An Afghan Girl in Exile: Between Borders, Fear, and Resistance

By Hasina Akbari 

I am an Afghan refugee in Pakistan, writing these words on the final day of my legal visa. I sit quietly in a small café in Islamabad, pretending to be calm while the storm inside me grows louder. I came here to feel the outside world one last time—to breathe in freedom before I’m forced back into hiding. With each minute, I slip deeper into illegality—not by choice, but by the conditions imposed on me.

This story is not just mine. It is a reflection on what it means to live as an Afghan refugee today—especially as a young woman. While politicians argue over borders and papers, we live in the quiet reality of fear, uncertainty, and invisibility. Through this piece, I want to document that reality, to share what it feels like to survive, to resist, and to remain human in a system that tries to erase us.

We are not just numbers. We are people. We are stories—of loss, of courage, of endurance.

A Day in the Life: Fear as a Constant Companion

My phone buzzes. A friend whispers in panic, “The police raided a house last night in our neighborhood—eight families were taken, including two children.” I close my eyes. I knew them. My heart races—not because this is new, but because it could be me next.

I know people who have gone days without eating. Families who’ve been evicted now sleep in parks, or wander the streets and bazaars for hours, hoping not to be arrested if the police come to their homes. Mothers cover their children with plastic sheets when it rains, or huddle under trees in the burning heat of Pakistan.

And then there are young women like me—educated, hopeful, once full of dreams—now hiding behind curtains, too afraid to step outside for fear of arrest or harassment. My refugee card, once a symbol of protection, now offers no safety. Presenting it during a police inspection could just as easily become my deportation notice.

At night, I pour all my feelings and fury onto paper. I teach art therapy online to Afghan girls in secret. I sell my paintings to buy internet data for them and food for my family. But all of this—my small acts of survival—could disappear with a single knock at the door.

The Larger Picture: Policy, Prejudice, and Powerlessness

In October 2023, the Pakistani government announced plans to deport undocumented Afghan nationals. Despite appeals from international organizations to stop forced returns, mass arrests and deportations began. Reports by Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch highlight the inhumane treatment many refugees endure: unlawful detentions, harassment, separation of families, and even extortion. These deportations continue, even though many face torture, imprisonment, poverty, or starvation upon return.

What’s worse is the silence. Global attention has shifted elsewhere.

Since January 2025, the Pakistani government has planned to deport 3 million Afghan refugees by the end of the year. Refugees with Afghan Citizen Cards are now forced to leave Islamabad and other major cities. Only visa holders are allowed to remain—but they must now pay expensive monthly fees for visa extensions, a process that was previously done unofficially every six months on the black market.

And as always, women suffer more.

Without legal status, they cannot access healthcare, education, or report abuse. Afghan girls born here are treated as though they don’t exist. Their only “crime” is being born stateless.

Resisting Through Care, Creativity, and Community

Yet, in the midst of all this fear and oppression, we resist. Not with protests—because that would mean arrest—but through care.

We resist by teaching each other. By cooking in community kitchens. By creating underground classrooms. By gathering in sisterhood sewing circles and online poetry workshops. I’ve seen women give their last piece of bread to another family. I’ve seen girls paint their sorrow with colors brighter than any flag.

We are not victims. We are survivors.

And our resistance is quiet—but powerful.

Carrying the Silence

This piece is more than just my story—it’s the story of thousands of Afghan refugees who live each day between fear and hope. We ask not for pity, but for recognition. For the right to exist without fear.

Our voices have been silenced too many times. Through this article, I hope to break that silence—to speak not just for myself, but for every Afghan woman forced into the shadows.

To those who read this: don’t look away.

Let our stories live on—in your memory, in your actions, in your advocacy. Because every human being deserves to be seen.

I pick up my bag and step out of the café. Behind me, the laughter of boys and girls echoes through the room—a sound that now feels foreign to me, like peace.

Note: The contents of the article are of sole responsibility of the author. Afghan Diaspora Network will not be responsible for any inaccurate or incorrect statement in the articles.