This short essay reflects Asma Karimi’s experience with wartime uncertainty, written while waiting news from her brother, who had fled to Iran. The public discourse in the United States focuses on the number of Afghan refugees and parolees, with increasing push to end the temporary protected status for Afghans. However, a larger number of Afghans have resettled in Pakistan and Iran, often under with mixed legal status. Movement restrictions by the government have affected Afghans in these regions, but recent bombings in Iran have led to even harsher limitations, as Afghan migrants and refugees face increased scrutiny and displacement amid escalating regional tensions.
With anxious, tear-filled eyes, I tightly clutched my phone, desperately hoping for a call from my brother. It had been ten days since I last heard from him. I couldn’t reach him—his phone was off, and he was offline. My body felt paralyzed, unable to do anything but stare at my phone and scroll endlessly through social media.
But social media mirrored the chaos within me. It was flooded with posts about the Iran-Israel war, hateful comments filled with racism and cruelty. Among them, one phrase kept repeating like a chant: “Immediate deportation of Afghans!” Each word sliced through me like a blade.
A piece of my heart was in Iran. I hadn’t eaten or slept in days. The uncertainty, the war, the internet shutdowns—everything left me drowning in fear and helplessness.
A storm had erupted inside me—tears, sorrow, anxiety. My mind, spirit, and body were overwhelmed. I felt like I was being consumed by a fire that no one could see. Only God knew how deep this pain went—how fiercely I burned inside.
The stress manifested on my skin. My body itched uncontrollably, and I scratched myself until I bled. My sorrow and fear had built a hell around me—a living hell, fueled by not knowing whether my beloved brother was alive or dead.
With trembling hands, a racing heart, and eyes desperate to see his name light up my phone, I called him again—for the hundredth, maybe thousandth time. But once more, the call didn’t go through.
Time stood still. I clasped my hands together, lips too dry to plead, eyes too tired to cry, whispering one final prayer: “God, please let him be safe. Take my years and give them to him. Just let me hear from him once. Please… please… God…”
He’s only 25. He fled to Iran—not out of choice, but to survive, to escape the Taliban. He is an artist. He left to strum the strings of his dreams on his guitar.
God, can you hear me?
GOD…?
Or have you, too, deported Afghans?
