I sit in the back of a truck, crammed between my mother and sister, sweat trickling down my back. The air inside is thick and suffocating, mixing with the stench of dust, exhaustion, and fear. My burqa clings to my skin, trapping the heat and making it impossible to breathe. I want to lift it just a little, just for a second, to feel a bit of air against my face. But I don’t. My father’s words echo in my head: “No matter how hot it gets, don’t lift your burqa. Don’t even touch it.” 

I grip the fabric tighter, my hands trembling. The weight of it is unbearable, but it is the only thing keeping me safe. Outside, the sun blazes mercilessly, turning the desert into a furnace. The road is uneven, and the truck jolts violently, knocking my head against the metal side. My mother’s hand grips mine, squeezing it hard every time we hit a bump. 

None of us speaks. 

We have been traveling for hours, maybe more; I have lost track of time. My father sits at the front, his shoulders tense and head lowered. I don’t have to see his face to know his feelings. He is scared. I have never seen him like this before–never seen his hands shake, never seen his eyes so hollow. He has always been the strongest person I know. But today, he looks fragile. Powerless.

My mother doesn’t say a word either. She just stares ahead, her fingers gripping the edge of her burqa. Her silence is unnatural. She is always the one who reassures us, who tells us everything will be fine. But today, she doesn’t. 

Because she knows she can’t. 

We are leaving everything behind–our home, our family, our country. We have no choice. The Taliban are everywhere. There is no future for us in Afghanistan. Only fear. Only death. My father says Pakistan will be safer, that we will find a way to survive there. But I don’t even know if we’ll make it. 

The truck comes to a sudden stop. My heart is pounding. I hear voices outside, harsh and commanding. I recognize the accent immediately–Pakistani soldiers. 

My father climbs out first, straightening his posture and trying to appear confident. But I see the way his hands tighten into fists, the way his breath comes out just a little too fast. The soldier looks him up and down, eyes narrowing. “Where are you going?” he asks. 

“My daughters are sick. We need to see a doctor in Pakistan,” my father replies. 

The soldier doesn’t believe him. I can see it in his face. He knows we are lying. He takes the papers from my father’s hands and studies them for a long moment. The silence is unbearable. I feel my mother’s grip tighten on my hand. I want to look at her to see if she is as terrified as I am, but I can’t move. I can’t even breathe.

Finally, the soldier nods and waves us through. My father exhales sharply, his hands shaking as he takes the papers back. 

One checkpoint down. 

Six more to go. 

The next checkpoint is long with hundreds of people in line–women in blue burqas, children clinging to their mothers, old men clutching their last belongings–everyone desperate to escape. The air is thick with panic, with exhaustion. Babies wail, their cries blending into the endless murmur of desperate voices. We shuffle forward, step by step, inching toward the gate. My feet ache, and my body is drenched in sweat beneath my burqa. The heat is unbearable, pressing down on us like a heavy weight. 

Then, I hear it. 

The unmistakable sound of gunfire. 

People push forward, desperate to get through the gate before it’s too late. A child falls to the ground; his mother yanks him up, terror in her eyes. I want to run, to push through the crowd and escape. But I can’t move. My mother holds onto me tightly, pulling me close and shielding me with her body. 

We wait. We have no choice.

After what feels like an eternity, we reach the next checkpoint. A group of Pakistani soldiers stands guard, rifles slung over their shoulders. One of them–a man with a thick mustache–steps forward. 

He looks at my father. “Papers.”  

My father hands them over. 

The soldier smirks. I don’t like the look. It sends a chill down my spine. He flips through the papers, taking his time, dragging out the moment. Then, he looks up and laughs. “These are fake,” he says. 

My stomach drops. The world around me blurs. I hear my father stammer something, trying to argue, trying to plead. But I already know it’s over. 

The soldier calls over another guard. They talk in hushed voices, shaking their heads and sneering.  Then, one of them gestures for us to step aside. “We can’t let you through,” he says. “Go back.”  

Go back? 

Back to Afghanistan? Back to the place where the Taliban are hunting us?  

No. NO.

My father tries again. “Please,” he says. His voice is raw, desperate. “My daughters… they are not safe in Afghanistan.” 

The soldier looks at us–at my mother, at my sister, at me—his eyes linger for too long. I feel sick. “You should have thought of that before trying to cross illegally,” he says. 

I watch as my father’s shoulders slump. The fight drains from his body. He knows there is nothing he can do. We are trapped. 

There is no way forward.  

Only back. 

Back to the home that is no longer home.  

Back to the fear. 

Back to the prison we tried so desperately to escape. 

I feel the tears slipping down my cheeks, soaking into my burqa. I don’t bother wiping them away. I don’t care anymore. 

Because in this moment, hope is nothing but an illusion.  

And freedom is just a dream that dies at the border.