My mother's words as I fled my homeland ring in my ears
I'll never forget the last thing my mother told my husband, Zakirullah, before we had to say goodbye.
'Fatemah is my amânat to you, take care of her.'
Amânat is a Dari word that essentially translates to: 'A gift you entrust someone with.'
She said this as floods of tears streamed down my face. I didn't want to leave her – or my three younger siblings – but Zakir and I had no choice.
Within two weeks, Kabul fell to the Taliban and my whole world shattered.
I was born and raised in the west of Afghanistan in a city called Herāt. Devastatingly, my father was killed by the Taliban when I was just six years old, leaving my mother to raise me, my younger brother, and two younger sisters.
Despite this, I was always encouraged to dream big.
That's why, after university in 2013, I decided to study a master's degree in Kabul, which is on the other side of the country. From there, I worked for the British Council, where I was in charge of the child protection department and various programs within schools and higher education.
Zakir and I met in 2015 for the first time. I delivered a training in one of the orphanages in Kabul, and he was working there.
I think God had already decided for us. We met each other by chance at one of the institutes again, and there we started talking, sharing job opportunities and study plans. I realised we were similar in many ways, but different in others.
I liked that he was smart, educated, and caring. But his family is quite conservative, so the women in his family didn't get an education or a job. He has always been so supportive of me and my dreams though.
Refugee Week is the world's largest arts and culture festival celebrating the contributions, creativity and resilience of refugees and people seeking safety.
Each year, IMIX – a charity that helps change the way people think and talk about migration – supports Refugee Week Ambassadors. These are people, like Fatemah, who came to the UK to rebuild their lives and who now play an important part in our communities.
IMIX is proud to work with Metro as a trusted partner in highlighting these voices and shining a light on the many ways refugees help make the UK a better place for everyone.
You can read Dorsa's story below
I hugged my dad to hide the terrifying truth
We got engaged in 2016 and were married a year later. We were thrilled to welcome our two sons in 2018 and 2020.
After that, our lives felt settled and comfortable. In fact, Zakir and I were doing so well (he was working with the US government by that point) that we managed to rent a home in Kabul and were able to help move my mother, sisters, and brother from Herāt to be near us.
It was worlds away from how we both grew up. We were all so happy.
Then, in April 2021, we saw terrifying headlines that NATO allies were going to start withdrawing from the country, which would effectively hand it over to the Taliban.
Within a month of that, Zakir heard about the UK's Afghan Relocations and Assistance Policy (ARAP) scheme, which helps relocate Afghans who worked with the UK to get them out of the country.
I was eligible because I had worked at the UK Ministry of Defence and the British Embassy, as well as various international organisations over the years, which would almost certainly put me in grave danger.
My husband decided to apply for us and it was all approved by July. Of course, we felt relieved at the idea of escaping to safety, but it was heartbreaking to realise we couldn't bring anyone with us besides our two boys.
Breaking the news to our families was incredibly tough. We didn't know when – or if – we would see them again and I was so scared that my work would put my family in danger.
That's when I had the emotional moment saying goodbye to my mother and siblings. Her words were still ringing in my ears as we boarded the plane heading to the UK on August 3 – a country I'd never been to before.
We arrived in Manchester and were placed in hotel quarantine for seven days due to the pandemic. We were moved from hotel to hotel across the country until we finally secured permanent accommodation in south-east London. https://www.instagram.com/p/DLFrvIyqHpg/
Thankfully, both my husband and I were able to continue working, but this wasn't easy while juggling trying to get our sons settled and adjusting to school.
I have since completed another master's degree and I work for the British Council again after a career break, while my husband secured a job at Queen Mary University.
As for my siblings and mother, they were forced to flee their homes repeatedly to avoid detection from the Taliban until we managed to secure visas for them in Pakistan by the end of 2021. Thankfully, my mother, brother, and sisters secured visas again – this time to Australia – by the year after, where they still are today.
Throughout it all, it's been incredibly difficult to be away from them. Of course, we regularly talk but I haven't seen my siblings now for almost four years.
