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intro

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Twenty-six-year old Amir stands behind the coffee counter, his curly dark hair pulled back to keep from sticking to the tiny droplets of sweat glistening on his forehead. Despite the long hours concocting cappuccinos, he always carries a charming smile that shapes his eyes into mini crescents, uplifting any customer that walks through the door. For Amir, every cup requires the utmost concentration  – every measured weight of ground espresso beans should be 14 grams, meticulously compressed and strained for exactly 22.5 seconds. Such skill takes months to master, but he conquered the details in two weeks time, well aware that starting a fresh life in a new country requires perfection and diligence.

 

Amir is just one of three million refugees who arrived in the United States over the past few decades. Strife in the Middle East has left millions of families stranded without clean water or food, let alone job opportunities. The smuggling business overseas has been bustling with hundreds of new faces everyday, hungry for a livable environment. Some make it to their destination, but many remain trapped within the borders of a hazardous regime or the cells of deportation centers.

 

The lucky and wealthy few with overseas connections or ties to the U.S. government are able to expedite their application process, whereas the vast majority - working class people like Amir, a former construction worker - have no one to advocate their case. They deem their present situation so precarious as to put their life in the hands of a complete stranger just for the possibility of escape.

 

This story I share is just one of the millions of stories around us. Through over 25 hours of recorded interviews and four years of friendship, I had a glimpse into the life of an Iranian-born Afghan refugee, who journeyed across five countries and two oceans over five years to get to where he is now. The details of the journey are entirely factual, even though some pieces may seem surreal. 

 

I hope his story will shed light onto the refugees who walk amongst us, and perhaps in our next encounter, we will at the very least ask about and listen to their complex journeys.
 

— Molly Liu, writer

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1 — Life in Iran.

 

I was born in 1992 in Golshahr, a small working class suburb located on the outskirts of Mashhad in northwestern Iran. With Afghanistan only 400 kilometers away, Afghan refugees flocked to the Iranian town during the Soviet-Afghan war, fleeing the wretched destruction wrought by mines, rape and chemical warfare. Nanay and Baba were among the lucky few who succeeded in the perilous escape. In Golshahr, they settled on the second floor of a mirthless apartment building overlooking a network of narrow streets that weaved the blueprint of the city’s center. And that was where I grew up — in the midst of dusty roads and small family-owned shops that emanated the succulent sweet and buttery aroma of fresh koloche and bamier.

 

Iran in the 90s, Nanay told me, was safer than the war-ridden Afghanistan, but for refugees like myself and my family, the future appeared equally grim. Following the 1979 Iranian Revolution, the once powerful, western-backed Pahlavi was exiled to Egypt and replaced with Ayatollah Khomeini, who declared the Islamic Republic of Iran. A slew of enactments then followed which made it difficult for Afghan migrants to attain higher education and citizenship. New government policies required residency documents and fees for school admissions, but my family was amongst the two million undocumented Afghans in Iran.

 

I was well aware of my future prospects. For years I had watched Baba struggle as he carried hundred-pound loads to the newest construction site. At night, I snuggled next to Nanay, helping her crack pistachios one by one to send to the vendor down the street. Twenty hours a day, seven days a week - what more could we possibly do? After our daily dose of bread, butter, and tea (eggs were reserved for special occasions), fees for education, work permits, and identity papers, there was no change left to spare. To help with the bills, I worked as a welder by day and construction worker by night, occasionally selling cigarettes on street corners for extra tips. However, the few extra cash I earned barely made any difference, and circumstances toughened when a family issue and toughened border controls isolated my father in Afghanistan for five years. Within six months, I was forced to transfer to an illegal, immigrant-established Afghan high school that handed out diplomas only valid in Afghanistan, making it impossible for me to pursue a higher education in Iran. The only way around it was to go back to Afghanistan, get admitted for colleges in Iran, and re-enter via a student visa. I did not want to take the risk at that time. 

 

After two and a half years of painting walls, I almost became delirious. My hands no longer felt like my own— they became somewhat mechanical, like a winded toy, sweeping up and down as my mind wandered into the land of “what ifs:” What if I left Iran? What if I went back to school? Even after Baba came back and was able to help with the family expenses, I felt my ability to do more was severely limited.

 

Gradually, I watched able-bodied immigrants leave the country, seeking new opportunities, some back to Afghanistan and others to Turkey, in hopes of reaching Europe. Despair crept through each mundane hour of work, expanding by the second until I was no longer able to tolerate the inaction of my wretched reality. So I decided on Afghanistan, knowing that, at the very least, I would be able to further my education, and with an education, I can help my family even more. 

