I have never traveled outside of Afghanistan. I do not know how life is elsewhere, nor what happens in the so-called developed countries when there's a major storm or earthquake. I assume people there can receive help or perhaps are alerted when something like that happens. In Afghanistan, you can expect absolutely nothing. Sometimes I think Afghanistan is at the very end of the world, a place where death returns in a new form every season: war, bitter cold, flood, earthquake. Each disaster feels sharper than the last, and each one reminds us of our vulnerability.

I saw it all with my own eyes: shattered skulls, severed limbs, bodies lying on the ground... The Pakistani bombing of a drug rehabilitation center in Kabul on the night of March 16 was devastating. I am a journalist and I know my job is to go to places, see, and report. But, in this case, what I saw has deeply disturbed me. I am 25 years old. I wonder how many young people my age in other countries have seen what I have seen.

Pakistani airstrikes killed hundreds of patients after striking a major drug rehabilitation center in Kabul late on March 16, 2026, according to Taliban authorities, in one of the deadliest reported attacks in recent months. The strikes targeted multiple locations across Afghanistan, including sites in Kabul, Paktia, and Paktika provinces, amid escalating tensions between the Taliban and Pakistan.

marks the fifteenth day since tensions and clashes between Afghanistan and Pakistan began. For the past three nights there have been no Pakistani drones in Kabul’s sky, but earlier in this Ramadan, when people usually wake for suhoor to the sound of alarm clocks, we were waking instead to the roar of Pakistani jets and the crack of gunfire.

“I will bury you right here”. That is what a Taliban officer told me on Valentine’s Day in Kabul. It has been nearly two weeks since February 14, but I am still carrying that day inside me.

Going to the gym has never been a common habit for all women in Afghanistan. In many remote areas, women do not even know what a gym is. For them, being active means working in the fields, carrying water, or spending long hours doing unpaid labor at home.

The knock came late at night, the kind of knock that doesn’t belong to ordinary life. It was around eleven. I don’t remember the exact month, but I remember the sound clearly. It froze the air inside our home.

People who have never lived in Kabul often imagine Afghanistan as a dry and warm country. Many are surprised when I tell them how cold it becomes in winter. Kabul is a city situated at an altitude of about 1,800 meters and surrounded by mountains, and every winter it snows and temperatures can reach ten or fifteen degrees below zero. The cold is sharp enough to numb your hands within minutes, and the air itself feels heavy, biting, and relentless.

I had always dreamed of pursuing a master’s degree in journalism. It was not an unrealistic dream,until the Taliban turned it into one inside Afghanistan. Universities closed, futures narrowed, and plans that once felt within reach suddenly became distant.

Not so long ago, going to a restaurant for me was not just about going to a public place; it was a way to breathe. Among the smell of hot rice and fresh bread, among the clinking of spoons and laughter, I could, for a few hours, forget what was happening outside those walls. For my generation -I am 25-, restaurants were something between home and the outside world; a space where family, partners, and friends could sit together and simply be “normal.”

Two years ago, when women’s beauty salons were closed, it felt as if a part of our lives had been locked away behind those doors. I remember the last time I went to a salon; the space smelled of endings, like the day you realize something you’ve grown used to is about to be erased from your life forever. My beautician had gathered all her tools. The small jars of creams and colors, the brushes,she placed them one by one into an old box. The sound of the little containers closing was like gentle taps on the heart.

During my university years, from 2018 to 2022, I had a blue pair of jeans that I wore almost every day. They were simple and not expensive, but to me, they were a part of myself. Over time, the fabric had softened, and the knees had slightly faded. When I wore them, I felt comfortable and truly myself. I always kept them on the top shelf of my wardrobe, knowing that I would choose them again tomorrow.

It was almost ten o’clock at night, when two explosions tore through the silence of Kabul. The sound was so fierce that I froze heart pounding, breath caught in my chest. For a moment, I thought the war had found its way back. I ran through the house calling my family’s names. When I saw them safe, I felt my knees weaken with relief. Outside, the city was still too quiet, as if Kabul itself was holding its breath.

It was four in the afternoon when a journalist friend messaged me: “The fiber-optic internet across Afghanistan will probably be cut off.” I felt uneasy, but tried to calm myself; mobile internet would still work, and I could stay connected to the world. I didn’t pay too much attention to the warning. I thought it would be inconvenient, maybe frustrating, but not catastrophic.