I feel quite lucky to be able to say that I met with my mother in Germany last August for the first time since being separated. The moment I saw her, I broke down in tears – I was so happy.
Remarkably, my eldest son – who was around three when he last saw his grandmother – remembered her. In fact, he was so overwhelmed with joy at being reunited that he cried himself to sleep on her shoulder.
Unfortunately, we only managed to spend two weeks together in Germany before she had to go back to Australia and me to the UK. Ever since, my eldest son still asks when we're all going to be properly united.
Of course, I want that to happen, but they're all so tired of starting over again and again. For that reason, I don't know what the future holds for us all.
For now, I'm concentrating on building a life for my sons in the UK. Part of that is trying to be a role model, which is why I'm an ambassador for the charity City of Sanctuary, as well as involved with Refugee Week. More Trending
At the end of the day, I want people in the UK to realise that we're real humans with real stories.
We miss our homeland a lot, and we came here as we had to, not because we wanted to.
My story is not yet finished. But at least we still have the greatest amânat of all – our lives.
As told to James Besanvalle
Do you have a story you'd like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
Share your views in the comments below.
MORE: I went to Glastonbury and discovered it's just really overrated
MORE: I'm allowed to date other women – my partner isn't
MORE: How I stopped feeling insecure when my partner didn't orgasm
Hashtags
Try Our AI Features
Explore what Daily8 AI can do for you:
Comments
No comments yet...
Related Articles
Metro
18 hours ago
- Metro
My mother's words as I fled my homeland ring in my ears
I'll never forget the last thing my mother told my husband, Zakirullah, before we had to say goodbye. 'Fatemah is my amânat to you, take care of her.' Amânat is a Dari word that essentially translates to: 'A gift you entrust someone with.' She said this as floods of tears streamed down my face. I didn't want to leave her – or my three younger siblings – but Zakir and I had no choice. Within two weeks, Kabul fell to the Taliban and my whole world shattered. I was born and raised in the west of Afghanistan in a city called Herāt. Devastatingly, my father was killed by the Taliban when I was just six years old, leaving my mother to raise me, my younger brother, and two younger sisters. Despite this, I was always encouraged to dream big. That's why, after university in 2013, I decided to study a master's degree in Kabul, which is on the other side of the country. From there, I worked for the British Council, where I was in charge of the child protection department and various programs within schools and higher education. Zakir and I met in 2015 for the first time. I delivered a training in one of the orphanages in Kabul, and he was working there. I think God had already decided for us. We met each other by chance at one of the institutes again, and there we started talking, sharing job opportunities and study plans. I realised we were similar in many ways, but different in others. I liked that he was smart, educated, and caring. But his family is quite conservative, so the women in his family didn't get an education or a job. He has always been so supportive of me and my dreams though. Refugee Week is the world's largest arts and culture festival celebrating the contributions, creativity and resilience of refugees and people seeking safety. Each year, IMIX – a charity that helps change the way people think and talk about migration – supports Refugee Week Ambassadors. These are people, like Fatemah, who came to the UK to rebuild their lives and who now play an important part in our communities. IMIX is proud to work with Metro as a trusted partner in highlighting these voices and shining a light on the many ways refugees help make the UK a better place for everyone. You can read Dorsa's story below I hugged my dad to hide the terrifying truth We got engaged in 2016 and were married a year later. We were thrilled to welcome our two sons in 2018 and 2020. After that, our lives felt settled and comfortable. In fact, Zakir and I were doing so well (he was working with the US government by that point) that we managed to rent a home in Kabul and were able to help move my mother, sisters, and brother from Herāt to be near us. It was worlds away from how we both grew up. We were all so happy. Then, in April 2021, we saw terrifying headlines that NATO allies were going to start withdrawing from the country, which would effectively hand it over to the Taliban. Within a month of that, Zakir heard about the UK's Afghan Relocations and Assistance Policy (ARAP) scheme, which helps relocate Afghans who worked with the UK to get them out of the country. I was eligible because I had worked at the UK Ministry of Defence and the British Embassy, as well as various international organisations over the years, which would almost certainly put me in grave danger. My husband decided to apply for us and it was all approved by July. Of course, we felt relieved at the idea of escaping to safety, but it was heartbreaking to realise we couldn't bring anyone with us