Exile Makes You Lonelier: A Story of Migration

The day she boarded the plane, I said, “Exile makes you lonelier.”

She smiled and replied, “You’ll be lonelier than me.”

I wanted to say, “Who has ever been lonely in their own homeland?” but I only smiled and stayed silent. When she left, she waved and said, “I’m going to live my dreams.”

I stood there watching her go. Since childhood, she had strange dreams. One day she asked, “Have you ever seen a ship?”

I said, “No.”

She replied, “Last night I was on a ship—not alone, surrounded by a sea of people, but not a single familiar face.”

I burst out laughing. “Your dreams sound like fairy tales.”

She frowned. “I believe in my dreams,” she said.

We were born in the same village, studied in the same school, in the same class, under the same roof. She was a storyteller—she could turn every passing moment into a story. On the days the teacher caught her talking, she’d make an excuse: “Sir, I only asked what day it was today.”

I’d struggle not to laugh while the teacher scolded her and stormed out of the room, and she would immediately pick up her story where she’d left off.

It was our first year at university, and autumn was breathing its last. Exams were nearing their end. She loved snow more than rain. On snowy days, she forgot everything, and I always had to search for her so she wouldn’t miss the exam. I’d drag her to class, but she was always the first to hand in her paper and rush out without looking back.

That day too, the university courtyard was dressed in white. She said, “Today the oak trees are brides.” She finished her exam before anyone else and ran outside.

She’d left her books and notebook behind. Since she was thirteen, she’d been an avid reader. That day she was carrying a book by Márquez.

When my exam ended, I went to collect my bag and her things, but they slipped from my hands. Her notebook fell open on the floor. I hadn’t meant to read it, but the neat, colorful handwriting caught my eye. She had decorated the page with care. It read:

> Today is the spring of my youth,

I drink from it for it is my joy.

Though bitter, it is sweet to me—

For it is the taste of my life.

She adored Shamloo’s poetry but had recently begun to write in the style of Bidel and Khayyam.

I left the classroom to find her—she wasn’t in the first courtyard, nor the second, nor at the sports field. “Strange,” I thought, “it’s snowing and she isn’t here.”

One of our classmates crossed my path. “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“I can’t find Maryam,” I said. “Do you know where she is?”

“She’s behind the university building,” she replied and kept walking.

I went there—and found her. She sat on an old wooden bench, weathered by years of sun and rain. Her head rested in her hands, and from the trembling of her shoulders, I knew she was crying. I sat beside her. She said nothing. I too remained silent, until the silence grew heavy.

“Was the exam that bad?” I finally asked.

She lifted her head and looked straight into my eyes, moving closer. Her eyes glistened with tears, her dark pupils floating like black pearls in water. Her thick eyelashes fluttered, and she gazed somewhere far away—as if wrestling with something too heavy for words. Then, like a frightened child seeking shelter in her mother’s arms, she threw her arms around my neck and began to sob uncontrollably.

Through her tears, she whispered, “We’re leaving.”

“Leaving? Where?”

“To Germany. This place is no longer ours. You’ll only see my face on a phone screen—I won’t be there for you to hold anymore…”

I interrupted, shocked. “How can that be? What about university? Don’t you want to finish?”

She smiled bitterly. “University? Do you really think they’ll let us study? They are neither human nor Islam; they are the Taliban. Soon the school gates will be shut, and universities too. Girls won’t even be allowed to take the entrance exam. We were lucky to get in, but two or three semesters won’t take us far. Tell me, how should I live like this? I must chase my right—my dream.”

I had no words to comfort her, no arguments to make her stay. I too was afraid, uncertain.

I remembered the day our entrance exam results were announced—she danced with joy, saying, “Nothing will ever separate us.”

She loved literature. Leaving Kabul was torture for her—the narrow alleys, the city corners where we used to walk, dreaming of working in offices or tall glass buildings someday. She once said she’d build something like the Eiffel Tower in Afghanistan.

I laughed, and she’d frown. “You don’t believe me because I’m a girl.”

I said nothing. Deep down, I knew she was right—being born a girl here meant being born into sorrow.

Months passed. Today, her message arrived:

"My dear friend, my only companion—if I’m to be honest, I must admit so much. This is Berlin, a place where no one judges you for who you are, what you wear, or what you do. The girls here dress elegantly; they can study as long as they wish, and no one draws lines around their freedom. The men aren’t leering—they know how to respect beauty. You can walk outside at midnight without fear of being taken. There’s everything here—peace, safety, freedom. But something is missing, or maybe it’s just me. I still can’t get used to this life. Can you believe it? Nowhere in Germany—or in any brightly lit city in the world—can I find the scent of Kabul’s dusty streets. I miss it in ways I can’t describe. Maybe you were right—exile makes loneliness grow fat. Today I graduated from university, yet I don’t feel joy. I’m happy for you, who still carry your passion and dreams, though you’ve been caged inside your father’s house. I’m sad for you, and for every girl in our homeland. I’m alone, and lonelier by the day. Exile makes you lonelier."

Nargis Nikbeen