 

Breaking the news to Nanay and Baba was not easy —to be fair, I was the second-oldest child and supported them, along with my three sisters and two brothers who I love dearly. But more importantly for Nanay, my Hazara identity compromised my safety. “Movazeb kho bash bachem, be safe my son,” Nanay would say before I left each morning for school, as if someone were waiting outside to kidnap me. From a young age, we were lectured about our identity. Hazaras are an ethnic Shia minority, native to the Hazarajat region in central Afghanistan, with highly distinguishable Mongolian and Asian facial features. Known for their active participation in anti-Taliban resistance groups, Hazaras were occasionally targeted by Sunni Islamic fundamentalist groups that dominated parts of Afghanistan and Pakistan. Hence, departing for Afghanistan was more than just crossing a border — it also meant actively placing my life on the line. 

 

I pondered this for a day or two, but ultimately my ethnic identity did little to deter my decision, and within the next month, I handed in my immigration papers to two uniformed officers (a requirement for refugees leaving Iran), forever relinquishing my ability to step foot in Iran. I packed a small backpack and around $300 USD (converting from Toman) that I earned from my job. Nanay and Baba sent me off at the bus station, and I embraced them both with all the love I could exert, unabashedly letting the tears flow down my cheeks. I had never cried in front of my mother before, but this day, I reluctantly admitted, may be the last time I will ever see her again. I took a seat by the window as the bus drove off, their familiar faces growing smaller and smaller until they were unrecognizable through the cloud of dust. For a split second, loneliness overwhelmed me. 

 

 

2 — A home that fell apart.

 

Loneliness meant leaving my family, my friends, and everything I loved behind. It meant not hearing their voices, not seeing their faces, and not feeling understood. There was a void inside of me that ate away my energy. 

 

It was 2011 in Kabul. Acres of barren desert carpeted the view from my seat window, but the streets of Kabul were vibrant, lined with honking diesel cars and street vendors waving sizzling kebabs. A thunderstorm had passed through the previous night, turning the dusty and neglected dirt lanes into pools of mud. As I stepped off the bus, Afghan police warmly greeted us: “khosh amadid be Vatan, welcome home!” Traditional houses made of mud, timber, and clay lined up unevenly along the foothills of the mountain. Bearded men with miniature hats roamed the asphalt streets with long, traditional tops and trousers that rolled up to their knees; women covered with the Bogra (or as I call it — a blue curtain) walked next to them, cradled under their husbands’ arms. 

 

The unfamiliar environment was startling at first, but I quickly adjusted to the dust-filled air and conservative culture. I settled into a miniature flat near the city center that was reasonably priced and walking distance from Kabul Pohanaton University, where I hoped to attend. Passing the Kankor (placement test) would allow me to attend free of charge but, rusty from being out of school for over 2 years, I failed the exam. Jobs at the time were scarce, mostly attributed to the many years of internal and external conflict. I figured that to make money during a time of rebuilding, I needed to think creatively.

 

My childhood in Mashhad, where I frequented game shops to watch other boys play, inspired a business idea. Kabul only had two game shops, both poorly built and inefficiently run. After consolidating the last of my savings and borrowing another 125,000 Afghani (~$3,000USD) from my flatmate, I opened a scrappy gaming shop at a strategic intersection between the Hazara and Tajik communities in Kabul. Gradually, the interior was transformed - walls were painted and polished, basic furniture was assembled, seven second hand computers were purchased and installed with games such as Counter Strike, FIFA, Call of Duty, and World of Warcraft. On the outside, I hoisted up a large sign: “Black Game Net.” Exposure to electronics was limited in Kabul, so my shop became a source of fascination among young boys. Priced at 40 Afghani ($1) per hour, it only took three months to break even.

 

My first entrepreneurial endeavor— Kabul’s third ever game shop— earned me enough money to enroll in economics classes at Ibn-e-Sina University in the evening as I maintained the shop during the day. For the first time, I set high expectations for myself, even imagining working at the Department of Commerce someday.

 

Just as my hope grew, suicide bombers found their way into Kabul and attacks became commonplace, sending my dreams into the abyss. The war between Taliban-backed insurgencies and the Western-backed government had been going on for many years, but these recent attacks reached a new level of intensity.

 

Friends who once told me to come to Afghanistan hastily collected their belongings and left. By the following month, shops vacated and Black Game Net lost most of its customers. Grief haunted the streets as bodies piled to be buried and burned, babies wailed and mothers mourned. I panicked. Then, a couple blocks from where I stood, a bomb exploded, sending a tremor equivalent to that of a small earthquake through the ground. I fell to my stomach, burying my head against the dirt, trembling from the fear that had traveled down my spine and fired across my body. The air reeked of a putrid stench of bodies, dust, and smoke.

