Dust And Dreams

In the dusty border town of Chaman, where Pakistan meets Afghanistan, a silence has fallen heavier than the scorching heat. It is not the kind of silence that comes from peace, but the kind that seeps in when livelihoods disappear, when the gates that once connected families and futures are suddenly locked. Amid this silence, a boy named Khalid pushes his rusted wheelbarrow through the winding alleys of a town held hostage by border politics.

Khalid is just thirteen, but his eyes have forgotten how to look like a child’s. His father, once a daily wage porter across the Chaman-Spīn Bōldak crossing, now sits idle at home, jobless since Pakistan enforced a one-document passport policy nearly 20 months ago. Before the shutdown, thousands relied on the informal economy around the border—carrying goods, helping travelers, trading small items. After the closure, nothing was left but desperation.

The youngest of four siblings, Khalid did not dream of becoming a porter. He wanted to be a doctor. He would tell his friends that he would wear a white coat and heal broken bones. But when the border closed, schools emptied and homes grew hungry. Khalid’s white coat turned into torn sandals and a dirty shalwar kameez. His dream of medicine was replaced by potatoes and onions. Every morning, before the call to prayer, Khalid loads his wheelbarrow with vegetables and walks into the waking dust of Chaman, hoping to earn just enough to buy bread for dinner.

“I remember my classroom,” he says, while wiping sweat from his forehead. “I had a book with a picture of the brain in it. I liked that one. It looked like a maze.”

There is a war here, but it’s not fought with bullets. It’s fought with empty stomachs and silent cries. Hundreds of children like Khalid have been forced into labor, their childhoods traded for survival. Their laughter is now heard in the clang of empty wheelbarrows and the shouts of customers haggling for cheaper tomatoes.

Khalid’s story took a turn when one day, he scribbled a message on a torn piece of cardboard. “I miss school, not smuggling,” it read. He wore it like a sign around his chest. A passing journalist from Quetta took a photo. The image spread across WhatsApp, then Twitter, and then news outlets picked it up. People around Pakistan began asking: Who is this boy? And why is he forced to live like this?

Donations trickled in. A few NGOs offered to help. But Khalid’s family saw none of it. "They came, took pictures, and left," his mother said. "The food bags they brought lasted a week. But what about next week?"

Khalid became a symbol. But symbols don’t eat. Symbols don’t go to school. Symbols can’t carry the weight of real suffering.

Still, the message stuck. People started talking about the border closure in ways they hadn’t before. Human rights groups began highlighting the economic fallout in Chaman and Spin Boldak. Teachers started small makeshift schools in homes. One woman opened her garage as a classroom, and Khalid joined for two hours a day, between his vegetable rounds.

"He’s the smartest one," the volunteer teacher said. "He asks about the brain again. He hasn’t let go of that dream."

Chaman is still in crisis. Prices of basic goods have doubled. Many families who once crossed the border to visit sick relatives or attend weddings haven’t seen loved ones in nearly two years. The government remains largely silent. Official statements cite "security concerns" and "policy compliance." But on the ground, it feels like abandonment.

And in the middle of it all, Khalid keeps pushing his wheelbarrow.

One evening, as the sun dipped behind the hills, he paused near the locked border gate. He looked through the iron bars into Spin Boldak, where his uncle used to live. "I wonder if my cousins still go to school," he said quietly. "They must be taller than me now."

His wheelbarrow creaked as he turned back toward town. The dust swirled behind him like a ghost.

Khalid’s story is not unique. It is one of thousands, maybe millions. But it matters because it forces us to look. To listen. To imagine what it's like when a child becomes the bridge between hope and hunger.

Maybe one day, the gates will open again. Maybe Khalid will become a doctor. Maybe he will write a book about the brain, about the maze of memory and pain and resilience.

Until then, he carries the border on his back.

And he does not fall.


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