The Kabul Dreams | أحلام كابل
"An Afghan refugee in Germany. A volunteer who helps her settle. Between language lessons and asylum paperwork, they find an impossible love."
The Kabul Dreams
أحلام كابل
She arrives with nothing.
A plastic bag of documents, a headscarf she won't remove, eyes that have seen things I'll never understand.
I'm assigned as her integration volunteer.
I'm Hans.
Fifty-three, retired teacher, looking for meaning after my wife left. The refugee center seemed purposeful.
Mariam became my purpose.
She's forty-one.
A doctor in Kabul—before. Now she's a statistic, her degrees worthless, her future uncertain.
"Guten Tag," I try.
"Salaam." Her voice is barely audible. "Tashakor."
We start with basics.
German words. The transit system. How to shop, how to get medical care, how to exist in this strange cold country.
"You are kind," she says one day.
"It's my job."
"No. Kindness is never just a job."
Months pass.
Her German improves. Her asylum application stalls. She tells me about Kabul—fragments, pieces. A husband killed by the Taliban. A clinic bombed. A daughter she couldn't save.
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry changes nothing." She looks at me. "But hearing it helps."
"Why did you stay? After she died?"
"My daughter?"
"Your wife. The other volunteers said she left you."
"She found someone better."
"There is no one better." She says it simply, like fact. "I have watched you. You are good."
I shouldn't feel this.
She's traumatized, vulnerable, dependent on my help. Every ethical guideline screams against attachment.
But when she touches my hand—
"This is inappropriate," I say.
"Yes."
"I'm supposed to help you, not..."
"Not what?"
"Not fall in love with you."
She's quiet for a long moment.
"In Kabul, my husband was chosen by my family. I learned to love him. Now I am free." She meets my eyes. "Now I choose."
"You choose what?"
"You."
I step back from the formal role.
Another volunteer takes over her paperwork. We become something else—something tentative, careful, growing.
"Is this allowed?" she asks.
"Nothing is forbidden between consenting adults."
"That is very German."
"That is very free."
The first night, I go to her apartment.
Small, government-issued, filled with nothing personal. She serves tea like it's precious.
"Thank you for coming."
"Thank you for asking."
She undresses for me slowly.
Shy—she hasn't been with anyone since her husband. I'm patient. We have time.
"Beautiful."
"I am old. And fat from German bread."
"You're alive. That's beautiful enough."
I worship her.
Every scar—there are many, some visible, some not. She cries when I touch certain places.
"Too much?"
"Not enough. Keep going."
We make love slowly.
Two broken people finding something whole. When she comes, she speaks Dari—words I don't understand but feel everywhere.
"Doostet daram," she whispers after.
"What does that mean?"
"I love you. In my language."
"Ich liebe dich. In mine."
Three years later
She's a doctor again.
Her credentials finally recognized. She works at a clinic for refugees, helping others like herself.
"Happy?" I ask.
"Happier than I thought possible. After everything."
"You deserve happiness."
"We both do."
We married last year.
Small ceremony, mostly refugee friends who became family. She wore white. I wore a suit.
"Best decision?" she asks.
"Volunteering at that center."
"Second best?"
"Falling for the woman I was supposed to help."
She pulls me close.
The same apartment, upgraded now with memories and furniture. Home.
"Doostet daram," she says.
"Ich liebe dich auch."
Alhamdulillah.
For refugees who rebuild.
For volunteers who see people.
For dreams that survive Kabul.
The End.