Pakistani police raided our house in Islamabad at 11 a.m. on February 7. It was the second time they had come for us. The first time was three days earlier when plainclothes officers arrived at our house. We managed to avoid arrest by paying 50,000 Pakistani rupees.
This time was different. There were more police officers — four men and one woman — and they refused to accept money to leave without us, no matter how much we pleaded or offered to pay. They told us we had no right to stay without a visa, even though the Pakistani government had deliberately stopped renewing our visas after the summer of 2025. We had to leave immediately.
My name is Nazanin. I am 30 years old, and since 2019 I have worked as a journalist for media outlets inside Afghanistan. In Pakistan, we had rented a house in a neighbourhood where very few Afghan families lived. We believed this would keep us out of the police’s sight. It worked, until that day when we found ourselves surrounded.
We had to lock the door of our house and hand the key to our neighbours — an Afghan husband and his Pakistani wife.
The police were rushed, aggressive, and behaved with extreme harshness during the arrest. I tried to show them my journalism credentials and explain the risks I face as a woman journalist, but they paid no attention. Before being taken away, I managed to contact one or two journalist acquaintances to inform them of my arrest.
They gave us no time to prepare to leave Pakistan. They did not even allow us to gather even essential personal items, documents, children’s clothing, or necessary medication. Later, we bitterly discovered that our neighbours took everything we left behind: our belongings, food supplies, and clothes. When I later contacted him from Kabul and asked him to give my documents to a friend, he blocked me on WhatsApp.
After our arrest, we were taken to Haji Camp, a place lacking in basic human dignity. The camp was severely overcrowded, chaotic, and run-down. The rooms assigned to us were filthy, poorly ventilated, and lacked even the most basic sanitation and heating. The stench, the absence of clean water, and the deplorable state of the toilets made conditions unbearable for us and our children.
Families, women, children, and elderly people were all held together without any privacy. That long, heavy night was marked by sleeplessness, uncertainty, and fear. Terrified children cried constantly. A persistent sense of humiliation, insecurity, and helplessness never left us.
For me, Haji Camp was the complete collapse of any feeling of safety. Camp authorities offered no clear answers about our future or when we would be transferred.
At 9 a.m. on Saturday, we were put onto buses and taken toward the Torkham border crossing. Throughout the long and tense journey, no one spoke to us or provided any information. The anxiety of forced return replayed in my mind, not only for me but also for my children. As a woman with a background in journalism, I knew that returning to Afghanistan meant re-entering a space of threat and erasure.
When we arrived at the Torkham border crossing, the heavy presence of security forces, the shouting, and the distressed faces of other deportees created an atmosphere of fear. We were handed over like parcels, with no regard for individual risks or the specific vulnerabilities of women. The moment of crossing the border marked the beginning of a deeper, more real fear of an unknown future.
At that moment, all my efforts to survive and to hold on to my profession collapsed. Returning to Kabul was not a return home; it was a return to a place where my freedom and safety had already been taken from me.
Now, nearly 40 days after our forced deportation, our life in Kabul has entered an extremely difficult phase. We returned to a city without shelter or income. For me, it is a city that offers no sense of safety. Every time I step outside, I am overwhelmed with anxiety, knowing that being recognized could put me at risk.
Despite years of professional experience, there is no possibility for women to work in the media today. Media outlets in Kabul have either shut down or are unwilling to collaborate. Attempts to work remotely and continue reporting are at a standstill due to unstable internet, financial hardship, and the weight of psychological pressure.
We are living in a deeply fragile financial situation. Basic expenses, such as rent and food, have become daily struggles.
Mentally, this is one of the most difficult periods of my life. The trauma of deportation, the loss of security, and the constant worry about my family’s future weigh on me. I suffer from nightmares at night and experience severe stress and depression. The events of recent months replay in my mind again and again.
Life in Kabul is one of a daily struggle for survival in a place where safety, work, and even hope are growing more limited with each passing day.
Nazanin is the pseudonym of a journalist in Kabul.
