{"id":4192,"date":"2026-10-05T10:18:45","date_gmt":"2026-10-05T10:18:45","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/atfarsi.com\/?p=4192"},"modified":"2026-10-05T11:03:40","modified_gmt":"2026-10-05T11:03:40","slug":"%d8%a7%d9%81%d8%ba%d8%a7%d9%86%d8%b3%d8%aa%d8%a7%d9%86%d8%9b-%d9%85%d8%b1%d8%af%d9%85%db%8c-%da%a9%d9%87-%d8%a7%d8%b2-%d9%81%d8%b1%d8%a7%d9%85%d9%88%d8%b4%d8%b4%d8%af%d9%86-%d9%85%db%8c","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/atfarsi.com\/en\/%d8%a7%d9%81%d8%ba%d8%a7%d9%86%d8%b3%d8%aa%d8%a7%d9%86%d8%9b-%d9%85%d8%b1%d8%af%d9%85%db%8c-%da%a9%d9%87-%d8%a7%d8%b2-%d9%81%d8%b1%d8%a7%d9%85%d9%88%d8%b4%d8%b4%d8%af%d9%86-%d9%85%db%8c\/","title":{"rendered":"Afghanistan: A People Afraid of Being Forgotten"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Two lives on opposite sides of the world, and a country slowly slipping from global memory<\/strong><\/p>\n\n

Kabul sits among mountains, nearly 1,800 metres above sea level, surrounded on every side by nature\u2019s stone walls. As the morning sun rises behind the peaks, birds fly over a city where millions struggle, in its streets and homes, to get through another day. From a distance, the view can still be beguiling: mountains, sky, valleys and a city that has witnessed centuries of empires, wars, migration and successive generations. But step down from that vista and into people\u2019s homes, and another Afghanistan emerges. Here, rent can keep a mother awake at night; a man\u2019s illness can unravel a family\u2019s entire livelihood; a former midwife can lose the freedom to leave her home; and a writer who spent his life recording his people\u2019s history can sit in a care-home room thousands of kilometres from his homeland, fearing that his generation\u2019s experiences will die with him.<\/p>\n\n

On either side of this distance live two older people who have never met. One is Kazem Yazdani, a 78-year-old Hazara writer and historian now living in Norway. The other is a 62-year-old woman in Kabul, identified as \u201cZahra\u201d in the Norwegian Refugee Council\u2019s original report to protect her identity. One sits in a quiet room in Oslo, surrounded by books and memories. The other lives in a small Kabul flat, coping with her husband\u2019s illness, her children\u2019s unemployment, rent and anxiety about tomorrow. The geographical distance is vast, yet when their stories are placed side by side, borders suddenly seem smaller. Both grew up in mountainous Afghanistan. Both have known poverty. Both have a deep connection to words, books, poetry and memory. And both, at an age when people increasingly look back, share a fear: that they might be forgotten.<\/p>\n\n

A man among books and memories<\/h4>\n\n

In Oslo, autumn is slowly changing the trees. The grass outside the care home is still green, but yellow, red and orange are gradually taking over the branches. In one room lives Kazem Yazdani, a man who once travelled long distances through Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iran and Iraq in pursuit of knowledge. Much of his daily world is now confined to this room, the corridors and short walks nearby. He had a stroke more than a year ago and has lived here ever since. His wife and two adult children are in another country. Telephone calls bridge a distance that a telephone can never truly close. His daughter visited after his stroke, but on most days his companions are his books, writings and memories\u2014perhaps the most faithful companions of his life.<\/p>\n\n

The room\u2019s shelves are filled with books and files. Certificates of appreciation from Afghan organisations in Europe hang on the walls, traces of another life that remains present here. Yazdani is more than an older man recovering from a stroke. He is a writer and researcher who devoted much of his life to the history and experiences of the Hazaras. When someone spends decades writing about a people\u2019s memory, a book becomes more than a book: it becomes a quiet resistance to erasure. Perhaps that is why writing meant more to Yazdani than a profession. He wanted his people\u2019s experiences to have somewhere to endure, at least on paper. History has repeatedly shown that when suffering goes unrecorded, others will minimise it, distort it or deny it altogether.<\/p>\n\n

