I'm an Afghan-Australian, I'm a Hazara and I'm also a refugee, and the daughter of a so-called "boat person".
Like thousands of Hazaras, Dad arrived in Australia by sea, although he rarely talks about that part of his life.
I arrived with my siblings and mother by plane, five years after my father.
I've grown up in Australia. I am Australian and I am an Afghan.
I've watched from afar the events of the past week unfold. The return of the Taliban was a reality we dreaded and hoped would never happen. Since then, I've spoken daily with family and relatives back home.
Devastated, disappointed, worried, betrayed, but, above all, helpless are just a few of my feelings when asked, "How do you feel?".
What happened so many years ago is happening yet again.
My dream of returning to Afghanistan as a female reporter is all but shattered with the Taliban reclaiming power.
It's not just my dreams but those of many people, particularly women, who have had their rights revoked in an instant.
Growing up under the Taliban
My father left Afghanistan in 2000 when the country was under Taliban rule before the fateful events of September 2001.
He made his way to Indonesia through smuggling routes, then onto a boat, and was at sea for more than 10 days before he was found, then locked up in detention in Derby in Western Australia.
Dad tells me his "lock up" wasn't as bad as refugees have it nowadays. He says he was well fed and spent most of his time playing soccer with other detainees – a word which I find strange typing, as it paints them as criminals.
After two months the Australian government granted his temporary visa and permitted him to leave detention. He started working in Margaret River as a fruit picker for a few months before following his mates to Sydney – chasing dreams of building a life there.
Language was a barrier, but with the help of other settled refugees he managed to score himself a job as a tiler; 20 years later he is a master at it.
Meanwhile, miles away, on the other side of the world in Jaghoori, Afghanistan, left behind were his wife and his four children, that is, my brother, two sisters, and me. I was three when he left. My younger sister was only a few months old.
It's strange for a small child to remember anything from back then, but I do.
I remember the days Mum would sit beside the "dedgo", a fireplace where all the meals were cooked.
I could feel her loneliness and worries despite her best attempt to hide it from us.
With Dad gone and no news of him, only dark days awaited us.
As far as memory goes, my family has always been progressive. My people, the Hazara people, at least ones from Jaghoori, were supportive of us women going to school and receiving an education.
A few of my aunties and uncles, who are now past their 50s, are all university graduates. Afghanistan was once very much a modern and free country, where, if not full rights, most rights were guaranteed.
But when the Taliban came to power in 1996, as I've been told, a lot of things changed. Schools were shut.
Women had to revert to traditional duties of being a housewife. Even for men, life became nothing short of misery.
It was during those days that Dad decided to take the risk and journey to Australia, leaving us behind, to secure a better life for us.
Not a luxurious life, a normal life.
When the Taliban were driven out, our district began building its first school. Tents were set up to restart education immediately.
And with no news of Dad for some time, rumours swirled that he had drowned at sea.
That sort of gossip became a norm. But life went on.
About two years after the Taliban's fall from power, my family migrated to neighbouring Pakistan.
Although told otherwise, I knew we were fleeing the country and that something wasn't right. The persecution of the Hazaras was ongoing, despite the Taliban's fall. Leaving the country, as I've been told, was the best option for us.
A year or so later, we got to meet my father, who had travelled from Australia to Pakistan for a visit. I felt shy. As someone who had no memory of him, it was a difficult process to accept this strange man as Dad. But I guess blood runs thick. Eventually we came to terms [with it] and Dad he was.
Arriving down under
And so, this is how we became refugees. In 2005, we flew to Australia, and eventually settled in Adelaide, a place we now call home.
Assimilating into the wider Australian culture was a process on its own but we had plenty of support and before we knew it, we had settled, learnt the language, and started a new life. Although, nostalgia for Afghanistan and my cousins was felt deeply from time to time.
I've since gone back twice, once with my family in 2015 and then alone in 2017. Both trips, which I've documented, have been nothing short of amazing, eye-opening, and hopeful. People were focused on repairing damage inflicted upon them for decades, be it from the Soviet invasion or the Taliban regime.
Today marks four years since my last visit to the country. Never did I imagine it would be the last time.
I am now working as a news reporter for the ABC in this small but beautiful town called Albany, miles away from my family in Adelaide. It was a necessary step to build up the courage to live independently, preparing me for my big journey to Afghanistan one day.
Just over two weeks ago, I was still picturing that dream. Today it seems almost impossible, with the Taliban taking over the country.
Emotions are high. The thought of never being able to return is becoming a reality by the day. And this feeling is felt by many fellow Afghans in Australia.
But, putting my selfish ambitions aside, I now worry for the safety and well-being of my family and relatives back home, for women who dare to dream of a liberated Afghanistan, for minority groups such as the Hazaras who have and are prone to persecution.
COVID-19 restrictions haven't allowed me to return to Adelaide for over three months now. I miss my family, but I remind myself of the many Afghans, predominantly Hazaras, I've spoken to over the past couple of weeks, who've been separated from their families for years, some well over 20 years. Disheartening is an understatement for them and other refugees whose visas are in limbo. I can't fathom their mental state and worries, especially those with families stuck in Afghanistan.
I am lucky and grateful to be living in a country like Australia where freedom and opportunities are abundant. I, like many of my fellow Afghan diaspora, have been able to receive an education and live a life without fear of persecution, without constantly worrying that we may be shot dead or bombed any minute – something our families have been living with for decades. With the Taliban now in power that little liberation our people had is now gone and their future remains uncertain.
Madina Jaffari is a journalist with the ABC based on Western Australia's south coast in Albany. Ms Jaffari was a Hazara refugee who, with her family, left Afghanistan following the war in 2001.
