Afghan man flees Taliban rule, endures dangerous journey to seek refuge in France
A week later, we received chilling news: the Taliban began executing anyone accused of collaborating with the Afghan government or foreign forces. Fear gripped me as I realized my brother’s death was part of a larger, more dangerous reality. The thought I might face the same fate hit me hard, driving me to plan my escape.
- 3 days ago
December 30, 2024
A deserted refugee camp in Calais, France. | Photo courtesy of Radek Homola on Unsplash
TOULOUSE, France — For years, we lived in constant fear as the deadly conflict between the Taliban and government forces turned everyday life into a nightmare. As militant groups imposed relentless threats, violence shattered communities.
When the Taliban seized power in 2021, they killed my elder brother, accusing him of working for security agencies. Knowing they might come for me next, I decided to flee.
As Taliban seize control, freedom fades into oppression
I grew up in Herat, a city brimming with history and culture. My father wove intricate carpets, each design narrating stories of our heritage. My mother, a housewife, baked naan [a type of soft, leavened flatbread], filling our home with its warm, comforting aroma. However, Afghanistan’s beauty contrasted sharply with its struggles, as war’s scars shaped our daily lives. We carried the weight of past conflicts while stability remained uncertain.
Despite the turmoil, I held onto hope and pursued my dream of becoming an engineer to help rebuild our nation. I focused entirely on my studies and dedicated every effort to achieve my goal. However, in my final year at university, everything fell apart. The Taliban seized control in 2021, reshaping our world with their oppressive rule. They segregated boys and girls in schools, banned girls from receiving an education, and silenced the music that once celebrated our culture.
Soon, the Taliban tightened their grip. They forced women to cover themselves completely and forbade them from leaving home without a male guardian. Their oppressive rule turned our home, once filled with love and hope, into a space dominated by fear and silence. They stripped away our freedoms, shattered our dreams, and crushed our hopes, leaving us with no safety.
Man plans escape after Taliban kills brother
One afternoon, my parents, 9-year-old sister, and I sat down for lunch when a loud knock echoed at the door. I opened the door to find our neighbor, his face ashen and eyes filled with terror, speaking volumes without a word. He delivered the grim news: my older brother had been killed. As the words sank in, time froze, blurring everything around me.
Desperately, we rushed to the hospital to see him. When we arrived, the sight of his bloodied, lifeless body shattered something deep inside me. I heard my father sob beside me, his heart breaking as he stared at his son. I could not tear my eyes away from my brother’s face, frozen in horror and disbelief. That day, the weight of the world crushed me. Devastation consumed us as losing my brother marked the beginning of our nightmare.
A week later, we received chilling news: the Taliban began executing anyone accused of collaborating with the Afghan government or foreign forces. Fear gripped me as I realized my brother’s death was part of a larger, more dangerous reality. The thought I might face the same fate hit me hard, driving me to plan my escape. In desperation, I contacted a close friend whose father had fled Afghanistan the previous year with the help of a human trafficker. I knew then I had no choice but to follow their path. The plan was risky, but it offered my only chance to survive.
Father’s urgent plea: “Son, you must leave, they will come for you next”
Leaving Afghanistan posed various obstacles. The smuggler demanded an initial payment of $4,000 USD to rush my escape from the country. But I knew it would fall short. The journey ahead was dangerous, and I would need to pay him more as I traveled further into Europe. I decided France as my destination, where one of my cousins found refuge.
For a middle-class family like ours, arranging the money proved difficult. My family scraped together every penny they could. Before the Taliban takeover, my mother had sold her jewelry and set aside a significant amount for safety, which she then gave to me. My father dug into his savings, and we borrowed money from my uncle. We stretched thin, but my family understood there was no other choice. Though terrified for me, they knew I must leave the conflict, even if the risks lay ahead.
One early winter morning, my father shook me awake. Fear trembled as he whispered, “Son, you must leave. They will come for you next.” My father, the pillar of our family, broke down—not just from the loss of his son, but from the knowledge that I was in danger too. As I stepped out, my mother cried silently and handed me a bundle of clothes and some dried fruit—the only thing she could give me. My younger sister clung to me, her tiny hands trembling in mine. “Stay alive,” my father said, his voice thick with emotion, before I could respond. I nodded, unable to speak, as my family’s uncertain future hit me. With a small bag and a few belongings, I left my family behind.
Man flees Afghanistan, navigating through Iran and Turkey
I crossed my first border into Iran with a group of desperate individuals, led by a smuggler who cared more about our payment than our lives. In those mountains, I truly understood the fragility of life for the first time. As night fell, we trudged for hours through the freezing terrain, every sound making my heart race. Iranian border guards patrolled the area, however that night, luck stayed on our side. Fortunately, we slipped past them undetected and entered Iran.
