It was about 7’ in the morning on Sunday the 15^th of August when my eyes fluttered open. I quickly pulled back the curtains, and my eyes met the first rays of the sun, somehow both golden and gloomy. As per habit, I got ready and started towards the office (in Afghanistan, we work on Sundays). The moment I arrived at the entrance door of the building of PEN Afghanistan, things did not seem the way they usually did; there was something different about that day. I entered the building. We used to have images of famous writers hung on the walls, along with some pictures and mementos of PEN activities pinned and glued to the wooden boards, and several contemporary and classic pieces of art on the flat surfaces of canvases. However, that day, the walls were empty of images, the mementos were gone, and the canvases seemed soulless. As I kept walking, my eyes were not able to find any traces of the familiar objects in my surroundings. The whole two-floored PEN building was lifeless, as if its soul had been snatched away from its body. I started checking the news, as was my habit, when I was called to an urgent meeting. The moment I arrived in the meeting room, I noticed the worried look on the faces of my colleagues, and my heartbeat grew faster; something was definitely wrong. It happens sometimes that despite sensing something, you are still not able to put a finger on what it is. At the meeting, Dr. Samay Hamed, general director of PEN Afghanistan, informed us that the Taliban had arrived at the gates of Kabul city, and at any time now they could enter the city. He requested that we leave the office and go home.

In the meeting, we also discussed ways to resist the Taliban and we decided to save the books. Many of us were thinking about how we could continue our activities under the worst conditions. We were not just worried about our own lives; we were thinking about our homeland, which was on the verge of losing its voice.

The Taliban were there! A multitude of thoughts and feelings started streaming through my mind. I started packing my belongings, books, research papers, and my black-and-white vintage-style umbrella. The worried look on everyone else’s faces, the desperate gaze of the books, and the despair in the eyes of my vintage umbrella created a profound, long-lasting effect in me. It wasn’t until much later that I realised that it was my last day as a translator and researcher at PEN Afghanistan in Kabul.

The whole city was in chaos; people were running, there were traffic jams on every other street, rumours were spreading rapidly that the Taliban had entered the gates of Kabul, women were crying on the streets and running home from work, the sun’s rays were reflecting the tremendous agony and misery of people, and its gloomy light was boring through their skin down to their bones. Fear and terror were evident in everyone’s eyes: the fear of losing their lives, the fear of losing their loved ones, the fear of losing their jobs, the fear of losing their values and their freedom, the fear of losing their voices, the fear of losing their respect and dignity; in short, the fear of losing everything to a bunch of uneducated, armed, and brutal forces, the Taliban. Soon these fears turned into a reality, a tragic reality for millions of people in this unfair world. Nevertheless, it was not just our lives that were at risk; literature, freedom of expression, and women’s rights were also being threatened.

The emotions I was experiencing weren’t much different from those of other people. I was raised in a place where I learned how to stand on my own feet, how to deal with heartbreak, how to stand up for myself and others, and how to love and cherish my life and the people who care about me. This is the place where I used to sing (at the summit of the mountains near Kabul, the air is fresh and pure), the place I love every inch of, the place my heart belongs to, the place each fibre of my body longs for, the place I used to call home, my beautiful yet heartsore Kabul. I had a master’s degree in language and literature, and I started my career as a translator. Soon thereafter, I got a job as an English instructor within the Afghan Air Force Academy; then I joined PEN Afghanistan as a researcher and translator. I have always been against extremism, whether as a teacher or as a PEN employee. Therefore, seeing the values and beliefs I have fought for my whole life being destroyed by a group of ignorant, mannerless, and uncivilized people shook me deeply to the core. Even before the fall of Kabul, my colleagues and I were already targeted by threats; our lives were in danger, and the terrorists’ bombs could have killed us at any time. Nevertheless, we continued our work with passion and enthusiasm.

