Teenager Mohammad Qasimi was at home looking after his sister Malikah.
It was just the two of them.
The rest of his family – his mother, Azizah, and two other sisters, Faziea and Setarah – had gone to the market to celebrate Eid; Ramadan was over, and it was time for two million Hazara Town people to feast, sing, shop, talk, smile… laugh… and be as happy as Hazaras can be in a country that is not theirs.
Mohammad was not angry about being excluded from the street joy; he was watching television, which was a treat because their house didn't always have a TV.
The Qasimi family lived in a spare rental, one bedroom for mum and four children. Mohammad's father, Abdullah, was in Iran, working as a labourer to send his pittance of earnings back to his wife and children in Pakistan.
Abdullah and Azizah were native to Afghanistan, where Mr Qasimi owned a store selling female coats until the Taliban came into their village in 1995.
Mr and Mrs Qasimi could remember how the Soviet Union arrived in much the same way, to exercise power, in 1979, and everyone ran to the mountains to survive. But in 1995 you could not outrun the Taliban in Afghanistan.
That was why the Qasimis fled with hundreds of thousands of other Shia Muslims to Hazara Town in Quetta, Pakistan. Mohammad was a baby then. His three younger sisters were later born in Pakistan.
It was a whispering existence in that little house.
"You have to keep the owner happy all the time," Mohammad explains.
"My mom (he still says mom, not mum) used to wake up early in the morning to clean up the yard, front yard and back yard, because the owner might not be happy and ask you to leave. And there is no rule for it. Maybe tomorrow, one week, you're out."
No security. No sense of home. It was hardest in June and July when it was so hot outside you had to live inside until the sun went down.
"It was like a camp living in that house."
Mohammad, sitting and watching television and missing out on all the Eid celebrations, heard a window-rattling explosion and felt the earth shake. He knew it was a bomb and he knew it had gone off at the market.
Earlier that year, at least 91 people were killed by a bomb in a Hazara Town market water tank; a two-storey building was destroyed, trapping bodies of dead and injured. Militant Sunni group Lashkar-e-Janghvi claimed responsibility for the attack.
He ran to find his mother and sisters, who might be hurt; he remembers thousands of people were running in the opposite direction – away from the carnage — because it was well known that terrorists liked to attack twice, one bomb to kill people and draw the presence of media and police, another bomb to blow up the first responders and mourners.
He feared a second attack, but his greater fear was grief.
"I was running," he says. "I didn't see them, they didn't see me. You go there, you see parts of bodies and stuff like that. I need to find them, because where are they?"
The bomb had exploded outside a shoe shop. It was true that a mother and her two daughters had been killed, but whose mother and daughters?
"I knew they were there."
The desperate young man searched fingers and hands for familiar jewellery. Nothing. Then he ran back home to get his bike and ride to the hospital. Maybe they had been taken there.
The son found his mother and sisters back at the house. They were shaking in shock but otherwise unharmed.
"She fell down," Mohammad says of his 'mom'. "She thought I was there too."
As it turned out, Mrs Qasimi and her daughters had entered the shoe shop 10 or 20 seconds before the blast went off. If Mohammad's family had been in an open window inside the building, they would have died, too.
"Because of the wall, they survived."
Ten years later, a football pitch in Melbourne, Victoria
Olympic Park is surrounded by grand, cloud-shaped gum trees chock full of parrots chattering between autumn rain bursts. The field is damp and thick and bright, almost glowing under a silver sky.
It is a place with historical ties to the 1956 Olympics and a leading role in this year's World Cup, as home base of the Canadian squad.
In the vast grandstand, one bloke stands on the steps an hour before kick-off at the NPL Under 19 match between Heidelberg Warriors and Southern Stars: it is Mohammad Qasimi, 27-years-old.
To his friends, he is now known as Mo.
Mo didn't know anything about football when he lived his entire childhood in Pakistan. He preferred cricket. Now his life is devoted to the beautiful game.
Inside the bluestone changerooms, the Warriors are getting ready for action under the charge of coach Dennis Georgakopoulos, a man who likes to use an attacking press.
"You must be ready to go forward," he says. "Forward attacking zone. Force the error. Force the long ball."
The teenagers sit listening to him on seats in front of their lockers.
Among them is Setarah Qasimi, 17, one of the sisters who survived the shoe shop attack.
She is the only teammate wearing a hijab.
"I would watch the Matildas, A-League games, but I wouldn't see anyone like me, with the hijab, who came from a place like me," she said last week, while sitting in the loungeroom of her new family home.