In Iran, I lived in an overcrowded apartment with other migrants while traffickers demanded more money to take us from Greece to Central Europe. They worked with a network in different countries to gather details on security risks and border conditions, which delayed our journey. One day, the authorities raided our apartment. I dropped everything, including my backpack, and bolted. Somehow, I managed to escape. For 15 days, exhaustion weighed heavily on me, yet I knew my journey had only begun.
Crossing into Turkey became even more dangerous. The trafficker led us through heavily patrolled routes, promising a day-long trek that stretched into three. Packed into a truck, we suffocated in the air thick with sweat and fear. Trapped without proper food or water, survival felt nearly impossible. When we reached the Turkish border, authorities apprehended us and deported us back to Iran. Determined, we tried again. After three attempts, I finally succeeded in crossing into Turkey.
From Turkey to Greece: man endures brutal detention with harrowing conditions
Once in Turkey, another smuggler took us through various cities. Near İzmir [a city on Turkey’s Aegean coast], we spent 11 horrible days hiding from police. There, I met a group of Afghans with the same goal of reaching Europe. Among them was a 21-year-old Najib from Kabul, a witty and spirited individual who quickly became my closest friend. His infectious laugh and sharp humor lifted our morale as we trudged across Turkey, enduring hunger, fatigue, and the constant risk of capture.
Despite our best efforts, Turkish police eventually captured us, detaining us for a week. When they released us, they took our fingerprints and issued a warning never to return if deported. With no safe options left, staying in Turkey was no longer possible. Despite the hardships, I pressed on.
After our release, we headed to the coast, where traffickers promised to take us to Greece. Late at night, we set out on our perilous journey across the Aegean Sea in a flimsy rubber dinghy, overcrowded with over 30 people. Suddenly, the violent sea struck the boat, causing it to lurch uncontrollably. Passengers cried out in prayer, while others retched and vomited into the dark water. When we finally reached the Greek shore, I collapsed in relief, kissing the sand.
However, our ordeal did not end. The Greek border guards found us the next morning, shouting and forcefully herding us into a detention camp. The camp overflowed with people, remained filthy, and pulsed with despair. The toilets overflowed as the tents lay on the muddy ground, their fabric torn and stained. Food ran out quickly, leaving everyone hungry and weak. Amid the harsh winter, people struggled to find space as they lay on the damp ground.
Man leaves ill friend behind in Greece, struggles to raise funds for escape
Amid the harrowing conditions, Najib fell seriously ill with hypothermia. Although the authorities gave us some medicine, it did not work. As desperation took over, I teamed up with a small group to plan our escape and continue the journey. I wanted to take Najib with me, but his condition grew too severe. He begged me to leave him behind, urging me to escape while I still had the chance. With a heavy heart, I hugged him and said goodbye. After enduring harsh conditions for 12 days, I escaped the detention with a small group.
As I prepared to leave Greece, I ran out of money. Panic engulfed me as the trafficker demanded an additional $3,000 USD to continue the journey. I knew I could not raise the amount, so I begged my cousin in France and contacted people back home for help. My father managed to gather some money, while my cousin in France added to it. Together, they scraped $2,100 USD for me. However, I could not gather the rest in time.
I knew I could not stay in Greece any longer as police operations against illegal migrants intensified. Distressed, I pleaded with the smuggler for mercy, promising to arrange the rest of the money once I reached France. After two days of intense negotiations, he finally relented. Despite his initial hesitation, he agreed to let me go with the $2,100 USD I had.
Walking through snow and danger, hoping for a new life in Europe
For several days, we battled through the snowy winter, avoiding the main roads as we headed north. I traveled through North Macedonia, Serbia, Hungary, Austria, and Germany mostly on foot or hidden in trucks. Each border we crossed presented a new challenge, however, with each step, we moved closer to freedom.
Although authorities repeatedly caught and detained me, they always sent me back to the last country I had crossed rather than deporting me to Afghanistan. This strange loophole became my lifeline, allowing me to keep moving forward. Despite draining our money and treating us like cargo, smugglers became my only way forward.
Amid the relentless snow in North Macedonia, we hid in abandoned buildings and scavenged for food. The local police ruthlessly beat any migrant they caught. I watched as they assaulted one man so severely that he could barely walk afterward. Similarly, Serbia offered no relief. As we neared the Hungarian border, Serbian police caught us. Nevertheless, this time, an NGO intervened, providing food, blankets, and vital advice on survival. Their kindness shone like a rare light in a world consumed by darkness
Along the way to Serbia, I met a Syrian family with two young children. We shared the little food we had and looked out for each other. However, tragedy struck when authorities caught them at the Croatian border and pushed them back to Serbia. Sadly, I never saw them again. Knowing the risk at the Croatian border, smugglers redirected our route.
Migrants face violent beatings and pushbacks at Hungarian border
The Hungarian border proved the most harrowing part of my journey. As the sun dipped below the horizon and the cold breeze intensified, we reached the towering fence lined with razor wire. Determined to cross, we climbed toward the barrier, but guards swiftly intervened and unleashed a ruthless assault.