 

The life I built for myself in Kabul was falling apart. The city became uninhabitable, and alternatives were bleak. As the world around me shook, the effects only amplified by my trembling self, I knew leaving was my best option. 

 

 

3 — The smuggling process, broken down.

 

Growing up, I could not have imagined doing anything illegal, not even stealing. If I were to tell my 10 year old self that I would be hiring someone illegally to cross country borders, I would be shocked and disgusted. But right now, what choice do I have?

 

Since I could no longer legally return to Iran and had no visas to other countries, I was obliged to hire a smuggler to facilitate the process. Luckily, in Afghanistan, they were everywhere. High demand and exorbitant prices made the business especially lucrative, and information about acclaimed smugglers and strategies around the safest, most successful routes traveled frequently through word of mouth. To meet the demand of the desperate population, corner stores and travel agencies transformed into hubs for obtaining fake visas and contacting smugglers. The city police, well aware of their existence, rarely enforced regulatory rules. 

 

With a general sense of which route I preferred, I slid into the nearest corner shop to inquire about price, routes, success rates, and timeframe. An expressionless, stoic man clad in a white shalwar guided me inside without a word, and within the next hour, I learned all the details of the smuggling process to make a relatively informed decision. 

 

I jotted in my notebook: prices for smugglers ranged based on quality, route, and tenure. Trips were normally broken into two parts: first one to another Middle Eastern country as a “connector,” and the second one to Europe, America, or Australia. Some of the more expensive smugglers charged upwards of 430,000 Afghani (~ $10K USD) for the first leg while the less experienced proposed 200,000 Afghani ($4K - $5K USD). Once the refugee completes the first part of the journey, he must find a second smuggler to guide him to his final destination. Sometimes, the actual mastermind would never show his face. Instead, he would delegate his apprentices or workers to physically lead the journey. Depending on destination, it could cost another $7K - $10K USD, bringing the total fees for smuggling out of the country to $15K - $20K USD, excluding food, water and supplies. 

 

The average annual income of an individual in Afghanistan was less than $500 USD, which meant that only those who could afford the cost of the journey had the option to leave. I was very fortunate to have collected ~$4,000 USD from selling my game shop. 

 

Refugees venturing to Europe usually crossed through Turkey and Greece, and those to Australia traveled through Indonesia from Turkey. I asked my overseas friends, who I had been in close contact with via Facebook and WhatsApp. They had all managed to successfully complete their journey and were all eager to share advice. Because some of them were already in Australia and lauded its copious opportunities and generosity towards refugees, I decided to set it as my final destination.

 

Step 1: Secure an accredited smuggler

 

The routes to Australia, though tedious, were plentiful. One option required flying from Afghanistan to Dubai, then to Thailand and/or Malaysia before taking a boat to Australia. Another option entailed entering Iran through Afghanistan, then traveling to Turkey before flying to Indonesia and crossing the ocean to Australia. The amount of information and number of decisions I had to make were overwhelming. I gathered the few friends who were still left in Afghanistan and asked for their input. We talked through different options and the viability of each, and finally I settled for traveling to Australia through Iran, Turkey, and Indonesia. 

 

The smuggler I chose quoted a total price of 200,000 Afghani (~$5,000 USD), which to me felt reasonable. I sold my gaming shop, after conversion, for a little over $4,000 USD and then borrowed $1,000 USD from Nanay, who dug into her savings and sold some personal jewelry for me. To send and receive the money, we used an intermediary money changing shop called a Sarrafi. Nanay would provide the money to a Sarrafi in Iran, and I would pick up the funds from the Sarrafi in Afghanistan.

 

Despite the success stories, my mind was flooded with doubt and anxiety. My smuggler reassured me: “It’s easy, no problem - go to Iran first, and we will start the process there.” 

 

Without a passport, I had to use my father’s Afghan ID to obtain my own ID card in Afghanistan. With the help of my smuggler, I would use my ID card to acquire my Afghan passport with the Iranian visa. To pay the smuggler, I would lock the 200,000 Afghani (~$5,000 USD) in a transfer bank, and once I succeed in the route, I would unlock the money for him. 

