I live in Bandar Abbas, in Iran’s Hormozgan province, and was working the day shift from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m. when the United States began its war with Iran. We were busy that morning in the workshop when the sounds of explosions rang out. Almost immediately, we were getting phone calls from our homes.
Through social media, we had all heard that a school in Minab had been hit. Minab and Bandar Abbas are close to each other, and we could hear how near the sound of the explosions were. In those first hours, the order of everything collapsed.
We had come from Afghanistan, so we were familiar with the sounds of war. Among us were underage girls, as well as mothers who were the sole breadwinners for their families, and working children. Everyone was deeply worried and anxious.
Each person was calling a child or a mother. The girls were crying. Their faces had gone pale. They were constantly searching for answers about their families: whether their fathers, brothers, or sisters were, at school or at work, and what was happening to them.
We were supposed to return home after our shift ended but the bombing was still continuing. The night shift was anxious when they arrived. One spoke for all when she said, “If only we could be in our homes tonight. How are we supposed to go home at 10 p.m. in these conditions?”
At that time, the explosions were growing more frequent. One person said she had begged a taxi driver to take her home and had offered to pay more than the usual rate. Another person had been working in the market and was trapped there.
The fruit and vegetable market was in chaos. No one was buying anything. The vendors looked stunned and distressed. Drivers were not stopping to pick people up. Everyone was thinking only of saving themselves. I walked the whole way home.
People were talking about seeing long lines outside bakeries. They warned, “Buy bread, because the electricity is going to be cut.”
When I arrived home, I called my employer to ask whether we would be expected to go to work the next day. He said yes. He also confirmed that the war had begun and said that several areas, including Bandar Abbas, had been targeted. Around seven or eight locations in our area had been hit.
The bakeries had closed. I first prepared iftar, and then went to the bakery to bring more bread home, in case none was available the following night. I went to one bakery while my husband went to another.
At 8 p.m., we were still standing hungry in the long bakery lines. I was around the 150th person in line. Several people from each family were in line — two, three, or four people — and even husbands and wives had come together. Although we had not yet broken our fast, we stayed there in the queue.
That night was terrifying. We could hear the sound of missiles being fired and air defence systems responding. The ground shook, and thick smoke rose into the sky. From time to time, I went out onto the balcony and looked toward the places where smoke and fire were rising.
We still did not know that even Iran’s leader had been killed. It was the next day that we heard the news of his death.
On that first night, I packed a backpack. I put inside it a change of clothes, hygiene items, some basic first-aid supplies, cash, our documents, and a small power bank. I also packed some tissues and paper, a few packets of biscuits, dry foods such as dates, and bottles of water. I placed the backpack by the door. We also placed pairs of shoes by the door, so that we could leave immediately if we had to.
Though I kept myself busy on the first night, I could not stop thinking: If we were forced to leave, where would we go? We could not return to Afghanistan. When we came to Iran, we had told the passport and immigration office that my husband had been in the military and that his life would be in danger if he returned to Afghanistan. The residence permit they give us is only temporary and good for three months.
If we leave here, where do we have? What place do I even know anymore? We have no one in the smaller villages of Afghanistan.
The next day, the city was completely deserted. There was no one on the streets. It was as if the city had died. After the news of Iran’s leader’s death spread, a heavy silence fell over the streets.
All the neighbours in our apartment building — whose voices we had heard on the first night — had emptied their homes and fled to villages or nearby cities. No one was left, except us Afghans, who had no other shelter and nowhere to go.
The internet was completely cut off at around noon. The blackout continued for three months.
Just before it happened, I had wanted to call my mother. She had left me a voice message, but I became busy with work and told myself I would speak with her later. But the chance never came.
For four or five days it was not even possible to make a simple phone call. After that, my father could call from Afghanistan, but only for about a minute — just long enough for me to tell him I was well before the call would cut off.
The internet shutdown meant I could no longer continue my online university classes. Now, I have to repeat an entire semester.
First, one day passed, then two, three, four, and eventually weeks passed by. At night, everything would grow quiet, but I had no peace. During the day, I kept thinking about what might have happened in Afghanistan and what disaster might have befallen my family.
I was worried and distressed. Slowly, I began to get used to the situation. At first, our calls were once a week, and eventually only once a month — just enough to say that we were alive and well.
They would say they were fine in Afghanistan. They would ask about us, and we would tell them not to worry. With all these hardships, we eventually became used to this situation, too.
That same month, our house rental contract came to an end. I thought that because there was a war and everyone was fleeing the city, rents would probably have gone down. But the opposite happened: our rent doubled.
My husband and I had lost our jobs because our employers had taken refuge in surrounding areas and villages, and closed their workshops. Some of our close relatives were here, and my husband had previously worked with them. They gave us some financial help, and with that money, along with the small amount of savings we had, we were able to pay the rent.
I had thought prices would fall, but the advance payments required for houses grew more expensive by the day. Beyond our financial concerns, what hurt the most was being completely cut off from the rest of the world. Aside from those brief family calls, we were living in total isolation and loneliness. We knew nothing about the world outside Iran. We had no idea what was happening or what events were unfolding. We were left alone to endure that injustice.
A month after the war began, my employer called and asked us to return to work. Even though he himself was not present and had not paid our wages for one or two months, I went back. The war was continuing and there was not much work to be found. We would go only until noon and then return home. Some days, things were as they had been before the war began, but on other days there was no work at all. We would simply go to work and immediately leave for home.
During the war, our visas also expired and we needed to renew them. But the passport offices and other government institutions were closed, and no in-person services were being provided. When we went to their offices, they told us that visas were being extended online.
However, though officials assured us by phone that the visas had been extended, they didn’t provide us with any physical documents. That meant there was nothing recorded in our passports to show that the visas had been extended or how long they would remain valid. As a result, migrants were arrested whenever police checked their documents because their visas appeared to have expired. Many people were transferred to camps. Several of our relatives and people close to us also faced this situation. Others were released only after paying large bribes. This was one of the many hardships and pressures we endured during that time.
In this war, Afghan migrants suffered the most. Most of us were suddenly unemployed as our jobs were stopped or suspended. For three months, we lived in a situation where we did not know how we would pay the rent, how we would keep the electricity on, or how we would keep ourselves from going hungry.
The day after the internet returned was Eid al-Adha. People were so happy about the internet that they congratulated one another on its return before congratulating each other on Eid. It was an extraordinary feeling, as if the whole world had been given back to me.
After three months, I could see my family on video and know that they were safe.
Parshang is the pseudonym of an Afghan journalist living in Iran.
