I felt as if I had come face to face with death, even though it was meant to be just a short trip to Chipurson Valley.
Last week, I travelled to my hometown, Chipurson, for what was supposed to be a two-day visit. Instead, I remained there for five days. Chipurson, the last valley of Gojal bordering Afghanistan through the Wakhan Corridor, has been experiencing continuous earthquakes and aftershocks for the past six months. These are not minor tremors but powerful, unsettling shocks that have disrupted life entirely.
Homes have been damaged or destroyed, forcing families to live in tents. Some have managed to leave, but many remain because their livelihoods depend on agriculture and livestock. For them, leaving is not a simple choice—it means abandoning everything they have built over a lifetime.
I walked through the valley, meeting relatives and people I have known since childhood. What I witnessed was deeply distressing. Many long-time residents now speak with a quiet acceptance of death. At first, I struggled to understand this. But after experiencing seven strong earthquakes in a single day, I began to feel the same fear. At one point, trapped inside a house during a particularly severe tremor, I genuinely believed I might not survive.
Life in tents is harsh and uncertain. The valley is narrow, enclosed by steep mountains that constantly threaten landslides and falling rocks. Even the areas considered relatively safer lack basic facilities—there are no proper washrooms, no reliable water supply, and no real sense of security. During my stay, temperatures dropped to around -10°C, yet people had no option but to remain in tents. Sleep is fragile, interrupted by fear. Every loud sound feels like an imminent danger, forcing people to remain alert at all times.
Hygiene has become secondary to survival. With water channels damaged, people risk entering dangerous areas just to fetch water. Yet beyond the physical hardship, it is the psychological toll that is most alarming. Fear has become a constant presence. Even minor sounds put people on edge, while louder ones send children into panic, leaving parents feeling helpless.
While I acknowledge and appreciate the efforts of NGOs providing emergency relief and basic support, these measures are temporary. There is an urgent need for sustainable and long-term solutions from the government.
One man told me, “No one knows what to do. One day, these mountains we love will collapse on us.”
A woman said, “I know we may die because of these earthquakes. I only wish I go before my children… but then I wonder what will become of them.”
Their words stayed with me.
Leaving the valley was another ordeal. The road was badly damaged and unreliable. After days of fear, I was desperate to get out. Along with my brother and niece, I began the journey. We rode a motorbike until we reached a blocked section where people were clearing debris. Each aftershock sent more rocks tumbling down.
That walk is something I will never forget. My body was shaking, expecting the ground to move again at any moment. Rocks were still falling, and loose soil continued to slide from the mountains. I held my brother’s hand tightly as we moved forward—sometimes walking, sometimes running, often in tears, but never stopping.
Eventually, we reached a relatively safer point and waited. After about an hour, a van heading towards Sost stopped and gave us space. Even then, the journey did not feel safe, but it was the only way out.
I consider myself fortunate to have made it out.
But I cannot stop thinking about those who are still there.
The writer is a student of IIS London
