cried so much that I could barely breathe and could not make a sound. A future lay ahead of me whose path was unknown and whose end I could not see.
At that time, my mother had just undergone surgery and was hospitalized. She was very weak. We asked the Pakistani authorities to delay our deportation so that her condition could improve before we returned, but they did not grant us any more time. We were forced to pack up our home and prepare to leave for Afghanistan.
My name is Sonia. I am 26 years old, and I was born in Pakistan. My parents were married there, and all of my siblings grew up there. I completed my school, college, and university education in Pakistan. I was living in a dormitory while in the final semester of a Master’s degree in English literature at Islamia University of Peshawar. Our family lived in the Dir region of Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
At the same time, I had two jobs. From 9 am to 2 pm, I taught English, and from 2 pm to 8 pm I worked at a clinic as a dental assistant. I earned 20,000 rupees a month from the first job and 50,000 from the other. I spent all of this money on my education and personal needs.
Before being deported to Afghanistan, I made many efforts to obtain a visa to stay in Pakistan so I could complete the final semester of my Master’s degree. My application was rejected. My friends and classmates could not help either, and in the end, I was deported to Afghanistan with my family.
My mother, my three brothers, and I crossed the Torkham border ahead of the rest of our family. We spent a full day and night in a camp. Because of my mother’s illness, we then moved to Jalalabad, while my father and my other brothers stayed behind with our belongings and crossed the border three days later.
As we were traveling from Torkham to Jalalabad, everything felt unfamiliar to me — dry mountains, vast plains, and a silent environment. I felt no sense of belonging to this land; it was as if I had arrived in a foreign country.
The hardest part for me was that here, girls do not go to school, nor to university, and they are not allowed to work. All doors are closed to them. This situation was unimaginable to me; I could not believe that such conditions truly existed.
For a while, we stayed at my uncle’s house in Behsood district of Nangarhar. Our relatives and friends were incredibly hospitable; they would not even allow us to light a fire or cook for ourselves. But this situation could not continue. My uncle’s house was small, and he had a large family of his own.
The life we had in Pakistan is not comparable to what we have here. There, we had access to electricity, internet, doctors, education, and work. Here, we do not even have a proper roof over our heads. We are now living on a barren piece of land, inside a tent. We have hung up makeshift curtains to create some kind of shelter. My family is trying to find a house to rent.
My life has completely changed. I am now confined to the home — without work or education. In Afghanistan, access to the internet is very difficult to obtain. In Pakistan, I worked, earned money, and could meet all my needs, but here I do not even have the money to activate an internet package.
I spend a lot of time thinking. Sometimes, I cry alone at home. I cannot study, and I have no distractions. When living in Pakistan, I spent my days outside the family home — working, studying, and working on my research project. Here, everything is halted. Psychologically, I have been deeply affected. Nothing brings me joy anymore—not books, not conversation, not even sleep.
I hide my pain from my family. My father has heart disease, and my mother remains unhappy. I do not want them to worry about my sorrow. But with each passing day, I feel myself fading.
The strangest experience for me here was when my cousin became pregnant and her due date approached. She had gone to a woman who had only two years of midwifery training. That woman told her she had severe anemia and that her life was in danger. My cousin was terrified. I told her to see a qualified male specialist. When she went to a professional doctor, they told her there was nothing wrong, and she later had a normal and easy delivery.
I am not saying these issues exist only in Afghanistan; it sometimes happens in Pakistan that someone with just two years of training would operate a private clinic. But there, it was easier to recognize such people. Here, no one seems able to tell the difference.
Now, my greatest wish is to obtain a visa, return to Pakistan, complete my Master’s degree, and then come back to my country. I want to work, to have my own clinic, and to rebuild my life.
My father still tells me, “Everything will be alright.”
But I do not know when — or how.
About the Author: Hosai Ismail Khan is the pseudonym of a female journalist in Afghanistan who has written Sonia’s story using her own words; names have been changed for security reasons. Zan Times is a women-led, investigative newsroom that covers human rights violations in Afghanistan with a focus on women, the LGBTQ community, and environmental issues.
