I am Afghan

By Sina Behboodzadeh 

I was 22 years old when I had to leave Afghanistan for political reasons. Just at the moment when I was beginning to spread my wings to fly toward the dreams and hopes I had carried in my heart for years. Laughter fell silent, and tears flowed all the more easily.

Whenever I think about the challenges and pain of my childhood in Afghanistan, a heavy veil of memory settles over my heart. The way to school was no ordinary path—it was a journey through a world where every moment could have been the last. Each day was a balancing act between courage and fear, between the longing for knowledge and the harsh reality waiting outside the door.

I remember the mornings when I left the house with a pounding heart, while my mother watched me go—with a look that was more prayer than farewell. On one of those days, an explosion shook the street next to my school. The air grew heavy, as if time had stood still for a moment. The walls trembled, chaos erupted, tears filled the eyes of my classmates. And my father, terrified of losing me, waited, trembling, behind the school gate.

Later, at the beginning of my university studies, I lived each day in fear that the university gates would close due to the growing threat of the Taliban and that fear became a bitter reality. These moments were a constant reminder of how fragile our world was. Peace was only a distant dream for us. I never experienced it – only saw it on screens, in shiny news images, in films that spoke of a better world.

While children on the other side of the world lived in safety and comfort, that reality remained foreign to me. Their nights were filled with bedtime stories and the soothing whispers of their parents: “Everything is okay.” For me, “Everything is okay” was a phrase I could never truly understand. I dreamed of one day falling asleep without being woken by fear.

And yet, despite all the fear and uncertainty that surrounded us daily, we remained steadfast. We trembled, but we did not break. The sound of the explosions echoed on, but our will to survive, to learn, and to dream remained unshaken. I never lost faith in my pen. I sought peace in the nib I held in my hand.

While others attended school only half the day, I was there from morning until evening – learning, hoping, fighting. The nights remained sleepless, as I strove for a place at university. Every day was a new battle, against exhaustion, against the fear that all my efforts might be in vain.

But I made it. I was accepted to study Political Science. For four years, I fought for children, for peace, for a better future. I worked tirelessly, without pause, in the hope of getting closer to my dream – until the day came when I had to leave the country.

Migration – saying goodbye to everything.

Never had I imagined leaving my homeland. Migration was never an option for me, never even a thought. But sometimes life leads us down the paths we did not choose. The news that we would be deported from Afghanistan to Germany – in just four months – hit us like a blow. It felt as if a dream shattered far too soon, and a part of my life was simply erased. There wasn’t enough time to truly arrive.

The feeling of closing your homeland’s door for the last time – that final look carries a pain that words can hardly describe. Every familiar corner whispers memories you don’t want to let go of. And yet, I turned around with a heavy heart, knowing I might never see that place again.

Migration is much more than a change of location. It is a journey deep into your own self. It’s a path through longing, through doubt, through fear and through courage that pushes you to keep going nonetheless. On this journey, you encounter not only a new culture, but also yourself, more vulnerable, yet stronger than ever before. You encounter looks and behaviors that silently tell you: You are foreign. You are different. Not “one of us.” And that feeling quietly gnaws at you – until you begin to doubt your own place in this world.

But today, after two and a half years in exile, I am filled with deep pride that I’ve reached the point of starting my university studies. I was able to become a scholarship recipient, I work as a language mediator in three languages, and I volunteer without pay for a better world.

While others at my age in Germany lived stable, ordinary lives, I was fighting for survival. I felt the bitterness of life in my youth. I may only be 24 years old, but I know life, with all its pain, better than many ever will. I have suffered, I have cried, but I never stopped moving forward.

This story is not only mine, it is the story of many Afghans. We Afghans are not criminals, not a threat. We are people who carry the weight of the world on our shoulders—without ever being asked. But does the world understand what we’ve been through? 

How many lives have been destroyed by political decisions that served not the people, but only the interests of power? How many Afghans were forced to leave their homeland – not because they wanted to, but because they were left defenseless in the storm of international politics? Who plunged Afghanistan into chaos, to the point where there is no longer a place in this world for those who simply want to survive?

Please, do not judge an entire people based on the actions of a few. Do not drag us into your political games just because some have chosen the path of injustice.

Sina Behboodzadeh is a graduate of Law and Political Science from Herat University. Three years ago, following the Taliban’s return to power in Afghanistan, she migrated to Germany, where she now resides. She is currently applying to pursue a master’s degree in International Politics in Germany.