Mercilessly, the Hungarian police struck our backs and legs with batons, showing no mercy. Omar, my companion from Syria, bore the brunt of their brutality. Guards beat him so severely that blood poured from his wounds, pooling on the ground and staining the grass. He clutched his side in agony, groaning as the pain overwhelmed him.
Feeling hopeless, I claimed Syrian nationality to prevent deportation, but the Hungarian police dismissed my plea and sent me back to Serbia. Their batons left scars on my back and legs, permanent reminders of their relentless beatings. Over the following days, we tried to cross the border more than five times. Each attempt ended the same way—guards beat us ruthlessly and sent us back into Serbia.
The injuries we endured crushed my spirit but ignited my resolve. Witnessing the brutality at the border, the smuggler advised us to wait. He explained the need to delay until his network in Europe signaled safer border conditions. For more than two weeks, I stayed in Serbia as the cold and anticipation wore me down.
Finally, the smuggler called one night. Moving under the cover of darkness, we advanced cautiously. This time, we crossed into Hungary, evading the guards and escaping their brutal retaliation. Though the journey remained far from over, I stepped onto Hungarian soil, marking a small yet hard-won victory.
Man finally reaches France after a long, brutal journey
Moving forward into Austria, I then crossed into Germany. From there, I entered France, traveling on foot, hiding in lorries, or crammed into the truck with fellow migrants. When I finally arrived in France, I collapsed at the roadside, drained from the journey. Although I had reached France, I knew my struggles were far from over.
Although the traffickers treated us like livestock and failed to provide any basic provisions they promised, we still managed to survive. We relied on the human trafficking network to guide us, even though they let us down in every other way. Despite their neglect, we pushed forward, determined not to let their actions stop us.
In France, we immediately sought out an NGO that helped us apply for asylum. They provided medical checkups, food, warm clothes, and a place to sleep. At night, the cold seeped into my bones as I lay awake. Memories of the brother I lost in Afghanistan haunted me, while the threats that forced me to flee continued to weigh heavily on my mind.
The asylum process trapped me in an endless labyrinth. I spent months in limbo, giving fingerprints and answering interrogations. The authorities took deliberate steps to make me feel unwelcome, their skepticism wounding me more than any physical hardship. They demanded proof of the threats I faced in Afghanistan, questioning every detail of my story. How could I prove the pain of losing my brother or the threats I faced when I left with nothing but the clothes on my back?
Man struggles to reclaim his life in France amid lengthy asylum process
Amid the uncertainty, I found moments of kindness. Melina, a volunteer from the NGO, took a personal interest in my case. She sat with me for hours, helping me gather evidence to support my asylum application. I told her about my brother’s murder, the threats, my best friend Najib left in Greece, and the horrors of my journey. Her belief in me gave me strength when I felt ready to give up. Melina became more than a volunteer—she symbolized hope, reminding me that not everyone saw me as a burden or a fraud.
During the grueling interviews with authorities, I recounted my journey repeatedly, each memory reopening wounds I desperately wanted to heal. But I had no choice—I had to convince them of my need for protection. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. Every passing day reminded me of what I was fighting for—a life free from fear, a chance to rebuild, and the dignity to stand on my feet. This struggle was not just about staying in France; it became a battle to reclaim myself.
While I waited for my asylum application to process, the government provided me with housing and a small allowance. The housing gave me a roof, and the allowance covered basic needs, but it all felt meaningless. What mattered was getting my asylum approved to rebuild my life. The uncertainty gnawed at me, but I kept reminding myself why I had come this far.
Man earns refugee status in France, mourns friend’s death
One morning, Melina called me, excitedly telling me she had a surprise. After waiting nearly a year, Melina delivered the news that I had received refugee status. Tears welled up in my eyes as I felt the weight lift off my shoulders, but the scars from my past still lingered.
Later that evening, Melina shared the devastating news, shattering me: Najib had passed away. Her friends in Greece, working with humanitarian organizations, told her that Najib’s health worsened. They rushed him to the hospital, but he did not survive. I broke down, tears flooding my face as I remembered his smile, warmth, and innocent dreams. That day, I received the best news of my life, yet it felt hollow as I mourned Najib’s loss.
Today, I rebuild my life. I work legally and learn French, with each new word bringing me closer to the future I am determined to create. The dream of becoming an engineer, which I left behind in Afghanistan, propels me forward. Once I paid the trafficker with his remaining amount, I began sending money to my family every month. I hope the war will end so I can return to my village and see them again. For now, I embrace France as my home.
For the first time in years, I walk the streets without fearing violence or deportation. Freedom, once unimaginable, now feels precious. Each day, I face the challenges of rebuilding with gratitude and determination, knowing my survival testifies to the sacrifices of those I lost. Though my heart aches for my family, I hope to reunite with them in a life free from fear. Until then, their love drives me forward, reminding me why I fought so hard.
