There are moments in life when history does not arrive slowly. It comes all at once, and when it does, it can close every door you thought would be open to you.<\/p>\n
Before I came to Australia, my life in Afghanistan was built around education, public service and media. I was a university lecturer in Kabul, teaching political science, leadership, education and journalism. I worked in television and radio as a presenter, producer and executive. I also served as an adviser at the Ministry of Education in Afghanistan. I continued studying even after I got a job, completing a PhD in Indian politics.<\/p>\n
As a professor, I saw that even in the face of hardship, my students could grow and be better prepared to build their own destinies. Working in the media showed me how consequential the words people chose to describe themselves, their communities and the world around them could be. While in government, I witnessed directly how education policy affects countless individuals.<\/p>\n
Then, in 2021, the government collapsed \u2013 into the hands of the Taliban. For many of us, that was not simply a political event. It felt as if all doors shut at once \u2013 careers were interrupted, institutions weakened or disappeared. Opportunities vanished. Plans that had taken years to build were suddenly no\u00a0longer possible.<\/p>\n
The life I had made through teaching, media and public service was cut short by history.<\/p>\n
To leave your country under those circumstances is not only to change places. It is to lose continuity. You leave behind your work, your routines, your colleagues, your language environment and the ordinary confidence that comes from knowing how life around you works. You also leave behind the version of yourself that made sense in that place.<\/p>\n
Leaving my homeland felt like being taken away from the life that had shaped my spirit, my memories and my sense of belonging. It was the pain of being separated from a part of myself. Home is not just land or geography; it is the language of the heart, the warmth of familiarity, and the silent understanding between a person and the place\u00a0where they first learnt life. To be separated from that is to carry an invisible sorrow, one that stays with you even as you try to begin again.<\/p>\n
The loss I endured, along with so many when the Taliban took control, will always be part of my story. It is not the whole story.<\/p>\n
I arrived in Australia with my family in December 2021 \u2013 we were safe but had no certainty. At the age of 31, I entered a new culture, a new education system and a different professional world where my experience was not immediately visible. That is one of the hardest parts of rebuilding a life: you know what you have done, you know who you are, but in a new country, you often have to prove yourself all over again.<\/p>\n
Starting over required patience and humility. It also required me to accept that rebuilding is not the same as continuing. You do not pick up exactly where you left off. You learn how to translate your life into a new language, a new system and a new future.<\/p>\n
I remained connected to community work. I stepped into positions that allowed me to help intercultural linkages and communities that had experienced refugee crises. I was moved to tears by the significance of that job; it showed me that even in the midst of chaos, one person can make a difference.<\/p>\n
The most important turning point in my life in Australia came when I began working at Narre Warren South P-12 College in Victoria as a multicultural education aide.<\/p>\n
In many ways, this role brought me back to the heart of what had always mattered to me \u2013 education. Schools are practical places, built around timetables, curriculums and routine, but they are also places where belonging is formed. For students from migrant and refugee backgrounds, school is often one of the first places where they begin to understand whether they are seen, supported and included.<\/p>\n
I support EAL (English as an additional language) students, assist teachers, facilitate communication between families and the school, and provide cultural understanding where needed. Very quickly, I realised I was not only helping students navigate school. I\u00a0was often acting as a bridge between worlds.<\/p>\n
I understood what it meant to enter a new system carrying another language, another culture and sometimes another trauma. I understood what it felt like to be in a\u00a0place where people may not immediately see your story. Sometimes, recognition is the most valuable gift you can offer.<\/p>\n
That realisation changed my life, helping me to understand that my path was far from finished when I left Afghanistan. I\u00a0was no longer cut off from my former lives as a student, professor, politician and media professional.<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t be in this new role without those experiences, though their function had changed. Teaching in schools made me more determined to be an active participant in classrooms rather than an observer.<\/p>\n
I longed to return to the classroom in my adopted nation. I yearned to channel my life\u2019s experiences into a meaningful career that would help others.<\/p>\n
This led me to Teach For Australia\u2019s undergraduate program. To me it has been more than a pathway into teaching \u2013 it is a pathway back to a calling.<\/p>\n
The program offers the chance to become a fully qualified teacher in Australia while building on the work I am already doing in the school. It recognises that not every future teacher begins in the same place: some come through direct and traditional pathways, while others arrive after disruption, migration, loss and reinvention. Programs like this matter because they create room for people whose journeys have been reshaped by history and who still have much to give.<\/p>\n
Perspective is just as important as the knowledge and professional experience I can bring to teaching. I know what it means to have doors closed by forces beyond your control. I know what it means to rebuild identity in a new country. I know how important encouragement can be when someone is trying to believe in themselves again. Education is not only about curriculum \u2013 it is\u00a0also about dignity, belonging and possibility.<\/p>\n
Looking back on my life in Afghanistan, I still feel proud. I think of my years lecturing, my work in media, my role in education policy and the long path of study.<\/p>\n
The loss I endured, along with so many when the Taliban took control, will always be part of my story.<\/p>\n
It is not the whole story.<\/p>\n
Coming to Australia with my family gave me strength, hope and a reason to keep moving forward. The loss remains but so does the desire to rebuild, to endure and to create meaning from what has been left behind. Australia gave me this chance. The process has not been easy or quick \u2013 it has required resilience, patience and the willingness to begin again. It has also shown me something important: purpose can survive displacement.<\/p>\n
For me, that purpose has always been education. It was there when I was teaching in Kabul. It was there when I was working in media and government. It was there when I\u00a0continued my studies in India.<\/p>\n
It is here now, in Victoria, in the classrooms where I support students and families, and in the path I am taking towards becoming a teacher in Australia.<\/p>\n
History closed many doors on me. Through education, another one opened.<\/p>\n
Leaving my history behind is not going to happen just because I go through the door. It means taking it with me into the classroom, where I may work through my grief, gain wisdom from my experiences and revive my faith in the future.<\/p>\n
\n This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on
\n April 11, 2026 as “A door to possibility”.<\/p>\n
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