I felt like I saw death from very near, even though it was only a few days’ trip to the Chipurson Valley.
Last week, I visited Chipurson, my hometown, for two days but got stuck there for five days. Chipurson is the last valley of Gojal, bordering Afghanistan through the Wakhan Corridor. For the past six months, the people there have been living through constant earthquakes and aftershocks, not small tremors, but strong, unsettling quakes that have changed life completely.
Homes are destroyed, and life has been reduced to tents. Some families have left, but many remain because their lives depend on agriculture and livestock. Leaving the valley is not just a choice; it means leaving everything behind.
Taken right after a shock, the mountain behind the damaged house and a tent is still falling.
I walked through the valley and visited relatives and people I have known since childhood. What I saw was heartbreaking. Many people, who have spent their entire lives there, now speak with a quiet acceptance of death. At first, I could not understand it. But when we experienced seven strong quakes in a single day, I felt that same hopelessness. For a moment, I truly believed I might not make it out because I was stuck inside the house during the most dangerous earthquake.
Life in the tents is harsh and uncertain. The valley is narrow, surrounded by steep mountains that constantly threaten landslides and rockfalls. Even the “safer” spots lack basic facilities, no proper washrooms, no stable water supply, no sense of security. When I was there, the temperature was around -10°C, yet people had no choice but to stay in tents. Sleep is broken by fear. Every loud, blast-like sound forces people awake, ready to run at any moment.
Hygiene has become secondary to survival. Water channels are damaged, so people risk going into dangerous areas just to collect water. But what struck me most was not just the physical hardship, it was the mental exhaustion. The constant fear has settled into people’s lives. Even a small sound makes them alert; a louder one sends children into panic, while parents stand helplessly. While I appreciate the efforts of NGOs in providing essential relief and basic necessities, these are not long-term solutions. There is an urgent need for the government to consider sustainable and permanent measures.
One man told me, “Nobody knows what to do. One day, these mountains we love will fall on us.”
A woman said, “I know we are going to die because of these earthquakes. I just want to die before my children… but then I wonder what will happen to them.”
Their words stayed with me.
Leaving the valley was another challenge. The damaged road was unreliable, and after days of fear, I was desperate to get out. With my brother and niece, I tried to make the journey. We rode a motorbike until we reached a blocked section where people were clearing debris, but each aftershock brought more rocks down.
We were asked to wait, then cross on foot. https://youtube.com/shorts/41mhuGQ9ugU
That walk is something I will never forget. I was shaking, expecting the ground to move again at any second. Rocks were still falling, and soil was sliding down from the mountains. I held my brother’s hand tightly and kept moving, sometimes walking, sometimes running, crying, but not stopping.
Eventually, we reached a relatively safer point and waited for transport. After about an hour, a van heading toward Sost stopped and gave us space. Even then, the journey did not feel safe, but it was a way out.
I feel myself fortunate to have made it out. But I do not know what will happen to those who still live there.
