Gulmakay’s Goodbye: Why We Must Not Deport Dreams

Three little girls — aged 10, 7, and 5 — used to come over to our home to play with the kids. Bright-eyed and full of innocence, they would bring with them a lightness, a laughter that only children can offer. I assumed they were Pakistani, Pashtun perhaps. I was wrong.

The eldest, Gulmakay, was wise beyond her years. Every time she entered our home, she would shake my hand, then kiss its back, pressing each of her eyes gently to my skin. This wasn’t just a greeting — it was reverence. It took me back to a time when I saw my mother and the elders of our family offering the same gesture to those they held in the highest esteem. In that moment, Gulmakay wasn’t just a child — she became a bridge between my past and present.

She always asked how I was, and then quickly turned to speak of the two women who shaped her world — her mother and her phupo (aunt). She spoke with deep admiration, yet there was always a hint of sadness. “My mother washed so many clothes today, her hands are bruised,” she once told me. I asked if they had a washing machine. “We do,” she said, “but my mother prefers to wash them by hand… we dirty them.”

She didn’t want to marry. “It’s no fun,” she would say candidly. “Mothers only work and get tired. Their hands get bruised.” Her words were painfully pure — an echo of every child who has seen too much, too soon.

In her mother’s absence, Gulmakay would praise her phupo, who cooked for them, shared fruit slices, and gave them coins to buy snacks. One day, she came into my room with her siblings and spotted the library. “What do you do with all these books?” she asked. When I said I read them, she gasped, “All of them?” Their eyes widened in awe — as if they had stumbled upon a treasure.

Lately, Gulmakay had been talking excitedly about her uncle’s wedding in Afghanistan. “I passed my grade 3 exams,” she told me proudly. “We are going for the wedding.” Today, she hugged me tightly and said, “If you don’t see us tomorrow at night, we would have gone.” She couldn’t differentiate between afternoon and evening — but her message was clear. They were leaving.

Her mother, a smart and forward-thinking woman, hadn’t told them the painful truth — that they were being expelled from Pakistan. She masked the fear with hope. She made it a celebration. That’s what good mothers do.

She also made sure her children remained dignified. “Help with the dishes,” she’d say to Gulmakay. “Your hands will become magical, and everyone will say you’re a good girl.”

There is one truth I’ve witnessed time and again: Afghan people are resilient. Brave. Proud. In my lifetime, I have not seen a single Afghan beggar on the roads. I’ve only seen entrepreneurs. Dreamers. Fighters. Builders. Pakistan’s Federal Minister for Defense, Khwaja Muhammad Asif disclosed while speaking to members of the Pakistan Readymade Garment Manufacturer & Exporters Association (PRGMEA) that there are 22 million beggars in Pakistan who earn at least 42 billion annually which is tarnishing the image of Pakistan. A large number has been deported from Saudi Arabia in the last three years severing ties between the two countries and creating difficulties for workers there or those seeking visas for jobs.

When we recently conducted a needs-based assessment in Peshawar, we found that Afghan families didn’t ask for charity. They asked for an opportunity. Afghan men wanted to open shops. Afghan women dreamed of home-based businesses. Not handouts — livelihoods.

And yet, here we are — witnessing a mass expulsion of nearly 3 million Afghan refugees from Pakistan. The justification? Rising crime and militancy. But where is the data that makes every innocent Afghan child, every hardworking father, and every single mother, guilty by association? The recent discussion in the media about the possibility of transforming Pakistan into a ‘hard state’ to address militancy is facing considerable concern from lawyers, ambassadors, and journalists. They all believe that Pakistan needs a true democracy led by an elected leadership to establish a stable, peaceful state where there is zero tolerance for exploitation and denial of human and political rights. The deprived segments of population resort to employing extremist and militarist means to achieve their goals.

One Afghan man called me, trembling. “I’ve lived in Peshawar for 45 years. This is my country. Where do I go now?” His grandson is studying on a full scholarship offered by a Pakistani school. His two granddaughters just passed Grade 2. His business is frozen. He whispered, “I haven’t even been able to drink water during Ramadan since I heard the news.”

Yes, Pakistan must protect its people and its sovereignty — but is this how we do it? By turning away those who’ve built lives here, contributed to our economy, learned our language, shared our land? Shouldn’t we distinguish between the vulnerable and the violent?

It’s time to act with heart and with wisdom. Let the Government of Pakistan introduce a policy that distinguishes between families raising children, caring for the disabled, or running honest businesses — and those who genuinely pose a threat. Regularize and tax the former. Deport only the latter.

The future of these children — children like Gulmakay — hangs in the balance. She may be gone tomorrow. But we are still here today.

Let’s not wait until we lose the soul of our society to realize what we’ve done.