"I wanted to be a representation for girls like me who didn't have the freedom, the choices, that didn't get lucky like I did. Plus, everyone was telling me how talented I was, so I was like yeah let's make something out of this.
"This is a big opportunity that I have that I wouldn't have if I wasn't in Australia."
The family's journey from Quetta to Cranbourne West
In 2013, when the bombs were going off in Hazara Town, Abdullah Qasimi was all but stuck in Iran.
He did not know much about his four children because it was proving too difficult to see them.
"I basically saw my dad," Mohammad says. "During my childhood, I can surely say not for more than six months."
Mr Qasimi's schedule was to work in Iran for four or five years, visit Pakistan for three months, and head back to Iran.
He had no passport.
Hazaras were targeted for killing in Quetta from 2009, not just in Hazara Town but in Mari Abad.
To socialise, Hazara people would risk death to travel between the two towns. Taxis were shot up. Buses too.
"Because we have a very clear identity whenever you see us," Mo says. "Small eyes, small nose. Everyone knows Hazara. They could identify very easily because of our faces."
After violence increased, Pakistan authorities blocked streets leading into Hazara Town and Mari Abad. Military checkpoints were installed. The two communities were cut off. Anyone who wanted to enter was questioned by soldiers.
The Qasimi family never daydreamed of a new life somewhere else in the world because it seemed impossible.
Mr Qasimi, however, was commitment to trying something, anything.
He managed to leave Iran to travel through Thailand to get to Indonesia, where he lived for three years as a United Nations refugee.
"Those three years were difficult," he says through his son, who acts as interpreter. "Because in 24 hours I could only sleep one hour.
"I was struggling with mental health, I was depressed and had anxiety. If in 24 hours you can only sleep one hour that means something's wrong. Lots of stress about what happens to us. What's happening to my family back there [in Pakistan]?"
Eventually, Mr Qasimi was told he could move to Australia, to be resettled with him family.
"By the time I got the news I couldn't believe it," he says. "I was so happy. My mental health started getting better. I was feeling a lot fresher."
A phone call was made from Bangkok to Hazara Town. It was one of those calls that changes the course of a family's history.
"He called my mom," Mo explains. "For the first time she had a Nokia mobile. He called us and told us what happened, and everyone went crazy."
Australia was a mysterious land to the Qasimis.
"I was thinking about how Australia could be," Mo recalls.
"I was thinking that the sky might be pink. Australia, everywhere is green.
"There is no dirt or anything like that. People, they look not like us. I didn't know how they'd look – but not like us, even though we are all human.
"We couldn't figure our how it might be, [but it was] the start of hope."
"It was like an illusion," Setarah remembers. "I felt like it was a dream. Like something was going to happen and we weren't going to get there. It was just so hard to accept that we were going to go somewhere nicer, safer."
First stop: Mildura United FC
The Qasimi family became residents of Mildura, a Victorian town of light traffic and distinctive seasons.
"In summer it is summer, in winter it is winter," Mo says.
A temporary house was provided by the settlement agency AMES Australia.
Mr and Mrs Qasimi did not speak English. Neither of them had a driving licence. Feeling at home was most difficult for the parents because they had barely lived together in almost 20 years.
Who would make all the big decisions? Who would make the money?
This was the moment Mo decided to become the family's 'General Manager'.
"I started doing everything," he says.
There was a case worker through Ames, but they needed more direction.
"She was busy. There's no one else going to help us. Whatever language I have right now, I've got to find a solution.
"Sitting and complaining about problems is not going to help us. So I have to get out and make efforts to make the life easy."
Setarah started in language school and then attended Mildura Primary School and Chaffey Secondary College.
She made friends easily.
"I was scared that I was going to get bullied and made fun of," she says. "But when I went it was really welcoming. Everyone was nice, showing me around the school. It was a lot easier than I thought."
Then football attracted Setarah and her older sister Faziea. The pair played in the park before joining Mildura United.
Among other things, Setarah realised she could run unusually fast.
"I could see that there was a natural thing," she says. "I wasn't training every day. It was kind of natural, my speed. And I had a strong foot. Maybe it was the technique."
The Qasimi sisters became the only girls in a mixed Under 14 outfit.
Setarah reckons the boys didn't think much of their international recruits.
"They wouldn't acknowledge us or anything. If it was up to them they would put us on the bench but it wasn't up to them."
For training and games, General Manger Mo acted as taxi driver, number one supporter, and coach.
