Hot, sweltering, thick air. As dense as honey. It is constantly blistering my lungs. The burning sensation of boiling fingers crawls over my body.

It is only one of our many enemies.

Another is the Taliban.

I was once a young Hazara girl, hopeful of my future, curious of my education. When I had the privilege.

I used to walk freely with my mother through the streets of Kabul, swinging on her arm. We even sometimes shopped at the market.

We didn't need to cover our mouths and noses. We didn't even need to be escorted by a male figure.

Those were the old times. How I long that things would be the same once again.

But I know it can't be. Not for long, anyway.

Because slowly, a terrorist group was rising to new levels. Soon it would take over all of Afghanistan.

They were coming. I knew it. We all knew it.

The fear had been clinging to the air, ever since the first cities in the outskirts had been invaded and the Taliban had taken control.

And stealthily, like wild cats hunting their dinners, they attacked the cities. One by one, they fell like dominoes.

It was inevitable that we would be next. After all, to seize Kabul, meant that the Taliban had risen to power once again.

My mother shook me awake, that fateful day. Every inch of her face showed fear.

Her eyebrows were creased with anxiety. Her lips a straight line. Her eyes glistening with what seemed like tears.

I knew immediately that the worst had come. I didn't even need her to tell me so.

My eyes were blurry. I could see the hazy, unfocused image of my mother. She was shaking me with one arm. In the other, she held my baby brother defensively. He was only a few days old.

“Hila....” She seemed out of breath. “Hila... they're coming.... we need to go, now.”

Maybe that woke me up. I had been dreading this day for years, ever since the Taliban fell.

We all knew that it wasn't the end. That it was the end of a beginning.

And now, they had truly returned to regain "their land."

I bolted upright and swung my feet over the side of my bed. My mother was slightly startled by the sudden movement.

She backed out of the door, telling me she'd be preparing the bags.

We didn't have much; I doubted it would take long.

I slipped my feet into my sandals and rushed out.

Outside, my father was cramming the bags into the small car we borrowed from my uncle.

My mother was inside already. She was urging me to hurry.

I didn't even get a second glance at my former home. My father hit the accelerator and we sped along the road.

I knew that something was seriously wrong.

The streets were quieter, for one thing. Not a single movement.

It didn't seem like there was any living presence. Then we turned onto the main road.

I exhaled. It wasn't what I thought it was.

The main road was busy.

The air was filled with angry, frustrated horns. People honked and pushed.

And we were in the middle of it.

I could tell that they'd had to flee their homes, like we did. They had no other choice. That was the hard truth.

I never thought I would hate anyone more than the Taliban.

Maybe even more than my math teacher.

They are the reason we could never have normal lives. Because we’re Hazara, the Taliban believe we don’t deserve to have lives.

Or to be treated as equals.

Or to live at all.

I don't understand, but then I don’t understand many things.

I don't understand math, either.