It was almost 2:25 in the afternoon. Sounds from every corner reached my ears, each carrying its own message, perhaps searching for a glimpse of hope to continue life. This was the Islam Qala border in Herat, and the gates of the refugee camp were open. Afghan returnees entered one after another.
As I walked a few steps into the camp’s courtyard, I noticed a family in one corner with young daughters. Three of the girls, roughly the same height, immediately caught my attention. I approached the family and befriended the father, a man appearing nearly sixty years old. I introduced myself as a journalist from Khate-Nakhost and told him I wanted to hear their story. He agreed, giving his name as Juma Khan and his father’s name as Ayub.
Juma Khan seemed anxious as he spoke, and I could see worry in his eyes. He explained that after forty years of living in Iran, he and his family had been deported back to Afghanistan. He had three daughters—Zainab, Kawsar, and Roya, aged 21, 18, and 11—and a son named Ali Asghar, who was 8.
I asked Juma Khan when and why he had left Afghanistan. He replied, “I was a child living in Sar-e-Pul province. Life then was not safe; insecurity and theft were rampant. My father worried for our safety. I was about 14 when he decided that to survive the chaos and war, we must go to Iran. A few months after me, my father migrated alone with only a radio that remained with him.”
Juma Khan added, “I was born in 1349 in the Persian calendar. So I am not sixty yet—I am fifty-five.”
I asked how life had been during those forty years in Iran. He answered, “It was very hard, especially after marrying my cousin. For eleven years, we had no children, and then God blessed us with four. I worked tirelessly from sunrise to sunset. Most of my life I was a construction worker, sometimes a farmer. Often, I struggled to get my wages from my employers, who did not pay easily. I had to lie, saying my parents were sick or bills needed to be paid, otherwise I wouldn’t get my money. I worked hard so my children could study and live comfortably.”
He continued, “My eldest daughter finished school up to grade 12, my second daughter to grade 11, my youngest daughter to grade 9, and my son studied until grade 2 in Iran. Their education came with thousands of challenges—from discrimination to heavy school fees.”
I asked him what he wanted to do now that he had returned to Afghanistan and what worries he had. The 55-year-old Juma Khan replied, “I do not expect much. We know no one here, and we have no home. I only want a tent for shelter, my children to have access to education, and not to have to beg anyone.”
My last question to him was whether, knowing the hardships he faced in Iran, he would choose to go there again if he could turn back forty years. Juma Khan said, “No.” With a lump in his throat and a desire to cry, though something held him back, he added: “I have a pain I cannot put into words.”
I then asked his eldest daughter, who had been listening to her father’s story with careful, sorrowful attention, to share her own experience of 21 years of life in exile—the joys and struggles of living in a foreign land. She said, “My name is Zainab, I am 21 and the eldest child. I studied 12 years in Iran, in public school. Afterwards, I wanted to study international law, but we were deported from Iran.”
I asked about her school memories in Iran. Zainab said, “Our school had many Afghan girls. All were capable and excellent students. About 50 percent of top students were Afghan girls. But my deepest sadness was that, although we were talented and excellent, as Afghan refugees we were not allowed to compete in competitions. This discrimination and racism remains a bitter memory, as talented girls were denied opportunities to grow.”
I asked her how she felt when she learned she had to go to Afghanistan. What thoughts about the country worried her? She replied, “Through Iranian media, I saw Afghanistan’s situation, and that women face oppression. Girls are not allowed to study, and many cannot leave home alone. This saddened and worried me.”
She added, “Afghanistan is not all bad; it has many positives. But it takes time to adapt, as I was born and raised in Iran.”
I asked about their travel plans. She said, “We are going to Mazar-i-Sharif, and then to my father’s hometown in Sar-e-Pul.” Zainab expressed hope that with her education she could study law and that her siblings could continue their studies. “My father endured a hard life. I wish him comfort and better days,” she said.
In her closing words, Zainab reflected on migration to Iran for Afghans: it was a mistake, but now that Afghans are being deported, they need not worry—problems will be solved. One of her sentences stayed with me: “I was born a refugee, I didn’t migrate.”
My interview with the Barbari family ended. They waited for bus number 26 to start their journey to their final destination. As I walked away, I felt a lump in my throat, thinking about how strange the world is, and how Afghan people—especially women and girls—struggle for even the most basic human rights.
The deportation of Afghan migrants had begun in late June two thousand and twenty-five. After four months, the Herat Information and Culture Directorate released new figures on returnees from Iran: over one million twenty thousand had returned to Afghanistan, solely through the Islam Qala border. That meant one million twenty thousand untold and unique stories.
