Hello world!

I don’t remember the first time I heard the word "refugee," but I know it has followed me for as long as I can remember. It was never just a word—it was an identity thrust upon me the moment I was born in Pakistan. Before I could even understand who I was, the world had already decided for me. I wasn’t just a child; I was a refugee. It didn’t matter that I was born here, that I had never known another home.

Some of my earliest memories are of my parents whispering anxiously in the next room, their voices filled with unease. Every year, it was the same conversation—Pakistan had made a new decision, another policy to send Afghan refugees back. I didn’t fully understand what it meant at the time, but I knew it was something bad. My mother’s worried glances, my father’s heavy sighs, the tension in our home—my stomach was constantly twisted in fear.

As I grow older, I begin to understand. No matter how long we have lived here, no matter how much we try to build a life, we will never truly belong. Our future is always uncertain. The possibility of being forced to leave, of packing up everything and stepping into the unknown, looms over us like a dark cloud. It is an unspoken truth we all carry.

The Nightmare Returns

Each year, the nightmare returns. Stories of Afghan families being arrested, detained, and deported spread like wildfire. Every day, we hear whispers of people being taken away. We don’t go out much—not because we don’t want to, but because fear has built walls around us. What if we are stopped? What if we are asked for documents we don’t have? What if, in an instant, everything we know is torn away from us? The thought alone is suffocating.

It is hard to explain what it feels like to be treated like an outsider in the only place we have ever known—to have a home yet never feel safe in it, to constantly live with the fear that one day, everything will be taken from us.

I see the weight of it all in my parents. My father once worked in a hospital back in Afghanistan after studying pharmacy, and my mother was a teacher. When they got married, they had to leave everything behind and immigrate to Pakistan, hoping for safety. But here, they couldn’t hold the positions they once had. Refugees don’t get those opportunities. My mother became a housewife, and my father, like millions of others, became a daily wager. For years, he did whatever work he could find—construction, labor, and unstable, casual jobs. But six months ago, even that was taken from him. He lost his job, and with it, the small sense of stability we had managed to hold on to.

I watched as the stress deepened the lines on his face, as he tried to hide his worry from us. But I could hear the conversations at night—How will we pay for food? How will we cover the rent? What happens next?

Denied a Future 

All our lives, undocumented Afghan refugees have been called "illegal" in Pakistan. Yet, according to The Pakistan Citizenship Act of 1951, anyone born in Pakistan after April 13, 1951, is legally a citizen—unless they are the child of a foreign diplomat or an ‘enemy alien’. Yet, in reality, we remain invisible, unacknowledged, and permanently branded as illegal. It hurts to be told we don’t belong in a place where even the law says we do.

Being a refugee in Pakistan is not just about lacking citizenship—it is about being denied everything: a future, a chance, a sense of belonging. I watch my Pakistani friends dream of becoming doctors, engineers, and teachers. I want to dream too, but I know that for me, the path is different. The doors that are open to them are firmly shut for me.

I feel like a bird locked in a cage, wings clipped, forced to watch others fly freely. And outside that cage, wolves wait, ready to tear me apart the moment I try to escape.

I see a reflection of my parents in my own life. My mother once told me, “I was unable to pursue my studies in dental medicine at university because of Afghanistan’s wars and political issues.” Now, I see the same struggles unfolding in my own life. I was in 10th grade in 2021 when the dark clouds returned, and once again, schools and universities were banned for me and thousands of other girls. We had so many ambitions, so many hopes for our futures, but one day, we woke up and had to bury them deep in our hearts. 

In Pakistan, I can’t go to school either—not because I don’t want to, but because of the endless barriers I face as a refugee. The costs are too high, and even more than that, there’s the issue of documentation. The proof-of-registration cards we hold expire every three months, and without valid documents, we can’t enroll in schools or universities. I’m not the only one—so many young Afghan refugees in Pakistan, full of potential, are forced to shut the doors on their dreams of education. I just hope that no child after me will have to endure this darkness.

When US Aid Disappears: The Growing Crisis of Deportation

Ever since Trump became president and cut off foreign aid, things have only gotten worse. The aid that had previously deterred the Pakistani government from implementing stricter policies about Afghan refugees is no longer there. Now, with that gone, the pressure to send us back has only increased. The tension in our community has grown. Deportations have been dramatically escalating. Police are cracking down even harder. Families who have lived here for decades are being rounded up, sent away with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

Some nights, I lie awake, listening to my parents talk about backup plans—what we would do if we were next. But there are no plans. There is nowhere to go.

Right now, I feel more hopeless than ever, thinking about what my future will be like if I am constantly living in fear, trapped in a life where I can’t fulfill my dreams. No matter how much effort I put in, no matter how much I want to build a future, I am always reminded that my existence here is temporary, unwanted.

And yet, despite everything, I love this land. I love its people, its streets, its air. No matter what country it is, home is where you build your life, where your memories are made. But the policies, the decisions that constantly push us into terror and uncertainty, are not what we deserve.

No human being should have to live in this endless cycle of stress, of feeling unwelcome, of being treated as if they are not wanted anywhere. We are not asking for more than what every person deserves—a life where we can exist without constant dread, without being told we are nothing.

If you are reading this, please understand that stateless people like me are not just statistics; we are human beings.

Every day, I wake up wondering if this is the day everything will change—if this is the day we will be told to leave. I live in waiting—waiting for a home, waiting for belonging. But how long can a person live in waiting before they disappear entirely? If you had to live your whole life as a shadow, never knowing when you might be erased, could you call that a life at all?

Author: Jaleh*, 18, Pakistan 

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Your contribution helps us to ensure more Afghan women and girls have access to education, opportunity, and hope. 

*Not her real name.