As the hours ticked by from the afternoon to the evening, reports revealed that the former president, Muhammad Ashraf Ghani, had fled the country. That news was like a dagger to our hearts; the last hope we had been holding on to thus shattered into pieces. Kabul had fallen under the Taliban rule entirely and utterly. The troops entered the gates of the presidential palace, and the first thing they did was to replace Afghanistan’s colourful flag with a flag of their own. The days and nights passed like months and years, and the familiar surroundings now seemed unfamiliar; the place I used to call home didn’t feel like home anymore, as if I had been thrown onto another planet far from Earth without any assistance. We experienced regular security checks in our homes; men were not able to go out without having a beard; women were not allowed to go out without a hijab; mobile phones and social media accounts were under Taliban surveillance; and in each five-meter area of the city, you could see an armed man standing and keeping the situation under control. You were able to see the reflection of your own fears through the expressions on other people’s faces, even strangers. The city has not changed its golden yet gloomy outfit since that Sunday, the 15^th of August, the day that changed the lives of everyone in Afghanistan forever, the Sunday that left a massive scar in the hearts of millions of people.

NATO and American forces started withdrawing their remaining troops, leaving the country and evacuating groups of people without even processing their credentials. We were living through a tragedy; the tragedy was happening all around us and to us. Plenty of people lost their lives in the disaster at Kabul airport, which consisted of several agonizing things. It started with the rush of people to the airport to flee the country because of their fear of the Taliban, which then led to a heartbreaking incident where three or four young men died when they fell from the wings of the planes. When fear and terror devour you, your brain seems to lose the ability to rationalise what is happening, which can cause you and your loved ones permanent damage, both physically and mentally. Furthermore, minor and major injuries occurred to people as they tried to get to the airport, and in addition, a bomb explosion at the Abbey gate and heavy gunfire at the east and west gates of the airport caused the deaths of more than 150 people. How complicated human nature is; one who writes is able to give voice to the unspoken and untouched emotions of others, letting readers become impregnated with pain and suffering. In turn, the readers will be able to give birth to a metaphorical child that is not their own, though it mingles with their DNA and leaves imprints on their souls forever.

For over a month after this, I remained in Kabul; the place that once was filled with love was now tucked under this gloomy golden blanket, and the usual strong, optimistic woman inside me was replaced by an absurd and numb being. The days passed until it was time to say farewell. Farewell to the ones I held close to my heart, to the alleys I used to walk on, to the streets I once crossed, farewell to the trees and birds I considered friends and poured my heart out to. The world’s cruelty is almost palpable, and I could never imagine there would come a day when I had to say goodbye to the people and things that were dear to me. It’s almost as if we don’t realise that there will be a last moment for everything, yet we keep taking everything we have for granted as if time is infinite. Hence, there would be a last hello, a last look, a last goodbye, and a last sorry.

The moment I stepped inside the plane, I left everything behind, virtually everything, except a heart that felt nothing. After a long journey, my family and I arrived in Norway. I honestly did not know how I was feeling any longer. I couldn’t recognise myself anymore; the real me was lost somewhere, or maybe I had left her behind where she really belonged. As the days passed, I began to feel a sense of connection with Norway. I could relate to the loneliness of the sea, the calmness of the nights, and the mesmerizing beauty of nature. Soon, I found myself seeking refuge in the calming darkness of the night and the ballet of the wind; however, deep down, I was also still running from the pain, the pain that was consuming my body and mind like a skinwalker. The wise thing to do was face the skinwalker, but I was not ready to do that yet.

Soon, PEN Afghanistan found a way to be the voice of our homeland again. We started with online activities and then, gradually, found alternative ways to strengthen our literature. Eventually, PEN Afghanistan was able to organize many programs in Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and Germany, which was a significant step towards the fulfilment of our commitment. Through the programs initiated by PEN Afghanistan, we expressed our disagreement about the recognition of the Taliban government, introduced Afghanistan literature to European communities, and held on to our promises to not back away and keep fighting against oppression and injustice even in exile.

Meanwhile, I was desperately clinging to the tiniest hope I had so I could find my way back to myself again, the old me, the me whom I left behind. Despite being an active PEN member and despite participating in several programs to promote freedom of speech inside and outside Norway, deep down, I was lost, outcast, and nowhere to be found, like poor Pluto, the dwarf planet. As the little hope to which I was clinging started fading away, I got introduced to the Magic Shop, a song by BTS. The song became engraved in my soul in a way that led me back to my own self, the me I left behind to suffer in loneliness. The moment I met her again, I realized she had always been around; she never left, but I had somewhat neglected her and kept her away from me. I knew I owed her an apology. At last, I found my magic shop, though late. But they say better late than never. However, despite making peace with the skinwalker, Pluto always longed for home.