besides our two boys. Breaking the news to our families was incredibly tough. We didn't know when – or if – we would see them again and I was so scared that my work would put my family in danger. That's when I had the emotional moment saying goodbye to my mother and siblings. Her words were still ringing in my ears as we boarded the plane heading to the UK on August 3 – a country I'd never been to before. We arrived in Manchester and were placed in hotel quarantine for seven days due to the pandemic. We were moved from hotel to hotel across the country until we finally secured permanent accommodation in south-east London. Thankfully, both my husband and I were able to continue working, but this wasn't easy while juggling trying to get our sons settled and adjusting to school. I have since completed another master's degree and I work for the British Council again after a career break, while my husband secured a job at Queen Mary University. As for my siblings and mother, they were forced to flee their homes repeatedly to avoid detection from the Taliban until we managed to secure visas for them in Pakistan by the end of 2021. Thankfully, my mother, brother, and sisters secured visas again – this time to Australia – by the year after, where they still are today. Throughout it all, it's been incredibly difficult to be away from them. Of course, we regularly talk but I haven't seen my siblings now for almost four years. I feel quite lucky to be able to say that I met with my mother in Germany last August for the first time since being separated. The moment I saw her, I broke down in tears – I was so happy. Remarkably, my eldest son – who was around three when he last saw his grandmother – remembered her. In fact, he was so overwhelmed with joy at being reunited that he cried himself to sleep on her shoulder. Unfortunately, we only managed to spend two weeks together in Germany before she had to go back to Australia and me to the UK. Ever since, my eldest son still asks when we're all going to be properly united. Of course, I want that to happen, but they're all so tired of starting over again and again. For that reason, I don't know what the future holds for us all. For now, I'm concentrating on building a life for my sons in the UK. Part of that is trying to be a role model, which is why I'm an ambassador for the charity City of Sanctuary, as well as involved with Refugee Week. More Trending At the end of the day, I want people in the UK to realise that we're real humans with real stories. We miss our homeland a lot, and we came here as we had to, not because we wanted to. My story is not yet finished. But at least we still have the greatest amânat of all – our lives. As told to James Besanvalle Do you have a story you'd like to share? Get in touch by emailing Share your views in the comments below. MORE: I went to Glastonbury and discovered it's just really overrated MORE: I'm allowed to date other women – my partner isn't MORE: How I stopped feeling insecure when my partner didn't orgasm
Scottish Sun
2 days ago
- Scottish Sun
Migrant and his dog are rescued from Channel after spending three days adrift in a dinghy after its motor failed
The dog is the sixth pooch known to have entered the UK by small boat LOST AND HOUND Migrant and his dog are rescued from Channel after spending three days adrift in a dinghy after its motor failed A MIGRANT was rescued with his dog after surviving for three days in a rubber dinghy adrift in The Channel. The Afghan man, who gave his name as Barry, told rescuers he found pet Bella in a French refugee camp while fleeing the Taliban. Advertisement 2 A migrant named Barry was rescued with his dog after surviving for three days in a rubber dinghy adrift in The Channel 2 An Afghan migrant told rescuers he found pet dog Bella in a French refugee camp while fleeing the Taliban Credit: Eddie Mitchell They set sail on the dangerous 21-mile journey earlier this week but the boat's engine failed before they reached Britain. Emergency services spotted a red distress flare fired at sea around 6.30pm on Wednesday off the coast of Brighton, East Sussex. A HM Coastguard helicopter helped bring Barry and Bella to shore an hour later alongside rescue teams and RNLI lifeboats. They were met by Sussex Police officers who transferred them to Border Force. Advertisement READ MORE ON MIGRATION BOUND FOR BRITAIN Speaking French & German… migrants booted out of EU heading to Britain The dog, believed to be a Lancashire Heeler, is the sixth pooch known to have entered the UK by small boat. Others were a mixed breed, Jack Russell, pomeranian, Yorkshire terrier and chihuahua, as previously revealed by The Sun. Due to not having correct documentation, they are quarantined for up to four months to prevent spreading infectious diseases like rabies. A Sussex Police spokesman said: 'Police assisted HM Coastguard following a report of a man in a boat off the coast of Brighton on Wednesday. Advertisement 'The man and a dog were safely brought to shore and passed to Border Force officials.' A HM Coastguard spokesman added: 'HM Coastguard has responded to reports of a person in the water in waters between Brighton Marina and Pier. 'A man was located safe and well in a vessel that had reportedly experienced engine issues.'