Yazdani\u2019s roots lie in central Afghanistan, where mountains are part of both the landscape and the character of its people. Valleys open between the heights, streams descend from the mountains, and apples and apricots ripen in orchards. In parts of Maidan Wardak and the central regions, traditional karez systems have carried water from underground and mountainous terrain to farmland for centuries. The landscape is beautiful, but beauty has never guaranteed an easy life. In Afghanistan, some of the loveliest valleys have repeatedly witnessed the bitterest displacement.<\/p>\n\n

A child whose share of the harvest was all he could carry<\/h4>\n\n

Kazem still remembers a scene from when he was about four. Villagers were harvesting, and local custom allowed children to collect some of what remained. His mother sent him to fetch wheat. A man in the field gave him a bundle of ears and told him to return later. The little boy could not understand why he was not given more straight away. Years later, he understood: they had given him only as much as a four-year-old could carry. It seems a simple memory, yet it contains the whole economy of an impoverished childhood\u2014a world where even a child\u2019s share of the harvest was measured by what his shoulders could bear.<\/p>\n\n

His mother died when he was just six. Later, a disagreement between two Hazara groups over a family member\u2019s marriage escalated into a serious conflict, forcing the Yazdani family to leave. Suddenly, the land that had been home was no longer home. His father worked as a farm labourer for others, while Kazem tended sheep in summer. In winter, the mosque became his school. This continued for years, and he remained a shepherd into young adulthood. For many Afghan children of his generation, education followed this pattern: work in summer, a little study in winter, and between them dreams that there was rarely enough money to fulfil.<\/p>\n\n

But people in the village noticed that the young shepherd had a talent for reading and writing. Yazdani remembers a village elder and religious scholar who recognised his ability and encouraged his father to let him study further. Poverty stood in the way. How could a family that depended on its son\u2019s labour for daily survival send him away to study? Afghanistan still poses that question, in new forms, to thousands of families. Talent has never necessarily been scarce in this country. Opportunity has.<\/p>\n\n

After his father\u2019s death, Yazdani decided to leave. His destination was learning, but the route crossed borders that were not equally open to everyone. He intended to travel from Afghanistan to Pakistan and then to Iraq. In his account of those years, being Hazara affected even his ability to cross a border. At one checkpoint, officers noticed a pen in his pocket and realised he could write. They asked him to compose letters to families they had not seen for months. The young Hazara spent hours writing for them. His pen could carry other people\u2019s longing home, but it could not secure its owner the right to cross. They decided to send him back. Fearing the consequences, Yazdani escaped when an opportunity arose.<\/p>\n\n

It is perhaps one of the bitterest ironies of his life: a man who would become a writer and historian once had to flee to cross a border. The hand that wrote letters for the officers could not write its own document of freedom.<\/p>\n\n

Being Hazara and the weight of history<\/h4>\n\n

Yazdani\u2019s story cannot be told fully without the history of the Hazaras. One of Afghanistan\u2019s major ethnic groups, many trace their roots to the mountainous centre of the country. Many speak Dari and the Hazaragi dialect, and most are Shia Muslims. But Hazara identity carries more than ethnic, linguistic and religious characteristics; it also bears a heavy historical memory. The bloody repression of the late nineteenth century, land seizures, forced displacement, enslavement and subsequent discrimination and violence form part of the memory carried across generations. The original NRC report refers to historical and minority-rights sources to explain this background and stresses the community\u2019s continuing vulnerability.<\/p>\n\n

For Yazdani, history is inseparable from his own life. His statement that his story is bound to the Hazara people\u2019s story is more than a literary image. His family\u2019s displacement, poverty, difficulty accessing education, dangerous border crossing, migration and years away from home are personal experiences. They also reflect the collective history of people repeatedly forced to leave home and start again elsewhere.<\/p>\n\n

Yazdani eventually reached Pakistan, where a Hazara man named Sultan Mohammad helped him. He later spent years studying in Iran and Iraq. The shepherd who once attended lessons in a mosque during winter found his way into centres of learning and became a writer whose work largely concerns his own people. This could be called a success story, but the word obscures its cost. Years of exile, distance, insecurity and separation from family are not counted in the pages of any book.<\/p>\n\n

