Scenes of frightened Afghans scrambling to leave the country by any means possible in August 2021 — including clinging to packed military cargo planes — following the withdrawal of United States forces and the Taliban takeover of Afghanistan were broadcast on TV screens across the world to widespread horror and outrage.
The Taliban, a violent fundamentalist group that aims to reverse any democratic progress made in the country with more than 38 million inhabitants, was forced to withdraw quickly and then collapse the government.
A year later, in the small Albanian coastal town of Shëngjin, nestled between the sparkling Adriatic sea on one side and a high mountain range on the other, several hundred Afghan refugees are stuck in limbo.
For them, the horrors of August 2021 are still fresh — a painful reminder of the moment when their role in securing a free and egalitarian future for Afghanistan evaporated into thin air.
“It was immensely disorganised,” says Aziz, recounting the withdrawal and the evacuations arranged by the US military. “Me and a lot of other people thought, hey, we have a lot of association with the US government, surely it’s just a waiting game until we are taken out of the country.”
They can not — and do not want to — go back to Afghanistan, where the Taliban has only strengthened their power.
Many don’t know when they will get their US visas. This is a promise made to those who have worked with the US presence.
Aziz asked that Aziz not be called his full name because he still has relatives living in Afghanistan. He fears that they might want to flee someday or face retribution from Taliban forces. His mother is with him in Shëngjin, and both are in a state of constant anxiety over their undefined future.
“If I had known a year ago — we were told getting our visas would only last a couple of months — that it would last this long, I would have probably had a heart attack.”
A year of empty words
Aziz clearly recalls the feeling of imminent catastrophe he and others felt during the period leading up to August 2021.
“I was working in Kabul for a consultancy. I realized the importance of regions [all over the country]Kabul was falling, and there were varying estimates on how long it would take. But we knew it was going to happen,” he recalls.
26-year old Aziz is a highly articulate young man with impeccable English and a profound understanding about the politics of his homeland.
He is angry at those who casually conclude that the Afghan army did not fight, citing the “hundreds of thousands of casualties” over the years. He is also angry with the many analysts and opinion writers who supported the withdrawal.
He studied information technology in the American University of Afghanistan. He also took part in debate competitions and psychology.
He moved several times throughout his life — from Pakistan, where his family were refugees, back to their hometown of Kandahar and finally to Kabul — and speaks Urdu, Dari, Pashto, and learned French in high school.
While hardly privileged, he cites his father’s commitment to teaching him English as a child through word games and his mother’s work in education as having shaped his views of the world.
Aziz and his friends felt that the country was heading toward a steady decline even before the official launch by the US withdrawal. They immediately began looking for ways to leave.
“I decided to try to get visas for places like Turkey and other places, and they were very hard to come by at the time due to the immense demand. As things continued deteriorating we decided we would go to Pakistan, which wasn’t ideal. My mom’s visa came through but mine didn’t,” he said.
“When my hometown of Kandahar fell, where there was heavy fighting, I knew it would be a matter of time before the domino effect reached Kabul.”
Aziz found comfort in the fact that he was one of many Afghans who had worked with either the government or the State Department, and whose safety the west promised to guarantee, when US President Joe Biden announced his withdrawal plans.
“Since I had worked with the United States Institute of Peace in the past, I had a Priority 1 and Priority 2 classification, which was an alternative to the Special Immigrant Visa programme which requires people to work with the US government for one year in order to be qualified to be resettled in the US,” he explains.
“Besides my work with the institute I also had a scholarship at the university, so I used those referral numbers to try and secure a spot on the planes leaving Kabul.”
Aziz started his day as usual on the morning of the fall in Kabul. He was shocked to see the Afghan tanks fleeing from Maidan Wardak (a neighboring province) in poor condition. “Traffic was terrible. Rumours started spreading that they had entered the city and chaos spread.”
“I heard that they had entered through Paghman, which is close to where my home was and my mom was in the fifth district. I remember rushing to get there, and all I could see was people going in the opposite direction toward the airport.”
“I even saw former ministers and parliamentarians with bags running towards the airport.”
He returned several times over the days to try to get to the runway and get a place on the plane. He recalls that it was packed and people were barely able breathe.
