A true story from the author’s friend in the Ghazni province in Afghanistan. The author has chosen to remain anonymous.
After years of hardship, sleepless nights, and going to bed hungry, I finally graduated from Kabul University. Filled with hopes and dreams, I returned to my hometown, determined to find a decent job and build a better life alongside my parents and my younger brothers and sisters.
However, the corrupt system of favoritism, nepotism, and bribery made it nearly impossible for newly graduated young people to find employment without connections or money. After two years of unsuccessful searching, I returned to Kabul. I still hoped to find work—if only to ease the burden on my aging father and prevent his already bent back from carrying even more of life’s weight.
In Kabul, I moved into the small room where my younger brother, who was still a university student, lived. I hoped to stay there for a few days while searching for work and discussing my options with him. Eventually, I found a temporary position with an organization working in the field of women’s rights.
My brother graduated during that same period and also began looking for work. We shared a single room. One evening, I returned home later than usual and found that he had already prepared dinner and was waiting for me. The moment I entered, he embraced me joyfully and said, “Brother, won’t you congratulate me?”
Before I could respond, he continued excitedly:
“I’ve been offered a job at a coal mine in Bamyan. I’ll leave on Friday and start work on Saturday. God willing, our lives will improve from now on. Together we can help our father, and he won’t have to spend his days searching for daily labor anymore.”
I was happy for him.
Little did I know that my beloved brother was walking toward his death.
That night was our final meeting.
One week later, I received the devastating news that poisonous gases inside the coal mine tunnel had taken his life. The shock nearly knocked me to the ground. My head spun, and I felt as if the earth had opened beneath my feet. Later that evening, I received the body of my young brother and, after taking a few days off from work, carried him back to our hometown.
Although I had informed my father by telephone, seeing the body of his young son caused him to collapse. My mother sat silently in a corner of our modest mud house, as if struck by a severe nervous shock. She said nothing, yet tears streamed down her face like rain. Perhaps she was mourning the dreams that would never come true.
After the funeral and the mourning ceremonies, I spent a few days comforting my family before returning to Kabul and resuming work.
Not even forty days had passed since my brother’s death when grief consumed my father from within.
One morning, as I was preparing to leave for work, my mother called. Her voice was heavy with sorrow.
“My son, haven’t you left for work yet?”
“Not yet, Mother. I’m about to go. Why? Has something happened?”
After a pause, she replied:
“My son… your father has left us.”
She could say no more. The rest was only weeping.
The call ended, and I felt an unbearable weight settle upon my shoulders. I imagined my mother’s bent figure and the immense sadness written across her face. I immediately requested leave from work and began the journey home.
It was around two o’clock in the afternoon when I arrived. My father’s body was still in the house. Several local clerics, dressed in their traditional robes, were moving through our humble rooms. I noticed they were engaged in an argument with my older brother.
After briefly greeting me, they returned to their calculations.
Meanwhile, my mother cried out:
“Don’t you feel any pity for these five or six orphaned children? You’re even calculating the value of rusty nails in the wall and the rotten wooden supports of this old house!”
I could no longer remain silent.
“What is going on?” I asked. “Why are you arguing?”
The clerics explained that according to their interpretation of religious obligations, one-fifth of my father’s property had to be separated as the Imam’s share and paid before burial. They calculated everything according to current market prices and demanded payment. Many simple villagers supported their position.
Only my elderly mother and I truly understood the burden we were carrying.
We had not yet repaid the debts from my brother’s funeral, burial expenses, memorial ceremonies, and charitable obligations. Now my father’s death had brought even greater costs. Yet these men had come to bargain with us over our own possessions, valuing even decades-old, worn-out household materials as if they were new.
In the end, neither my arguments nor my mother’s cries were heard.
We were told that 50,000 Afghanis were required as the deceased’s religious due. If we failed to pay, permission for the burial would not be granted.
We had nowhere to turn. We could not keep our father’s body at home indefinitely. Finally, we were forced to use the deed to our house as collateral and obtain a bank loan with ten percent interest. We handed the money over and were then allowed to bury our father.
A few days later, after the mourning ceremonies had ended, I returned to work.
Unfortunately, the project I worked for was nearing completion. Two weeks later, my employer informed me that my contract had ended.
Suddenly, I found myself unemployed, burdened with crushing debts and overwhelming economic hardship.
Today, three months later, I am still searching for work. I hope to find a job that will allow me to repay the debts accumulated from the funeral expenses of my brother and father, as well as the money we were forced to pay to the clerics.
For now, all I carry are memories, responsibilities, and the hope that one day life will become a little kinder.
26 February 2026
Categories: Uncategorized
JOURNEY Magazine 
For many of us living in a peaceful land, it is so difficult to understand the hardship of people living in places like Afghanistan and other war-torn countries. I felt saddened about the difficulties the author and his family are facing, yet I think about the disastrous 20 years of war there when Americans went to Afghanistan to “liberate” Afghan women, to help improve life for the Afghan people, make sure the Taliban are gone, and develop Afghanistan into a model country. Yet after 20 years, the American army left with no changes, the Taliban returned, and the lives of women have regressed 100 years. Now here we see that young educated people are jobless and struggling in different ways. It is a heartwrenching story about the sad reality of the daily lives of Afghan people.
Nasreen
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