 

Step 2: Cross into Iran

 

Never had I ever expected to be back in Iran, let alone this soon. I flew into Tehran with some pocket money and a small backpack, my new passport and visa in hand. Following the smuggler’s instructions, I was to await a driver who would take me to Tabriz, a heavily populated historical city 600 kilometers Northwest of Tehran. I was not to tell anyone I was there - not even my family - and no phone calls were permitted. As I stepped off my flight, a surge of emotions immediately enveloped me, but I suppressed the urge to alert Nanay that I was back. Time was limited, and I could not afford to make any mistakes at this point. 

 

As agreed, I stood outside the airport like a befuddled foreigner, glancing nervously left and right, hoping someone would approach, since the smuggler refused to provide his phone number. It was a busy day - travelers rushed to hail taxis, lovers reunited and embraced each other, and even the birds in the sky appeared locked with some purpose, their unwavering V-shape formation pointing North. I awkwardly shifted my weight to the fast rhythm of the airport. 

 

Then my eyes met the gaze of a furtive-looking boy. He was watching me the entire time, and slowly he walked towards me, careful to keep his distance until he was certain of my identity. I scanned him - normal boy, quite slim, maybe early twenties. A good minute passed before he relaxed his gaze, walked over, and clasped my hand, hastily escorting me into a small, discolored clunker, where another young man was waiting. 

 

“If they shoot at you, just put your head down and it will be fine,” he smirked in Farsi as he handed me a SIM card. “Don’t worry, we are very skilled at avoiding the police.”

 

I gritted my teeth and looked at the other man in the car. He looked just as confused as I was. Then the engine started; I tightly gripped the sides of the car as we illegally sped through three checkpoints without any hesitation. We deviated slightly from the plan and ended up settling in Maku, a small village closer to the Iran-Turkish border than Tabriz. 

 

“It’s a better place,” said the boy. I did not dare complain even though I was anxious beyond what I could imagine. I knew I had no power in this. 

 

A host family paid by the smuggler warmly greeted me upon arrival, but it was clear they did not desire much interaction. As I entered the flat, I was surprised to encounter a diverse group of refugees huddled on the carpet — some Iranian others Pakistani, all waiting to cross into Turkey. We mainly kept to ourselves and sat in silence. 

 

***

 

A few days passed with nothing from my smuggler who had promised to be in touch. Anxiety encroached the camp as we waited and listened to circulated stories about refugees being shot or kidnapped for ransom at this very border. I hid in the house for another six days, passing time by pacing around the four corners of the room or analyzing the perplexed and worried expressions of the fellow travelers. 

 

On the seventh night, as I was fast asleep, I felt a nudge on my right arm. A sheepish boy, no more than seventeen years old, whispered, “It’s time.”

 

Step 3: Sneak into Turkey

 

It was 2AM and dreadfully chilly, my eyes watering from the cold. My tears rapidly crystallized, and I did not even bother lifting my hand out of my pockets. The three of us - our young guide, another refugee, and myself - walked quietly, shivering. We approached the walls of a securely shuttered house about 100 meters from the border. Our guide told us to follow normal protocol. The daunting view of armed security guards churned my stomach, and I felt a wave of adrenaline as he explained the instructions:

“There will be trucks crossing the border to ship goods. You need to pay close attention. Pick one, run up the left side next to the wheels, and run across as it crosses over the border. Once you are over, run as fast as you can. If they shout, you run. If they shoot, you run. Is that clear?” I nodded.

 Just as I got in position to sprint, a forceful hand grabbed me from behind. My jaw dropped. I stopped breathing for a minute or two as my distraught mind aimlessly and hopelessly sought comfort and reassurance. I turned around. A burly security guard towered over me, twisting my elbow and shackling my hands together. I winced at the sudden realization that it was all over. Our guide, wide-eyed from shock, writhed under his tight grip, tearfully claiming his innocence and dissociation with us. His pleas were shunned, and all three of us rode in silence again, this time in the backseat of a police car, until we reached the local security station.

 

***

 

The station towered ominously over us like an execution center. My fear had turned into anger. I swore to myself beneath my breath, my mind still occupied with nonsensical thoughts. We were held in a questioning room manned by five uniformed men. They called us in one at a time. It was now my turn. 

“Where are you from and who brought you here,” asked the officer. 

 

I’m not sure whether my voice was quivering from the cold, fear, or anger, but I recited everything to the best of my knowledge. The men jotted down some notes on paper and locked us inside for the night. The next day, they took us to court and sentenced myself and the other refugee to be deported to Afghanistan. The boy, however, was let go, out of respect for his mother who pleaded that he was a student and didn’t know any better.

 

Fatigued, ashamed, and irritated by all that just happened, the other refugee and I listened as the judge pronounced us criminals and directed us to the local prison. 

