No land to call safe: An Afghan woman in Tehran under bombardment
I am Sarah Hossaini, and I write this as the war between Israel and Iran enters its fourth day.
It all began at exactly 3:30 a.m. on Friday when I heard the sound of the first explosion in the distance. I thought it might be firecrackers for Eid al-Ghadir. The second explosion came moments later, and again I mistook it for a celebration. But when the third blast rang out, my roommate screamed loudly and said, “Something’s happened!”
We looked out from the fourth floor of the dormitory. Through the window, we saw a thick plume of smoke rising into the sky in the distance.
We were terrified. My eyes felt like they were bulging out of their sockets — I didn’t know what to do. Both of us quickly packed our things. I threw my laptop and the documents I had worked years to gather in Iran into my backpack, and we rushed out into the courtyard.
Those moments of panic were deeply unsettling for me and the other Afghan girls in the dorm — a bitter experience we were going through for the second time. We held our breath, not knowing what fate awaited us.
Around five or five-thirty in the morning, we returned to our rooms. I hadn’t slept all night, and that day, I finally fell asleep — consumed by fear and worry.
That day passed with anxiety, but no more explosions. Around 6:30 p.m., I went to another girl’s room in the dorm. We were all sitting there, prepared to grab our things and run to the basement if anything happened.
And then, again — another terrifying boom.
Everyone panicked. I ran to my room. Earlier that day, I had gone to the store and bought canned tuna, some biscuits, drinks, and bread — just in case, to survive for a few days if the worst happened.
That entire night, we stayed in the dormitory basement, surrounded by deafening noises. At 7 a.m., we returned to our rooms.
Four days into the war
Four days have passed since the war between Israel and Iran began — bitter, painful days that echo the heartbreaking memories of displacement for the people of Afghanistan, especially those who fled to Iran seeking refuge from insecurity, fear, and the Taliban.
Four years ago, when the Taliban took over, I was in Kabul for a work assignment, having traveled from Mazar-e-Sharif. During the fall of Kabul, I sought shelter at a relative’s home in western Kabul. I stayed there alone for an entire month — each breath heavy in my chest, trapped in a suffocating silence.
Back then, I followed the news on TV, watching scenes from the airport. Crowds were swarming. I had gone too. People were wading through filthy water ditches, desperate to reach safety. I too stood in that sewer, humiliated and broken. The trauma still lingers. After years of effort and work, our people begged in sewage just to escape Afghanistan.
Eventually, I came to Iran on a student visa — because even home was no longer safe.
It’s been nearly four years now that I’ve lived in Iran — stateless, penniless, in psychological distress, and without a future. These are the final days of my student visa. Despite clinging to a fading hope that the embassies would open a door, no sign of that hope has ever come.
Exhausted and desperate, I was trying to find a way out of this limbo — and then the war between Iran and Israel began, making everything even more unbearable.
Now, I have no future in Afghanistan, where the Taliban rule, and no safety in Iran under these terrifying conditions.
Once again — just like years ago — I have packed my suitcase in hopes of survival and taken refuge in a relative’s home in a far corner of Tehran.
From the first day of the attack until now — day four — I have been lost, uncertain where to go, in shock, unable to decide.
Other countries have told their citizens to leave Iran — but only Afghan nationals remain trapped in total uncertainty.
There is no place for us, no safe shelter, no refuge — especially for the thousands of vulnerable Afghan girls who came to Iran out of desperation, denied the right to education in their own country, hoping to find a sliver of opportunity and continue their studies. Now, in this terrifying moment, those same girls have once again been left utterly alone.
I am one of them — someone who was forced to come to Iran because I had no other choice. And now, all I’m trying to do is survive.
I ask myself: Where is my last safe haven?
How long can I endure this endless uncertainty?
I am a girl who fled war, who sought refuge in Iran. Now, where can I go from here?
Sarah Hossaini is the pseudonym of a journalist in Iran.
