this journey is difficult

A small part of one 13-year-old’s journey from Afghanistan.

To stop my little brother following me, I told him I was going out to get him a surprise and would be back in a minute.

I got on the bus and started my first journey out of my village without my family at my side – I felt sad and even though there were lots of people on the bus, I felt very alone and lonely.

I still wonder how long he waited for me to come back.
Two days later, I reached the point of joining the other people escaping and I was pushed onto the back of a Toyota truck, crammed in with too many people so we stood up as it sped along, holding onto each other to stop anyone falling off as there was no room to sit down.

If someone fell off, the driver didn’t stop so we hung on for our life. The next year was full of people pushing me and cramming me with others into uncomfortable and scary places (the boots of vehicles, footwells in cars, small boats), or walking for days and nights, drinking out of puddles and eating grass and leaves when too hungry to continue.

The pain of leaving my two little brothers and my sister, wondering if I would ever see them again, of leaving my home, my village, my beautiful country that was being brutally torn apart, was overwhelming, and still consumes me.

My small moments of rest on the journey were filled with
dreams of them all, but now I cannot bear to think about them too often as my heart cannot cope with the pain. I wonder about when I can return to that beautiful land, if peace will ever come, if they have survived, if I will survive.

My journey was long and difficult: I was hungry, thirsty, tired and scared. We were met with anger and rejection often, not the welcome or safety I was hoping for. People were not kind to me, to us.

We kept going, dreaming of finding somewhere we could finish growing and learn how to fit in and belong, make a life worthy of the sacrifice our families made for us, have the life they couldn’t, and live with freedom, opportunity, and dignity.

I dared not cry as I thought it might not stop. My heart was broken. It still is. I want to see my brothers again; I want to hug my sister and thank her for her sacrifice in getting me to safety.

I want my country to be ok so I can return to it, maybe live there. I want people to care about me, to care about us, to give me a chance.

My journey was difficult, it still is, it’s not over, just on the next bit – I am displaced and trying to find my place.

This journey is difficult.