"There was no one else to coach us so he was the only option," Setarah says. "He did teach us the basics. We knew he didn't know much so we didn't expect much."
Around the football schedule, Mo was scouting houses in Melbourne's outskirts, driving a 14-hour round trip every weekend to find the perfect home.
Eventually, after saving enough money for a deposit, the family resettled again in a house at Cranbourne West. And it was perfect. Four bedrooms. Quiet street. Close to the bus stop for Mr and Mrs Qasimi. Near the M1 freeway entrance for M, who had to drive long distances for his work in construction. Good schools. Friendly neighbours.
Across the road was a vast sporting field with soccer goals a hundred metres from the Qasimi welcome mat.
"It was crazy," Mo. "After more than 20 years. For us, having our own house was a freedom. You don't need to stress about anything. You don't need to stress about making noise."
Next stop NPL
Setarah had the football bug and wanted to practice every morning and afternoon. Mo would arrive home exhausted from work and be asked to play goalkeeper for an hour or so.
His answer was always yes.
"It shows the commitment she has."
At 13, she was enrolled in the local club, Barton United FC, with a strong Afghan community.
Her coach was impressed and suggested she try for higher honours at NPL club Southern Stars. The name suited her: Setarah means star. Then she crossed to Heidelberg.
"At that point, I wanted to make something out of this, I want to go as far as I can."
Last season she played for the senior women team, one step away from the A-League.
"She's amazing," Under 19 coach Dennis Georgakopoulos says. "She works hard, she listens. She's probably a bit too hard on herself. But she's got the quality, the ambition. She's got the drive. It's just being able to perform week after week."
Mo watches every game on Saturdays, then barracks for his sister Faziea on Sundays at Barton United. He gets visibly nervous during games.
"My close family always make fun of me."
In 2021, Craig Foster and other influential football people arranged for female Afghan national players to escape Kabul and resettle in Australia after the US troops withdrawal.
"A couple of them came to Barton and we played together in an Afghan tournament," Setarah says.
"It was pretty cool to meet national players."
The Qasimi General Manager still drives Setarah to all her training sessions, fighting dense suburban traffic at every turn from Cranbourne West to Heidelberg. Getting home late in the evening.
During Ramadan this year, Setarah sat in the passenger seat and fed her older brother after sunset whenever they were safely stopped at a red light.
Otherwise, it is Mohammad who is in service to his sibling on the road; Setarah, as the teenager of the car, sets the terms of travel music and conversation.
Saturday afternoon
Refs walk out the tunnel onto the field.
Setarah and her teammates follow. It is almost 1.30pm. There is more rain from the broken sky.
It is not the pristine gum leaf backdrop that makes the start of this game at Olympic Park so enjoyable, rather it is the promise of the game itself.
Teammates stand arms-around-shoulders to hear the captain calling for them to go with her into the contest and win.
Then comes the whistle, and 90 minutes of play.
Football is freedom of movement. It is concentration without distraction… watch the ball, react, dance if you need to… let your feet tell the story of your life. Grimace in effort, smile as reward. Take deep breaths, don't stop. Sprint, top speed, NOW.
Setarah's coach says she has a promising future.
"She is an attacking player for us," he explains. "She's very good one v one, so whenever she's got space in behind, she's very good at taking players on and getting past them.
"She creates a lot of opportunities for us. She's doing really well."
There has been no racism to overcome in her short footballing life, only acceptance and belonging.
"It's been really good."
Last match, something unusual happened: Setarah seemed unlike herself in the first few minutes of the game.
The coach and team manager noticed she was agitated. Her hijab was coming loose, so she came to the bench to fix it.
Team Manager Rocio Brito watched closely as Setarah's nearby teammates stood as one to form a barricade around her, like a big changeroom curtain.
"The awareness of the girls was amazing," Brito says. "They weren't thinking about it, they just did it naturally. They wanted to make her feel comfortable."
Setarah fixed her hijab tightly before running back onto the right wing.
This year she is looking forward to watching the World Cup when it comes to Australia.
Sam Kerr is her hero.
"I love her."
And she would like to emulate Kerr one day by playing for the Matildas.
"For sure, represent Australia. That would be my biggest goal."
Mo likes that his sister's mind is imagining magnificent scenes.
"Represent the Matildas, to play Champions League in the same team as Sam Kerr. To become role model for Afghan girls."
The Qasimi family knows pink skies exist.
"You know it is a family dream," he adds. "It would be crazy, it is a feeling like there is no words in the world to describe it."
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