The tragedy of a mother’s journey to Iran: Child death in the desert to torture by border guards
She sat next to me as we waited at the hospital. Gradually, we noticed each other’s presence and started a conversation. With a heavy heart, she began her story: “Before the Taliban came to power, my husband had a job, and so did I. We were content with our lives and could make ends meet. The day after the fall of the government, both of us were left at home with nothing to do. We spent three days at the airport. Rumours said it was easy to leave Afghanistan. We endured countless hardships, waiting for days. I had never been humiliated so much in my life. In the end, we got nothing.”
She paused briefly, then continued: “Three months passed, and all the money we had saved for emergencies was gone. We had no choice but to sell all our belongings and cross into Iran illegally. It took us 16 days. The weather was cold, and we were hungry and thirsty, surrounded by vast, empty land. One of my twin children, barely a year old, became gravely ill due to the harsh weather. His frail body couldn’t endure the journey’s difficulties. Even now, his innocent, lifeless gaze haunts me. Despite wearing mittens, his tiny hands were frozen. I held them against my face to warm them, but it was useless.
I sobbed as I turned to my husband, as if our child’s life depended on him. I kept repeating, ‘Please, do something.’ Eventually, my baby closed his eyes and never opened them again. In that desolate wilderness, I held my child’s lifeless body in my arms. I screamed at the sky, my soul burning to the core. My husband tried to console me, but nothing helped. He buried our beloved there, and we were forced to continue the journey — we had other children to care for.”
As she recounted this memory, tears welled in her eyes, a single pearl-like tear sliding down her beautiful face. She struggled to swallow her grief: “That day, we buried a piece of our hearts in the ground forever, unsure if we’d ever see the grave again. The road was dangerous, full of thieves. Finally, we reached Iran. With great difficulty, even threatening self-immolation, I managed to get us registered with the UN. Life in Iran was relatively calm, but then my husband suddenly decided we should return to Afghanistan. When we went back, I had a strange feeling. It was as if the city I had lived in for years was no longer the same.”
She continued: “We lived in misery and despair until the UN contacted us. Afraid they would find out we had returned to Afghanistan, we hastily left, borrowing money for another illegal journey. This time, everything was different.
After settling back into Iran again, the police arrested us at around 11 p.m. and took us to the station on the night before our scheduled meeting with the UN. They beat my husband. We were detained in small containers where they stored spoiled goods for a day and a half. At 1 a.m. on the second night, they transferred us to the Dapiala detention camp.
They confiscated our phones and documents to prevent any contact with the outside world. In that place, I witnessed unimaginable suffering. There were people chained by their hands and feet, separated from their families for long periods. We spent about 25 days there. Women endured scorching sunlight and sometimes rain in the courtyard, while men were crammed into dark, narrow rooms.
We managed to contact our families after about a month in prison. We returned to Afghanistan more hopeless than ever. This time, our lives were completely shattered. We had to start over from scratch. No matter how hard we try, not even the smallest aspect of our lives improves. We can’t even provide for the basic needs of our children in our own land. The guilt eats away at us.”
The whole time she spoke, I felt a heaviness on my heart. I placed my hand over hers. Through her tears, she asked, “Do you know what hurts me more than burying my beloved child? It’s this one’s stutter,” she said, pointing to her young child. “When the police beat him, I couldn’t do anything. After experiencing such terror, he developed a speech impediment. We don’t even have the money to treat him. We blame ourselves and the current government for this situation, and all we can think about is his future and the challenges he’ll have to face.”
A man’s voice calling her name brought both of us back to our current reality. She left, and I reflected on the fate of each person who has to endure these times.
Names are changed for security reasons. Z Barakzai is the pseudonym of a freelance journalist in Afghanistan.