WHY I was born?

Story by: INAM THINKER

---

In the dusty and quiet streets of Torkham, where there was nothing but sand, smoke, and sadness, a boy named Ali was born. He was not born in a hospital or a clean home—he was born in a refugee camp made of plastic sheets and broken tents. His parents were Afghan refugees who had run away from war to survive.

From the beginning, Ali’s life was full of struggle. He had no home, no official identity, and no future. All he had was life—and questions.

“Why was I born like this?” he would ask his mother. She had no answer. She would just hold him close and cry silently.

When Ali turned five, like other children, he dreamed of going to school. One day he saw some children wearing uniforms, carrying books and smiling. He came home full of hope and said to his father, “Baba, I want to go to school too.”

His father looked at him with tired eyes and said, “Ali, we don’t have ID cards. Without them, no school will accept you. I’m sorry, son.”

Ali didn’t fully understand, but he could feel something inside break. The door to education was closed before he even got to try.

By the age of six, Ali started working. Every day he collected garbage from the streets—plastic bottles, old tins, whatever he could sell to earn a few rupees. He had never seen the inside of a classroom, but he was learning about life through rubbish.

Sometimes he would look at himself and think, “Is this what I’m meant to do forever?”

But no answer came.

Years passed. By the time he was fourteen, Ali had become quiet and serious. His eyes looked older than his age. Then one day, everything changed.

Police raided the refugee camp where he lived. They arrested many Afghan families, including Ali. They didn’t ask him anything. Just looked at his face, heard his accent, and called him “illegal.” Without any hearing, he was sent back to Afghanistan—a country he had never really known.

When he reached Kabul, he felt like a stranger. There was no work, no money, and no proper shelter. He looked around and saw that everyone was struggling. And he thought, “If I stay here, I’ll become nothing.”

One day, some boys were talking about how people were crossing the border back into Pakistan, even though it was dangerous. Some used illegal ways, and not everyone made it across. But Ali’s heart was full of fire.

“If I don’t try, nothing will ever change,” he told himself.

So, one night, he packed his little bag and walked toward the border. The area was full of danger—sometimes terrorists used the same paths to cross. But Ali didn’t stop. He kept walking.

When he reached the border, it was dark and silent. Suddenly, gunshots broke the silence. The border forces saw someone moving in the night and opened fire.

Ali was hit. His body dropped to the ground.

As his breath slowed and his eyes closed, a final thought passed through his mind:

“Is this really how my story ends?”

Ali died at the border, between two countries—neither of which ever gave him a real home.

But even though his body was gone, his story didn’t disappear. His question still lives in the hearts of many other refugee children: “Why was I born like this?”

Ali may never have found his answer. But maybe, one day, the world will change because of stories like his. Maybe one day, no child will have to ask this question ever again.