Leaving Afghanistan

Once every so often, something happens,

Something so breathtakingly tragic

That the whole world watches and weeps.

2021 will not be known throughout history as Year Two of the pandemic as many would have thought,

But the year of the Taliban takeover in Afghanistan and the mass evacuation of thousands.

Eyes glued to the TV, people sick to their stomachs

Watching the frantic crowds at the airport,

Hearing stories of people hanging off planes and falling to their deaths.

I was there the day the Taliban came into the capitol.

My family and I had 3 hours to pack up our most important things

And find refuge in the NATO compound.

But we were among the lucky ones

Because we, American expats, got to hold up our American passports

And were among the first to get out.

Who are we that we get to be ensured safety and protection just because of where we were born?

This question will forever haunt me as I think back of the thousands who wanted to flee

But couldn’t.

I will always remember the sights, sounds, and smells, all around

On the day we left.

The taste of dust thick in the air,

The feeling of trying to shield my baby from the dust and the roaring noise of the helicopters,

Pressing his tiny body tight and secure against mine.

I will never forget running on and off those helicopters,

And then sitting, cramped, but relieved to be safe on the military cargo plane

Holding my son in my arms, hoping that though there was chaos all around

He would feel the calm, comforting, presence of his mother, and be at peace.

No, I will never forget that 80+ hour journey from the time the evacuation began to the time we landed in our passport country.

For my baby, home is simple. Home is wherever his mother and father are.

For me, home is more complicated

Where is my home? It is neither here nor there.

Not there—Even though I love Afghanistan, I will always be an outsider.

But I feel I don't quite fit in here in my passport country anymore,

Because of my experience, which few Americans share with me

And because of how changed I am from this honor of getting to know such a beautiful and resilient people.

Where is my home?

Maybe I am not supposed to have a neat, nicely packaged answer to that question.

Perhaps instead, as refugees from Afghanistan begin to arrive here, I can be a person of comfort,

A person of welcome and support

And grieve with them as they grieve the loss of their home.

Perhaps I can be the one to say,

Welcome to a new life.

I know it will never replace your homeland,

But I am here with you

And I will walk with you.

And maybe, just maybe

One day this place will feel a little bit like

Home.