Books that eased the pain<\/h4>\n\n

Yazdani speaks of loneliness, constant travel and the pain of being far from family and friends. His books have been more than the products of intellectual work: they have helped him endure that pain. Writing allowed him to turn suffering into a record. It could not change the past, but it could keep the past from disappearing entirely.<\/p>\n\n

His wife lived for years with his journeys to Iraq, Iran, T\u00fcrkiye, Syria and elsewhere. Yazdani speaks with bitter humour about the relationship between love for family and love for books. Behind the joke lies an old truth: a life devoted to a public purpose can draw heavily on a private one. Books that become a community\u2019s inheritance may remind a writer\u2019s family of the hours and years he spent away from home.<\/p>\n\n

Now, in his later years, he feels that these writings represent the contribution he has made. His body has weakened, the stroke has taken away some of his independence, and his world has grown smaller. But the books remain. He likens himself to a ruin that may still contain treasure. It is a painful image: a person unwilling to be pushed aside because of age, asking those passing the ruin to look first\u2014there may be something inside worth carrying away.<\/p>\n\n

On the other side of the world, Zahra is still awake in Kabul<\/h4>\n\n

Returning from the quiet of an Oslo care home to Kabul, the rhythm of life changes. Here, a 62-year-old woman wakes at around four in the morning and goes to bed at about eleven at night. Yet by the end of the day, she sometimes cannot say where the hours have gone. Some are spent caring for her sick husband; others are consumed by worry. Worry is work without wages, without leave and without an end to the working day.<\/p>\n\n

Zahra is not her real name. The NRC report uses this pseudonym to protect her safety and privacy. But the problems she describes are real. Rent is rising. Food has become more expensive. Only one of the family\u2019s sons has a job. Her husband is ill and cannot work. Her daughters have studied or started families, but they and their husbands also struggle to find work. For Zahra, the end of the month is more than a page turning on the calendar: it brings the rent deadline closer, with no certainty about where the money will come from.<\/p>\n\n

She describes Kabul as expensive, polluted and difficult, yet speaks warmly of its people. If they have something, she says, they share it with others. That observation may say more about Afghanistan today than many economic analyses: a society with too little of its own must still share what little it has.<\/p>\n\n

Prolonged poverty does more than leave less food on the table; it narrows the horizon of life. Plans for the next five years give way to calculations about next month\u2019s rent. Aspiration gives way to necessity. The question is no longer \u201cWhat do I want?\u201d but \u201cHow do we get through this month?\u201d<\/p>\n\n

The girl from Bamyan<\/h4>\n\n

But Zahra was not always the anxious woman she is today. Once she was a little girl in Bamyan, a place whose history long predates Afghanistan\u2019s present political borders. Caravans once crossed this region, bringing cultures, faiths, goods and art into contact. Bamyan\u2019s historic remains still bear witness to periods when it formed part of a vast network of connections between civilisations.<\/p>\n\n

Zahra\u2019s family, however, shared little of Bamyan\u2019s historic splendour. They owned no land, and her father was a farm labourer. Men and women worked in the fields. For children, summer meant work and collecting firewood; winter offered a chance for religious instruction. There was no government school within reach, but her father wanted his children to learn. In Zahra\u2019s account, poverty had not deprived him of kindness.<\/p>\n\n

At fourteen, she obtained a book and memorised passages from a long poem. Others liked the way she recited it. Poetry entered her memory and stayed for decades. In an Afghanistan where books have not always reached everyone, people\u2019s memories have become libraries. Poems, stories and songs have passed from voice to ear across generations. Sometimes, after buildings were destroyed, this oral memory was what remained of an older world.<\/p>\n\n

Zahra still recites poetry. She still sings. Perhaps, when other parts of life slip beyond a person\u2019s control, the voice is one of the last things left to them.<\/p>\n\n

When life came together, then fell apart again<\/h4>\n\n

During the Taliban\u2019s first period in power, Zahra\u2019s family left Afghanistan and lived in Iran for about eight years. They later returned. For a time, life became calmer. The children went to Kabul to study, while Zahra and her husband stayed in the village. After so much displacement and war, it seemed possible that life might finally become ordinary.<\/p>\n\n