 

Step 4: Hold onto hope

 

The prison was a large concrete building, fenced off on all four sides with barbed wire and the bare trunks of lifeless trees. Prisoners, mostly Afghan, scattered in the front yard as the police car drove us through the gate. Per routine, they collected my remaining belongings - a backpack, my cell phone, and some money, before leading me into a dark, windowless cell, where I was greeted by the claps of eight unusually cheerful cellmates. It was no surprise that they were also captured in their attempt to cross the Iranian-Turkish border. 

 

The cell was too small for the number of people crammed inside. I could walk the length of my cell in a few paces. The width was a little over my height — maybe about 6 feet. We took turns sitting, squatting, standing, and sleeping. My first impression of prison was a feeling of revulsion and fear, albeit it was ameliorated by the enthusiasm of my fellow inmates.

 

All activities were strictly regulated - when to eat, use toilets, go outside. For ten days I followed the same daily protocol. Meals were standard: morning - two boiled eggs. Lunch - two boiled potatoes and some bread. No dinner. A few inmates snuck money inside to bribe officials for a tastier menu. Toilets were only allowed twice a day. Green mold lined the floors and the stalls reeked of dried and fresh feces. Adjacent to them, the few showers that actually functioned sputtered cold and stale water. Yuck, I thought to myself. A few more days passed before it was time for our final deportation. Six guards rounded the inmates into a single line outside in the yard. 

 

What followed was a surprise to us all. The police adeptly tied all the deportees in pairs by their hands and ankles with plastic bands. I gasped as they stretched my band. 

 

“Too tight,” I managed to utter, catching air between words. 

 

Another officer strolled over and gripped my wrist, letting out a chuckle as he yanked it even tighter. I pursed my lips, cursing myself for my cowardice and biting down on my tongue to prevent the heightened urge to cry out from the pain of my already darkening wrist. 

 

Where did this come from? The sudden switch from tame prison treatment to aggressive torture was entirely unanticipated. I looked them dead in the eye. Then without warning, a series of dehumanizing and brutally racist insults shuddered my eardrums. Once the guards had their share of laughs, they rounded us onto the bus like a pack of diminished wild animals, except we were forced to pay for the ride. 

 

At least they gave me back my passport, phone, and money, I thought to myself. After converting to dollars, I only had $150 left. By this time, I had lost all sensation in my right hand, which resembled a lifeless blob. 

 

Why is the world so unfair? Why am I born an Afghan and a Hazara? I lamented the past I was never able to choose. 

 

The engine roared, and the bus inched toward the next stop, a ‘camp’ in Faraiman from where the connection would be made to our final destination. 

 

***

 

Over two thousand refugees patiently awaited departure from inside the deportation camp. The camp consisted of twelve cement warehouses built by the refugees it housed, who were forced into two months of labor before they were deported. That was the usual requirement but, since it was my first time being caught, I only had to wait two weeks. My patience eroded as the fresh smell of palaw entered my cell (probably from a visitor bringing food to a loved one in the camp), and I felt the rapid kick of hunger. Oh, how I longed for a warm, home-cooked meal! My thinning figure was the result of weeks of nutritional neglect. I barely recognized myself.

 

At the end of my two weeks, I finally boarded the bus to Herat, Afghanistan. The image from the window sent a wave of nostalgia through me, and I was reminded of the last time I departed Iran two years ago. The differences were striking: that journey was by choice rather than force, with a glistening hope rather than utter hopelessness. Deja-vu, I thought. The scenes remained the same, but I had changed. 

 

We drove out of the clean and tidy confines of Iran and into the dusty, unpaved roads of Afghanistan where desperate children immediately approached me with open palms. One by one, the deportees stepped out, some dropping to all fours to kiss the familiar ground. But, like most people on the bus, I was already planning the steps of my second attempt. 

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4 — The second attempt.

 

Refugees sometimes attempt the smuggling process multiple times and, even still, many never succeed or are still in deportation camps. My journey was plagued with emotional and physical fatigue, trusting strangers and praying that luck was on my side. 

 

My second attempt to leave Afghanistan consisted of a greater conviction that overrode my previous fear and cowardice. Because I was caught in Iran trying to cross into Turkey, I would not be allowed to enter Iran again. This complicated my situation, since crossing Iran was an unavoidable step in the transit process, serving as a pathway to Turkey, from where refugees could then cross to Greece by land or to other destinations by air. Hence, the only viable option was to sneak across Afghanistan’s border.

 

Along with several others who I met in Herat, we called a smuggler that my friend who made it to Indonesia recommended to us. Because my last journey was unsuccessful, I still had 200,000 Afghani (~$5,000 USD) to pay the smuggler, who also quoted that amount for the route from Tehran to Indonesia. He told us to do whatever we could to get to Tehran, and he would have people waiting for us there.

