Between Borders and Belonging: An Afghan Journey from Kabul to Québec

by Tameem

August 15, 2025

It was August 12, 2021. The Afghan National Security and Defense Forces were retreating, and the circle around Kabul was tightening by the hour. Following the US–Taliban peace agreement signed in February, international troops were preparing to withdraw. In Bagram, much of their equipment, vehicles, and ammunition had already been destroyed to prevent misuse. Despite the alarming developments, the Afghan government remained publicly optimistic, still hoping for continued US support and the sustained presence of international forces on Afghan soil.

As a journalist closely following these events, I no longer shared that optimism. My sense was that political stability in the country had collapsed 😔. I was drowning in thought, working late into the night, unaware of how much time had passed. I kept reaching out to sources to verify territorial changes and confirm retreats. Just before dawn on the morning of August 13th, Kathy Gannon, the AP’s Afghanistan and Pakistan bureau chief, reached out to me from the United States. She feared Kabul was on the verge of violence. Her message was brief but urgent: “Tameem, leave the country if you can.” 🚨

By then, I was living in a safehouse alone. Under normal circumstances, I, like most other Afghans, lived in a large and multigenerational household — I lived with my mother, two brothers, grandmother, wife, and two kids. We used to have dinners together and celebrate all our little happinesses despite the violent situation in the country ❤️. In early 2019, the national security department told me to minimize my movements in Kabul due to security threats. Instead of jeopardizing the lives of my family, I spent all my savings buying visas on the black market to move my family to Turkey. However, my wife refused to go. She and my children moved with me to a new address. At that time, I was writing about what journalists were going through in Afghanistan: several journalists had been killed in different attacks, and their families targeted afterwards. One morning, Islamic State affiliates in Kabul fired mortars from an ordinary Toyota car towards the diplomatic areas of Kabul 💥. We were living right in the middle of the targeted areas. My responsibilities always pushed me to focus first on reporting for the news outlet. Later, my wife and I realized that our daughter was missing. We searched all over the apartment, and finally found her hiding under the dinner table, traumatized 😢. We asked her what she was doing there, and she responded, “I am afraid. Is it over?” That moment convinced my wife to join my family in Turkey.

As the morning of August 13 broke, I walked to the KamAir head office, having failed to find tickets through Ariana Airlines. I got a ticket, passed a COVID-19 test, packed only what I had in the office safe house, and headed for the airport ✈️. I documented my departure and filed it for the Associated Press. When I arrived in Istanbul, news of President Ghani’s escape had already broken.

I continued reporting from abroad, covering the airport evacuations, the terrorist attack on the gates, and the final US withdrawal. After a few months, I relocated to Pakistan, as Ankara refused to process US Priority-2 visa applications. My wife and our two children — a four-year-old son and a seven-year-old daughter — joined me in Islamabad. While waiting for our P-2 application to be processed, I became eligible for Canada’s special humanitarian visa for journalists. It took six months before I reached where I am now 🌍.

Looking back, I often question how migration policies are understood by those who create them 🤔. In theory, states assert sovereignty over their borders, drafting laws that regulate who enters, who stays, and under what conditions. But my own experience, like that of so many Afghans, does not fit neatly within those frameworks. When Canada later approved my application under a humanitarian journalist category, it was not because their policies were designed with people like me in mind. It was the result of media advocacy, international pressure, and a bureaucratic workaround.

This mismatch between policy and reality is further complicated by the role of rights discourse. In Pakistan, I was not granted any legal status while waiting. I was treated not as a journalist or an evacuee but as a temporary problem — someone to be ignored rather than protected. I had no rights, either on paper or in practice. Even in Canada, where I am safer, there is a quiet tension between being welcomed and being watched 👀.

Upon our arrival in Canada, however, we were warmly welcomed 🤝. We were received at the airport and taken to a hotel, and government agents with translators were appointed to guide us through the integration process. They helped me rent my first apartment, purchase necessities, and provided basic furniture and appliances such as a fridge, stove, washer, and dryer. My children were enrolled in school immediately, and my wife and I were referred to French-language classes.

Still, I carried a lingering sense of insecurity and internalized anxiety from years of instability. Considering the small Afghan community in Quebec, I chose to stay here rather than move to cities with larger Afghan populations. I wanted to focus on language and integration, even if that meant being slightly more isolated. I appreciate that Canada allows us to practice our religion and culture freely 🕌. This, perhaps more than any other policy, made me feel human again.

Today, my wife and I speak French and work, although in labor-intensive jobs. My prior professional experience and academic background no longer hold value in the same way here 📄. The system does not easily recognize what I bring with me. But I remain hopeful 🌱. With my degree from the American University of Afghanistan, I believe there is still a future, something better ahead. And above all, I am optimistic for my children’s future in this new country.