Carrying Home in My Heart

by Atifa*

August 15, 2025

I can recall the smell of dust and fear that permeated the streets of Kabul the night when we evacuated 🌫️. It was in the middle of the night, and darkness covered everything like a heavy blanket. As we were hurried somewhere in a waiting car, my heart thumped in my chest 💓. My hands trembled. I was holding my bag, clutching to me as much as I could carry 🎒. I did not get a chance to say goodbye to most of my friends. Some I may never see again. I have abandoned my own home, my own street, my childhood 🏠.

We could not travel by airplane ✈️🚫. The Taliban had already occupied the airport, and the skies were not an option as a means of escape. Instead, we made a long, tense journey by car toward Pakistan 🚗. There was not a single moment that was not full of anxiety. We were not supposed to talk or draw attention to ourselves 🤐. Everyone’s eyes in the car were full of tears.

And yet somehow we left the border 🛂. Eventually, we reached the safe point where arrangements had been made for the next part of our travel — Pakistan 🇵🇰. From there, I was taken to Qatar 🇶🇦, still not knowing what was waiting for me there, or beyond.

Qatar was like the waiting room of our destiny ⏳. I was admitted into a women’s residential hall. Though we had a roof to shelter us, I had the twilight panic of uncertainty. Days blurred together: full of paperwork 📄 and waiting 🕰️. The food was unfamiliar, and there were times I hardly ate.

I found good friends in Qatar; we became each other’s family 🤝. The actual suffering was internal. My mind was filled with a storm ⛈️, but this storm was not of rain but of memories: Kabul in flames 🔥, the sounds and sights of neighbors in fear.

I shed silent tears, not willing to burden anybody further. I was missing my family 👪 and my friends. I longed for my mother’s voice calling me for tea 🍵. I was even more isolated because of the language barrier 🗣️🚫.

It was a surreal feeling when we finally got to the United States 🇺🇸. Everything was large: streets, shops, houses. Yet I was so little 🌱. I had pictured warm welcomes, but instead the house was small, cold, and empty ❄️. Worse still was the reception — no smiles, no words of comfort, only instructions. I began from zero again 🔄.

Some days I did not want to leave my bed 🛏️. Even small reminders of home — traditional bread 🥖 or the call to prayer — could not be found. My identity felt lost.

But during those lonely hours, I saw something else: I had lived 🌟. I clung to the idea that survival itself was a victory 🏆.

And slowly, something changed 🌅. I got a job at a bank 🏦. My colleagues were friendly and supportive 🙌. My job was proof that I was not trapped, but moving forward ➡️.

I am still homesick 🏠, but now I do not feel invisible. We are immigrants 🌍, and we are powerful. Hope will never be lost 🌈.

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* it is a pseudonym.