 

We packed traditional clothing and warm shoes in preparation for the crossing through southwestern Afghanistan to Iran. We hired a driver to take us to Zaranj, so we can cross the Afghanistan-Iran border to Zabol. As we were driving through Taliban-occupied land, a group of armed men (Taliban maybe?) stopped our car. I panicked as they circled us, knowing that, if caught as a Hazara, my life may not be spared. Luckily at that moment, an American army truck drove by, and the armed men were forced to flee the scene. I sighed with relief and prayed for my own safety. 

 

***

 

Shortly past dawn, we arrived at Zaranj in southern Afghanistan. I had found a smuggler to take me from Tehran to Indonesia, but I still needed help to get to Iran. That shouldn’t be difficult. As anticipated, smugglers lined the street corners and the front of motels, ready to pounce on the next desperate customer who was willing to sign away their life savings. I singled out a decently decorated motel nearby and walked towards it. A middle-aged man clad in traditional clothing greeted me at the door. From his smirk, I knew he was aware of my intentions.

“It’s no longer safe to cross from Zaranj to Iran,” he warned. “I recommend going through Pakistan.”  

 

The border was apparently closed, and security in the area tightened due to the number of people attempting to flee into Iran from Afghanistan. But Pakistan? I had never heard of that route before. After being caught the first time, I became increasingly cautious when it came to making large decisions such as transit routes. 

 

The man drew out the route: from Zaranj in Afghanistan to Taftan in Pakistan, then through the border, where intermediary smugglers will be waiting to take us to Zabol in Iran. The cost, though, would be 43,000 Afghani (~$1,000 USD). 

 

I had been giving Nanay weekly updates on my location and progress so as to not worry her. This time, I had to call to ask for more money, and I felt ashamed even though I had no choice. Nanay was consistently patient with me, and she happily helped me obtain the finances I needed. I knew she had to borrow the money from others, and I swore to myself I would pay her back as soon as I was able to. At this point, I was willing to spend however much it took to get out, and Nanay understood that.

 

I went to a Sarrafi to retrieve the $1,000 USD from Nanay and hired the smuggler to take me to Pakistan. They promptly ushered me onto the bus with sixty or so others. There were maybe around five or six busses. 

 

***

 

I must have slept for a long time on the bus since, by the time I woke up, the sky was pitch black. We had reached a small river at the border between Afghanistan and Pakistan, which was the farthest the bus could go. The crossing to Taftan, a small, underdeveloped town in the northern Pakistani province of Balochistan, was to be completed by boat. I, along with hundreds of other Tajiks, Pashtuns, and Hazaras who had gotten off the other buses, hastily squeezed ourselves and our belongings onto wooden vessels that were surely over capacity. The current was on our side and facilitated our journey downstream for the next half hour. I was on full alert, attentive to the quietest sounds and movements. The chilly breeze woke up even the most exhausted travelers, wide-eyed and searching. The group lead signaled for docking, and we quietly stepped out of the boats and scuttled into a delivery truck that drove us for another hour through the barren desert. Everyone tacitly obeyed the rules. It was obvious to us that our guide was experienced at the route, probably having done it hundreds of times. 

 

I watched the ebony sky transform to a pastel blue at the crack of dawn. There were still signs of civilization. The sand dunes during the daytime resembled a magical painting, but traversing it proved to be an excruciating deed. The truck driver informed us that the rest of the journey to Taftan required us to go by foot, and that it would be an easy journey. Little did I suspect the mountainous trek would entail nine hours marching through the deadly afternoon heat followed by the torturous cold of night. To further complicate the situation, new smugglers each leading around forty refugees, joined in, rapidly expanding the group. 

 

I could tell by the contorted expressions of my fellow travelers that they were also slightly agitated by the region’s remoteness. “Yellow [sand] is everywhere,” one exclaimed, “how much longer is this?” 

 

Worn by fatigue, dehydration and hunger, we pushed on. I paused for a moment and put down my backpack to catch my breath. Panting from hours and hours of nonstop travel, I gave myself a few more minutes to regain my strength, but as I reached for my backpack, it was no longer there. At once, anger and sadness hit me, and I grew immensely distressed. I withheld the urge to cry out and instead marched onwards with the crowd. But without food and water, I felt the weight of each step intensify as if my feet were anchored deeper and deeper into the ground. My surroundings shifted and, soon enough, flashes of white consumed my vision. Before I registered what happened, my body gave in, and I sank into the ground, shutting out the chaos around me. 