“When the US military got control of the airport they had no efficient way of weeding out who to let in. So the people who were brave enough to push through to enter the airport — even at the cost of their lives — were the ones who ended up being evacuated.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it. The Taliban were firing shots at people, and every day someone would be killed. The first planes to leave were not necessarily those who were associated with the US. They were simply the ones who were able to get through. He claimed that people who had a connection to the US were left out.
After realizing that the university was not going be his ticket out of the country for him, he began reaching out to NGOs and other organisations. He laughs about how he filled out so much paperwork and reached out to groups he’d never heard of.
As the 31 August deadline for the US withdrawal drew near, his panic grew. “Every plane that left that I wasn’t on meant I was one step closer to being stuck.”
Although he and his mother initially sought refuge with relatives, they eventually returned to their home to avoid being contacted by neighbours or relatives who could in turn inform them of their intentions to curry favour with Taliban sympathizers.
Some Kabul residents were jealous of American workers, or had deep-seated disagreements regarding the country’s direction. Before August of last year, he hadn’t heard of Albania.
“I never imagined the route I ended up taking would be the way I would get out of Afghanistan.”
Vital Voices Global Partnership, an NGO focused primarily on women’s rights and education, reached out to him and told him they would secure a spot for him and his mother on a plane out of the country in October. They informed him that he was going on to Albania.
Tourists and refugees
Albania was among the few European countries to announce its willingness to accept thousands of Afghan refugees.
It is becoming a popular tourist spot with its 450-kilometre coastline, historic attractions from the Roman and Byzantine periods, lush mountain ranges, and historical attractions.
Placing the refugees at the most high-capacity locations in the country — the sprawling resorts that are packed in the summer — was a no-brainer, especially since the costs were covered by NGOs such as the National Endowment for Democracy or organisations such as FIFA who had evacuated athletes.
The Rafaelo Resort in Shëngjin currently houses around 800 Afghan refugees in a section of the hotel set aside from them and includes a library area, an area for children and one for women and girls.
The resort features security round-the-clock and has amenities like banks and a grocery store on its grounds.
Pashtana Rasool was, like Aziz in Afghanistan, involved in the spearheading of democratic efforts. Before she came to Shëngjin in October, she was the Executive Director of the Afghan Child Education and Care Organization or AFCECO.
“I came here to Albania ten months ago, in October,” she told Euronews. After a couple of weeks of staying in her hotel room, “I was very tired of being at home with nothing to do because my whole family is back in Afghanistan. But in November I fortunately found this job working in the space for women and girls.”
In early August, the space right in front a large swimming pool is often filled with the happy, loud cries of children and holiday-goers.
Inside, women from various parts of Afghanistan lounge on colourful bean bags — away from the heat outside — while chatting away, making crafts or knitting, as well as participating in discussions with coordinators from the International Rescue Committee and their local partners, ARSIS.
“Normally I’m here from 9 to 4 as a community mediator,” the 27-year-old explains. “After 4 or 5 I go home or go for walks outside with my friends, on the beach or we go shopping. We went hiking together with our friends in winter, including boys and girls from the local community. We enjoyed it a lot, we visited a lot of places in Albania.”
She likes being in Shëngjin — despite the fact that tens of thousands flock to the city over the summer and loud music is played for hours in the evenings. She learned how to swim in this city and enjoys swimming at minimum once a week.
She had never heard of Albania prior to arriving in Albania.
“It was totally different. People in Albania are very kind, and they don’t care about whatever you’re wearing. Whether or not we wear headscarves, it doesn’t matter to them,” she explains.
Shëngjin is a part of the Catholic-majority Lezhë county in the north of Albania and was a key port city in the past. The League of Lezhë, a medieval military alliance of Albanian nobles that fought against the Ottoman Empire, is considered a predecessor to the modern independent state.
“The big difference I saw here is that Muslims and Christians behave the same and have no problems with one another,” she remarks.
“Religion is the biggest problem we have in Afghanistan, and there was widespread discrimination toward minority groups who were not even allowed to attend school. They celebrate both Christian and Muslim religious holidays. I love it!”
Her tone changes when asked about her family back at home.
