{"id":37297,"date":"2026-01-15T13:00:43","date_gmt":"2026-01-15T09:30:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/rukhshana.com\/en\/?p=37297"},"modified":"2026-01-15T13:18:51","modified_gmt":"2026-01-15T09:48:51","slug":"we-feel-like-strangers-an-exiled-afghan-journalist-returns-to-her-homeland","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/rukhshana.com\/en\/we-feel-like-strangers-an-exiled-afghan-journalist-returns-to-her-homeland\/","title":{"rendered":"\u2018We feel like strangers\u2019: An exiled Afghan journalist returns to her homeland"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Many female journalists have fled Afghanistan since the Taliban took over in 2021, unable to work or even live their lives freely. This is the story of one who returned, told in her own words.  <\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

By Mehrin Rashidi, former Rukhshana media reporter<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The doorbell rang and I picked up my chador (veil) and went to the door. When I heard the voice of the neighbourhood representative, it sent shockwaves through me. I heard him say the Taliban were searching houses, and I had to stop myself from screaming out in fear before I opened the door, my heart racing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I managed to dash in and hide my laptop under my chador before he stepped into the courtyard, with the Taliban close behind. Just 10 minutes earlier, I had been transcribing interviews for my work as a reporter as my daughter played beside me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As the men searched my home, my heart was pounding and I was shaking in fear. It felt like they would never leave. When they finally did, it felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I put my daughter down, removed my chador and sat down. We\u2019d got away with it, but from then on, every knock on the courtyard door filled me with fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I felt that Afghanistan was no longer a safe place for my family, and we decided to go to Iran. As I crossed the border, my legs felt weak and my one-year-old daughter became heavy in my arms. I couldn\u2019t help but look back and I saw the two soldiers sitting either side of the barrier, so close they could feel the warmth of each other\u2019s breath. Young men were pushing people\u2019s luggage across the border on a cart, and at the sight of them, a crushing sadness came over me. It felt as if I too were being pushed out of my home country, away from my memories, my roots, my sense of belonging.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The evening sun was low in the sky, and the heat from it struck my face, intensified by the veil and black mask I was wearing. As my skin grew hotter, a lump formed in my throat, and I wanted to curl up and cry. I cast my eyes down, not looking at my daughter. I didn\u2019t want her to see me so helpless. I felt that we\u2019d chosen escape over stability and had gambled with our lives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My husband Omid had his checked scarf over his head and was dragging the suitcases along. I prayed he would not turn around and see my tears. He\u2019d said he wanted us to be somewhere we could go to parks, enjoy ourselves, study, and breathe freely. Seeing my tears would have broken his heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We went to Iran hoping to live freely, at least for a while. But life didn\u2019t seem willing to treat us kindly. Nine months after we arrived, they stopped extending our visas, meaning we were there illegally. Life became so hard after that. First, our SIM cards and bank cards were blocked. Then Omid\u2019s work permit expired, and he couldn\u2019t work. By the end, even going out was a major challenge for us, and for Omid in particular. He knew he risked arrest and deportation every time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One day, my phone rang. It was Omid. Sounding exhausted, he said the police had stopped him and wanted to deport him. I felt like cold water was being poured over my body. I packed our things and got a taxi to the detention camp with my daughter. I only wanted to be with Omid. Home, life, work\u2014nothing mattered except Omid, waiting for our daughter and me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We were deported a few hours later. As I stepped off the bus, a cold wind struck my face, and I tightened the belt of my coat. My daughter looked around and asked, \u201cMum, is this home?\u201d. When I told her it was, I was surprised by the gentle joy that I felt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When my eyes fell on the welcome sign at the border, I took a deep breath. I had never been so happy to see a sign. I felt like running across. Omid pushed the trolley carrying our luggage ahead and the three of us crossed together.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the distance, the lights of Herat city flickered. In the taxi, Omid and our daughter slept as the radio played a soft melody. As we neared the city, a heaviness settled on my heart. The good feeling I had at the border two hours earlier was fading. I felt the cold and darkness of the night and negative thoughts swirled in my mind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I remembered the city without women that we\u2019d left, the sinister checkpoints where large, white-cloaked men stared at women, harassing and insulting them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The taxi reached a police checkpoint and the sight of the officers startled me. I adjusted my headscarf, pulled my coat forward, and put on my mask. As the taxi passed the checkpoint, I stared at both sides of the narrow road crowded with cars and rickshaws, my mind in chaos.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019re back in our own country now, yet we feel like strangers. We live with our fears and with the restrictions, but we have not lost hope that our days will become better.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I managed to dash in and hide my laptop under my chador before he stepped into the courtyard, with the Taliban close behind. 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