 

As I lay motionless, I found the sounds of muted footsteps in the background to be surprisingly peaceful. My only desire at that moment was to rest, to catch up on the many sleepless nights that marked the past few weeks —  but then a deep voice echoed in my ear. 

“Boy, it's no time to sleep right now,” a man in his mid-50s remarked, “Come, I help you up.” 

He helped pull me off the ground and placed a few leftover bread crumbs and an almost empty water bottle in my lifeless hands. 

 

It astonished me how a simple gesture of kindness in my state of lethargy could restore my energy so rapidly. A few drops of water immediately shifted my mentality, pushing me onwards. I felt alleviated to know that, despite the hapless situation we were all in, the majority of travelers still looked out for one another, acknowledging that success is magnified through mutual support. But there was still a limit to what one can do. Later that day, I watched a young man selflessly carry an elderly man for six hours before the old man urged him to stop. He recognized from the young man’s heavy breathing that neither of them would succeed in the crossing if they continued. Whether or not the elderly man made it to his final destination, I would never know. 

 

***

 

We were now in the middle leg of our multi-segment journey, strategically broken down to decrease the risk of being caught. The mountain crossing led us across the border, where many intermediary smugglers were waiting with cars. When they saw us, they shouted out names to gather the groups together. My group spotted our smuggler, and we all quickly jumped inside the car and took off towards Zabol.

 

When we arrived in Zabol, a regional polluted capital in Iran close to Afghanistan, we snuck onto a bus headed towards Tehran. Some hid in the luggage bunk and others slid inside the overhead storage compartments, while the seats were occupied by locals to deter the police. Halfway to Tehran, a few patrols went around to check passports. Thankfully, I still had my Afghan passport with an unexpired Iranian visa inside. If the police stopped me, they would simply check for the existence of the visa; most likely, a further investigation would not be required.

 

In Tehran, I unlocked the 43,000 Afghani (~$1,000K USD) to the smuggler who helped me cross through Pakistan into Iran. After that, I unrolled a piece of scrap paper that had the phone number of my Tehran-Indonesia smuggler. He had told me to make it to Tehran, where he will tell me what to do next. 

 

The phone rang a few times before the smuggler picked up. “You will see a driver who will take you to Tabriz and then Maku,” he instructed. 

 

I still had never met this man in person and, as I listened to his deep, nonchalant voice, I wondered what his story was, whether he had family. Nevertheless, I followed his instructions precisely. In a normal sized car, seventeen of us squeezed in - three in the front, five in the trunk, and five in the back row, with four sitting on their laps. 

 

The driver drove us around the outskirts of Tabriz to Maku, gradually releasing the details of the next leg of our journey. “After Maku, you will trek over the mountains into Turkey and then to Van,” he informed. We groaned at the “mountain” part. Only a few hours had passed since the last mountain crossing, barely enough time for us to recover. I knew this one would be worse, since Iran is further north than Pakistan, with taller mountains. Not only were we at risk of suffering frostbite from traversing snow-capped mountains at freezing temperatures, but we also had to worry about being shot or captured by the much more attentive local police or being kidnapped by terrorists for ransom. Since I was the only Farsi speaker, the smuggler assigned me as the group’s guide. He would not join us, he said. 

 

I did the best I could to direct us through the shadows of security towers, but other problems soon arose. Halfway through, the light snowfall turned into a  hefty blizzard and sent morale to its nadir. Our faces glistened with a thin layer of frost, and we dared not look down at our hands and feet, which we knew even without removing our boots, would be black from frostbite, toenails flicking off like dead leaves. Two Pakistanis told the others to go on without them. I was pained to leave them behind, but I had no other choice. I assumed responsibility for the group and we had to continue.

 

Hours flew by, and all of us, consciously present, were too cold to think about anything other than marching forward. The land flattened the further downhill we went, and I spotted two streaks of light shooting up towards the sky, signaling that we had entered Turkey and that our intermediary smugglers were waiting. After miles of deserted white surroundings, the group cheered at the sight of people and horses, which were brought to support the physically disabled. However, nothing was free - we had to pool together 2,000 Afghani (~$50) for the horses’ service. The ones who couldn’t walk were hoisted onto the saddles, and the other weary travelers grabbed onto the tails, letting the horses drag them forward. Another five or six treacherous hours went by. Wet and cold from crossing a half frozen stream and fatigued from many restless nights, I persisted, aware that each step inched us towards Van.