“I have siblings. I have siblings and brothers, parents, but my sisters are at home. They’re not allowed to go out or go to school.”
“The boys can go to school, but even they complain because the teachers often aren’t there or don’t hold their classes because they aren’t getting a salary. And even when they get out, every day there’s an explosion.”
Two of her sisters attended high school before the Taliban takeover, and a third sister — who is a journalist — is in Pakistan.
“Of course, I dream that one day they will be with me. While I am physically in a beautiful place, hotel, beach, and everything, it doesn’t make me feel peaceful or good. Even when I’m walking, I think about my family. My siblings. Because their future has been destroyed.”
Forgotten and unwants
Pashtana struggled to give a positive prediction when asked about the future of her country.
“We don’t know. I don’t know. Because for 40 years we have been at war and the political situation is so complicated,” she said.
Most of Afghanistan’s current problems date back to a proxy war fought from 1979 to 1989 between Soviet-backed groups affiliated with the communist party coup in the country and Western-backed Mujahideen.
The Afghan population was subjected to massive war crimes, rape, ethnic cleansing, and torture, as well as being abused by those representing two opposing factions — those claiming to support rigid democratic reforms and those wanting to maintain a more religious hold on the country.
The rifts established at the time, including those between rural and urban populations, still plague the country to this day — and launched the country into a four year civil war from 1992 to 1996.
The Taliban came to power in 1996 and controlled three-fourths the country until the US invasion of 2001.
“As long as the Taliban are in power, there is no change, there is no hope for the people in the country,” Pashtana remarks.
“The Taliban has always held control over Afghanistan, even when there were presidents. But they were in villages, where they controlled everything, but in the cities, we had a lot of opportunities like schools for girls and everything,” she continues.
Contrary to the Taliban’s last reign, no one is invested in helping democratic forces in Ukraine wrest control from them. Asked about the war in Ukraine — cited widely as one of the reasons for the shift in Western attention — she highlights the fact that everyone cares about the ongoing invasion there.
“The situation in Ukraine is very sad, but they are lucky because European countries opened their doors to them. But with Afghans, even our neighbouring countries closed their doors to us and won’t allow Afghans to go there.”
During civil wars and other periods of instability, Afghans fled to Pakistan, a Sunni-majority nation.
“Last time they said ‘we welcome you’ but now they are tired and they do not care.”
Waiting for America
While some Afghan refugees in Albania are now living in Canada, the overwhelming sentiment is that they want to return to the United States.
Leila and her brother Reza have both found employment in Shëngjin in order to support their families while they wait for their visas.
They have been told that there is an interest in moving them to St Louis, Missouri — a city which already boasts a large diaspora from another war, namely the war in Bosnia.
Bosnians were relocated to the city’s segregated areas in an effort to revive it. This could also explain their interest in Afghan refugees.
Leila is tall and confident and looks great. When Euronews spoke to Leila, she wore a all-pink gown and headscarf set.
“I’m a waitress at the Rafaelo hotel and a worker at the restaurant,” she says, highlighting that her mom, four sisters and two brothers feel safe here. Their father is in Iran. He fled Mazar-i-Sharif where he was a resident, just before Kabul fell.
“We hope, we wish to go to America,” the 20-year-old said, “For now, everything is unknown. We don’t know about our situation, our future, and we don’t know when we’ll go to America.”
“It’s a bad feeling for me because everyone is very worried, especially my mom. She is old, and she’s worried all the time and thinking about our future. Where we’ll go, where our home will be and what we’ll do.”
She studied in Afghanistan at Balkh University’s agricultural faculty. She was there during the war’s first semester. She intends to continue her education as soon and as possible.
In her spare time, she plays with the kids in the children’s sector. Leila believes that the children are more relaxed than most because they worry less. “They are free here.”
Reza, her brother, works at another hotel in Shëngjin. He learned some Albanian and enjoys conversing with the Rafaelo Resort staff. They both go out on evenings when they’re not at work.
Leila sees everything in Albania as a temporary solution. She plans to move to the USA in the short-term, but she hopes to one day be able to return to Afghanistan.
“I really miss my country. I worry about my friends who aren’t here. I hope one day peace will come to my country and we’ll return and not move anywhere ever again.”
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