Yet over several decades, Afghanistan has repeatedly shown how temporary that return to normality can be.<\/p>\n\n

When the Taliban returned to power in 2021, the family decided to reunite in one place, and Zahra and her husband moved to Kabul. Around this time, his health deteriorated. Anxiety and stress increased, he suffered a stroke, and diabetes made life harder still. He could no longer work. In the interview, Zahra also describes domestic violence, saying that her husband hits her when his condition worsens.<\/p>\n\n

Here, Afghanistan\u2019s crisis is no longer a political term. It stands inside a small flat: in the body of a sick man unable to work; in the face of a woman who must care for him while sometimes suffering his violence; in sons of whom one has work and another does not; in daughters whose education has not necessarily led to employment; and in a landlord for whom the rent deadline means something different from the family\u2019s mounting anxiety.<\/p>\n\n

Zahra says that, by the end of the month, the pressure sometimes becomes so intense that she loses her appetite. At this point, poverty is more than a lack of money. It has entered the body.<\/p>\n\n

A midwife who now rarely leaves home<\/h4>\n\n

This may be the most painful part of Zahra\u2019s story. She once worked for humanitarian organisations and trained as a midwife. She travelled to places with inadequate maternity services and helped women give birth. Her work was directly connected to matters of life and death. Her presence outside the home was more than useful: other women needed her.<\/p>\n\n

Now, the same woman says she hardly ever leaves home.<\/p>\n\n

She can go alone to the nearby shop. For other journeys, however, restrictions imposed on women require a male companion. Her husband is too ill to accompany her, so when she needs to go out, one of her sons must come with her. The distance between a midwife travelling to underserved areas to help women and a woman waiting for her son before she can leave home may be one of the shortest, most precise accounts of the reversal many Afghan women have experienced in recent years.<\/p>\n\n

The issue extends beyond a ban or a regulation. It is a waste of human capacity. A society invests in educating a woman; she gains experience, helps mothers and acquires knowledge that can save lives. Then circumstances arise that sharply limit her ability to use that knowledge and experience. Zahra is not the only one who loses. Every woman prevented from using her skills leaves a gap in society, the cost of which will sooner or later reach others.<\/p>\n\n

Nights when women become a refuge for one another<\/h4>\n\n

Even so, life finds ways to resist: sometimes quietly, on a small scale and far from cameras. Zahra has women friends. They sometimes gather, talk late into the night, recite poetry and share the difficulties of their lives. In a society where women\u2019s public space has shrunk, a room and a few friends can become a place to breathe.<\/p>\n\n

Zahra cries during the interview, then sings. That movement between tears and song may explain her situation more accurately than any official phrase. Amid the pressure, she can still preserve something beautiful. Singing will not pay the rent, cure her husband or find jobs for her children. But for a few minutes, it prevents hardship from claiming her entire identity.<\/p>\n\n

She then explains the meaning of her song: a search for someone who has gone and cannot be found, a longing to find them and shower them with flowers. Perhaps her most important words, however, concern why she sings. She wants her listener to laugh with her and remember them.<\/p>\n\n

How does Afghanistan become forgotten?<\/h4>\n\n

Forgetting does not always begin with complete silence. Sometimes it starts with fewer news reports. Afghanistan is still there. People still go hungry, children still need education, families still suffer natural disasters, migrants are still sent back from neighbouring countries, and millions still struggle with poverty and a lack of jobs. But the world has a limited attention span. A new war begins, another crisis takes the headlines, and a country that led yesterday\u2019s news slowly recedes into a few paragraphs in humanitarian reports.<\/p>\n\n

This may be the modern form of forgetting: the crisis has not ended; only the attention has.<\/p>\n\n

Following Afghanistan\u2019s political upheaval, many governments have remained cautious about supporting long-term development programs because they do not formally recognise the authorities in power. Meanwhile, ordinary people grapple with economic, social and humanitarian consequences. Natural disasters, poverty, malnutrition, job shortages, large-scale migrant returns and regional tensions have intensified existing pressures. The Norwegian Refugee Council works in Afghanistan on access to food, water, education and other basic needs and rights.<\/p>\n\n