 

***

 

The humble city of Van appeared calm from the outside, with structured modern buildings protruding from the foothills of the mountains, its burgundy roofs livening the monotonous desert backdrop. We remained on the outskirts, which were mostly occupied by poorer families who lived in single-story shanty buildings made from sheets of metal and wood. Before meeting my host family, I popped into a local shop to purchase thicker boots and a warmer jacket with the little change I had left to prepare for winter. After blocking the 200,000 Afghani (~$5,000 USD) for the smuggler, I had around 15,000 Afghani (~$350 USD) left.

 

Like many others in the neighborhood, my assigned Turkish family was paid to accommodate and feed us as we awaited our fake Iranian passports from a man by the name of “Omid.” When I was handed mine, I opened it to find a Turkish visa and entry stamps from Bosnia, Serbia and other Eastern European countries. I flipped through the passport and saw my picture plastered on the bottom left with a stamp that was meticulously and strategically placed over the photo. These were real passports that were reportedly bought from the poor or taken from the homeless and drug-addicted, with our photos replacing theirs. I didn’t mind the origin as long as it got me safely through the country. 

 

After giving us the passports, “Omid”, whom I still have not met, told me and a few others that once we arrived in Indonesia, he can get us a large ship to Australia for 100M Toman (~$1,000 USD) each. Because I had successfully obtained a new passport from him, I trusted he was a man of his word. A ship is significantly safer than the fishing boats that were normally used to transport refugees to Australia. I borrowed the money from Nanay and paid “Omid” immediately to secure my spot. 

 

By this stage of our journey, we were separated into even smaller groups to avoid being too conspicuous. Depending on our final destination, we were first paired with another refugee and then assigned to a smuggler who would guide us over a three day bus journey to Istanbul, the hub for all migration. Some would take a boat to Greece, and then travel to Italy or Spain; others, like myself, would fly to Indonesia and cross the Indian Ocean to Australia. My friends there told me to arrive in Christmas Island, the remote Pacific Island next to the continent, which was the easiest to get to from Indonesia.

 

Now regrouped, we embarked on the bus ride. On the way, I noticed how drastically the nourishing views of citrus trees and luscious gardens contrasted from the sand dunes and nomadic lifestyle of Afghanistan. The blur of green hills from the seat window danced like waves to Persian tunes playing from my phone. I laid my head back and dozed off to the melodious notes, for the first time in a long while getting a full night’s rest, and woke up as we reached Istanbul. 

 

***

 

I could not believe I made it to Turkey. This had been the farthest I’ve been from home, and the journey itself had been exhilarating yet exhausting. After around 30 hours or so, the bus pulled over next to Taksim Square in Istanbul. I was shocked by the novel scene of women without hijabs and tourists of all skin colors casually and confidently strolling through the bustling streets of the open-air markets. In Afghanistan, people all dressed similarly and there were few tourists in the country. I squeezed past the paradise of nuts, spices, kofte, and Turkish delights to get to the center of the square. The previous smugglers strategically chose this location to meet the next intermediary smuggler, since the crowded setting provided an excellent shield for escape, if necessary. 

 

The intermediary had been waiting for us behind the corner cafe. He approached, immediately recognizing from our reserved demeanor and unkempt clothing that we were not locals. He nodded at our current smuggler who guided us, and assumed authority over the group. 

 

“I will take you to your hotel,” he said. “Wait there until I give you the signal.” 

We tacitly followed and soon found ourselves in front of an unnecessarily luxurious and gaudy boutique. I winced at the price of the room, but I lacked the negotiating power to resist. I knew he took a cut of the profits so it was of his interest to choose this particular hotel. 

“Stay and wait for my signal,” he said. “I will send one person each day through airport security.” He put two of us in a room. 

 

After he left, I locked the door and let myself soak in my first luxury experience. The room was beautiful - geometric art lined the walls, enclosing a deluxe bed decorated with soft white blankets and fluffed pillows. I quickly got over the price as I relaxed in the bathtub, setting aside my worries for the night. Weeks of weary travel had left scars and scabs all across my body, and they burned in the heat of the water. After an hour-long spa session, I collapsed onto the bed and turned on the TV, which I’d only watched a handful of times. Music filled the room as people danced across the screen. My first reflex was to look away, embarrassed to have viewed such scenes which were the crux of criticism in Afghanistan. But then I smiled. The room started to fill up with a kind of energy and beauty I had never before experienced. I let the music play; I watched the women dance. My roommate joined in, and both of us basked in the lively tunes until we fell asleep. We muttered a few words to each other, of which I don’t recall the details. The diversity and openness of the culture I witnessed in Turkey became one of the fondest memories I have of my journey. 

 

 

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