Times
5 days ago
- Times
The Taliban letters show us what learning really is — hope
Last week The Times published correspondence between the author Kate Mosse and Parand, an Afghan writer who was risking her life to reply. It is one of the most moving things I have read, and I have read it several times now. Every time I do, my eyes leak. There are so many revelations in these letters. Mosse's gentle questioning paves the way for an unflinching interaction between two women joined by the invisible thread of their art. It is a glimpse into a world locked from public view, the light from the dying star of pre-Taliban life still visible but out of reach. However bad I thought things were, they're worse. • The Taliban letters: one woman writes in freedom, the other in fear One statement in particular has stayed with me. 'For the fourth year running girls' high schools [are empty],' Parand writes. '… What is truly irreparable is the closure of schools. If Afghan girls are denied education, they will never understand the meaning of individual independence. They will remain dependent on men and be exploited — both within their families and in society.' When I went to school in the mid-Noughties it wasn't cool for girls to be clever. It was better to be into boys, music and cider. I wasn't terribly academic, but the one thing I worked out fast was that the only way to leave Glenrothes was to study. So I revised and got the grades, eventually making it to university after a few missteps. A new world opened up in front of me. I kept reading, kept writing, and the worlds multiplied. Everything I am today I owe to books. To not have books — to not be allowed to learn — is beyond my understanding. Here, education remains the only way to haul yourself out of one life and into another. Until I read those letters the thought hadn't crystallised properly. Learning isn't just something you do to pad out the years of childhood. It's the bedrock of everything solid — financial freedom, emotional regulation, curiosity, the ability to let your mind expand. In Afghanistan, these riches are a million times harder won for women, who are banned from the office and university. They cannot enter parks, and must instead walk in laps around the edges for exercise. They can attend work meetings online but their names are not listed on attendance sheets. The simplest things we take for granted are off-limits. Without them a person is erased. In her own work, Parand highlights these injustices. She doesn't say it explicitly, but it is part of the job of a writer. Part of committing words to the page is the refusal to turn away. Part of it is finding a cause and seeing how far you can push it. Part of it is risk, like it is for Parand, who knows that if her letters are seized she may be killed. Part of it is using your platform to illuminate, like Mosse, an author with an international following. I didn't go to a good high school. My alma mater isn't a prestigious one. For a long time I thought this mattered, but reading these letters reminds me it doesn't. What matters is I got to go. What matters is that I ended up here. The classroom filled me with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge, something I consider a basic right of living in Scotland. In fact, it is an immense privilege to learn without limits, to read widely, to write to an audience. Parand talks about going to the market, one of the only social spaces still open to Afghan women, where she can finally escape the entrapment of home. There she can talk in public without the walls closing in. This spot, right here on the screen, is another kind of market. A place where people gather and learn, most of all me when I open my laptop and fall into another life thousands of miles away. One of the mistakes in reading experiences such as Parand's is focusing on the differences. It makes more sense to think about how we are the same. Only then can worlds collide. Only then can two lives connect. 'The only thing that brings me comfort is writing,' she signs off. 'Writing gives me hope for the future.' In the classrooms of Afghanistan, girls are not taught voice and structure, the art of the short story, the habit of elegant variation. But at home they wage a silent revolution. There they refuse to bow. @palebackwriter Twenty-one women writers contribute to My Dear Kabul (£10.99, Hodder and Stoughton), an astonishing collection showing what it is to be a grandmother, a newlywed and a student in creative captivity. Order from Discount for Times+ members.
