"Apart from the Taliban, they're now bombing us in Kabul, but nobody cares about us anymore."

KabulIt was almost ten o'clock at night when two explosions shattered the silence of Kabul. The noise was so loud I froze. For a moment, I thought the war had returned. I ran to check on my family. When I saw them safe and sound at home, I felt a wave of relief wash over me. Outside, the city was unnervingly quiet, as if everyone were holding their breath.

I turned on my VPN to check Facebook, because with the Taliban's internet restrictions, there's no other way to access social media. In the north, south, east, and west of Kabul, everyone had heard the same thunderous explosion. And everywhere, too, there was the same confusion. Some said that perhaps American troops had returned to liberate us from the Taliban. Others feared a new war. Until we learned the truth: it hadn't been the United States, but Pakistan.

That night, as I read the news of the airstrikes on Kabul and Paktika province in eastern Afghanistan, I felt something break inside me. For years, the enemies had been among us. Now the danger came from the sky and from outside. Kabul was trembling again.

The fighting began at the border. Taliban forces attacked several Pakistani checkpoints in six border provinces in response to Pakistani shelling into Afghan territory. Gradually, the conflict spread until the bombing reached Kabul.

Thick smoke covered the capital. Initially, many thought it was a simple accident. In fact, Taliban spokesman Zabihullah Mujahid reported that a "fuel tanker" had exploded and that there was no need to worry. But I was worried. I was on my balcony, watching the smoke rising in the distance, and I didn't believe it. Over the past four years, we've learned not to put too much stock in Taliban statements, which are often late or inaccurate.

And sure enough, hours later the Taliban themselves confirmed the airstrikes. The bombs had hit several residential areas of Kabul, as well as the provinces of Nangarhar and Kandahar. According to local and international sources, at least 64 people were killed and more than 619 were wounded. The majority were civilians, including women and children.

That day the Taliban didn't allow anyone to visit the site of the attack. But the next morning, I went myself. There was a house with its roof collapsed, and a completely wrecked room that looked like it belonged to a young student. Miraculously, neither she nor her family were there during the attack. They survived, but the house was now a pile of bricks and twisted metal. Nearby was a small private school with all its windows shattered and shrapnel marks on the exterior walls. In fact, the windows of all the surrounding houses were also shattered, and most of the wounded had suffered cuts. In other parts of Kabul, the scene was similar: children with eyes like oranges from fear, and men digging through the rubble with their bare hands and desperate faces. One of them said to me in a low voice, "We had hoped for peace from the Taliban, but now Pakistan is bombing us."

A false sense of security

When the Taliban returned to power four years ago, they promised us "security." And for a while, we believed them. The bombings stopped, the kidnappings faded away, and the nights in Kabul seemed calmer. We could breathe again, albeit under a regime of control and repression.

During the years of the international troop presence, helicopters constantly circled the city, but Pakistan never attacked us. Now, for the first time, the danger does come from across the border, from a country we have always considered our enemy, but on which we are completely dependent.

In fact, the relationship between Afghanistan and Pakistan has always been based on mistrust. I grew up feeling that Pakistan has been involved in every war that has torn my country apart, but then again, Pakistan has also often been our lifeline. For example, Afghanistan's healthcare system has almost collapsed, and when we need major surgery or specialized treatment, we have to travel to Pakistan. My uncle went there and, like tens of thousands of other Afghans, had to queue for hours at the Pakistani embassy in Kabul to get the coveted medical visa. Others aren't so lucky and have no choice but to buy it on the black market, paying more than they earn in months.

A friend of mine lived in the city of Karachi, in southern Pakistan, for years. He was there legally, with all his paperwork in order, but one night the police raided his neighborhood and accused him of being "an illegal Afghan." They beat him and threw him across the border. When I saw him in Kabul, his hands were still shaking. It's the cruelest irony: we flee to Pakistan to survive, but there they treat us as if we don't have the right to live.

Sometimes I wonder if the world has simply stopped listening to us. The bombs that fell on Kabul in October didn't just collapse houses; they shattered the illusion that peace had finally come to Afghanistan. I saw children trapped under rubble, women screaming the names of their loved ones, and lives cut short in seconds. Beyond our borders, however, the international media barely echoed our cries.

Every night, as the sky darkens over Kabul, I look up and wonder when the next explosion will come. Fear has become a part of our lives—silent, constant. But what hurts the most is the silence of a world that seems to have stopped caring about us.