My Escape From the Taliban

When Kabul fell, my sister and I almost didn't get out.

- Bushra Seddique

The text message came a little before 5 p.m. It was August 26, 2021. Eleven days earlier, the Taliban had overthrown the Afghan government. My friend-a German writer and academic-had been trying to help my family flee the country. Now she told me she had gotten my two younger sisters and me on the list for a flight to Frankfurt, a last-minute evacuation negotiated by the German government and a nonprofit group.

"What about my mom?" I asked. She didn't reply for a moment. "I was not able to get her on this flight," she answered. Please, I begged her: "My brothers are gone and my father is living with his second wife. She just has us, no one else, for God's sake please do something."

But there was nothing she could do. "These are the names that they offered me," she wrote. "I know it's a terrible choice."

She said we had 20 minutes to decide whether to stay or go. We would need to pack, then take a taxi to a secret location, where we'd meet the buses that would drive the evacuees to the airport.

Just a few weeks earlier, my life had been relatively normal. We knew the Afghan National Army was getting weaker-on the battlefield, scores of soldiers were dying and the front lines kept getting closer to Kabul. And yet, inside the city, schools, offices, and cafés were still open. People were going out to sing and dance; music played in restaurants and taxis. I was 21 and had recently started working for a newspaper, which had me traveling around the city reporting. I loved writing about people, especially the poor, whose voices were rarely heard. I wrote about how they lived, the problems they faced, the joy they experienced regardless.