Yet humanitarian aid, however essential, cannot answer everything on its own. A food package can keep a family from hunger for a while, but it does not build an economy. Cash assistance can pay rent, but it does not create job security. A project can dig a well, but it does not resolve a political crisis. Afghanistan cannot remain suspended between emergency and charity indefinitely, waiting each year for the world to decide how much of its suffering deserves funding.<\/p>\n\n

When people become numbers<\/h4>\n\n

The language of humanitarian crises is inevitably numerical: how many millions need assistance, how many face food insecurity, how many thousands of families have been displaced, and how much funding is required. These figures are essential; planning would be impossible without them. The danger begins when the person behind the number disappears.<\/p>\n\n

A \u201cvulnerable family\u201d may mean Zahra: a former midwife who recites poetry from memory, remembers her kind father and loses her appetite at night worrying about rent. An \u201colder refugee\u201d may mean Kazem Yazdani: a shepherd who fled across a border, studied for years, wrote books and now sits among shelves of his work in Oslo. Remove those details and a person becomes a statistical unit. A statistical unit is much easier to forget than a face, a voice or a memory.<\/p>\n\n

Yazdani and Zahra speak from different worlds, yet both resist this reduction. Yazdani does so through books; Zahra through song. One writes so the next generation will know what happened to his people. The other sings so someone far away will hear her voice and know they are still there.<\/p>\n\n

What remains of Afghanistan<\/h4>\n\n

Afghanistan cannot be defined solely by the Taliban, any more than it can be defined solely by the Soviet war, civil wars, US intervention, migration, bombings, poverty or humanitarian aid. All are part of the reality, but none is the whole. Before these labels come people who have fallen in love, memorised poetry, written books, cultivated land, tended sheep, given birth, sent children to school, migrated, returned, migrated again and kept trying to build something resembling a life.<\/p>\n\n

Kazem Yazdani was once a poor child unable to pursue an education freely. Now, after decades of study and writing, perhaps his greatest concern is that his generation\u2019s experiences should not be buried with it. Zahra was once a girl in Bamyan learning poetry. She became a mother, migrated, returned, trained as a midwife and helped other women. Her life is now far more restricted, but she still sings whenever she finds the chance.<\/p>\n\n

Between these two people, Afghanistan\u2019s modern history comes into view: poverty and talent; displacement and return; education and exclusion; hope and defeat; books and war; women whose capacity exceeds the space left to them; and men who have left their homeland but cannot remove it from their memories.<\/p>\n\n

The world may have grown tired of Afghanistan. Its people do not have that option. To them, the country is not a \u201cprotracted crisis\u201d in international reports. It is home: a place where rent must be paid, the sick must be cared for, children must eat and memories must be preserved.<\/p>\n\n

Perhaps this is where the true meaning of the fear of being forgotten becomes clear. The issue is more than Afghanistan disappearing from newspaper front pages. As attention fades, the suffering of people still living through the crisis risks becoming ordinary: a woman\u2019s loss of work and freedom of movement ceases to be news; a hungry family no longer surprises anyone; forced migrant returns become a number in a table; and a generation that endured decades of war and displacement falls silent before its story is heard.<\/p>\n\n

Kazem Yazdani wants his books to endure. Zahra wants her song to be heard.<\/p>\n\n

One looks back from among bookshelves in Oslo; the other looks towards an uncertain tomorrow from a Kabul flat. Neither knows the other. Yet, in the end, their appeal is the same:<\/p>\n\n

See us beyond the moments when our crisis makes headlines.<\/p>\n\n

Do not reduce us to numbers.<\/p>\n\n

And when the cameras leave, do not forget us.<\/p>\n\n

Source<\/strong>: This report is a rewritten account based on \u201cAfraid of Being Forgotten\u201d, published by the Norwegian Refugee Council (NRC) on 2 October 2026. Information about the interviews, the lives of Kazem Yazdani and \u201cZahra\u201d, and some background material comes from the original report. The structure, analysis, wording and narrative approach of this account were developed independently; it is not intended as a reproduction or complete translation of the original work.<\/p>\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>\n\t\t\t\t<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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