HELLO to everyone reading this. I cannot tell you my name but I can tell you that I am from Afghanistan. I am now one of the many thousands of refugees in a camp by the name of Moria, in Greece.

I arrived on Lesbos almost three years ago. 

As everyone knows, Afghanistan is not a safe country — there is civil war, and a lot of people are fighting for their lives. 

The last solution is to flee the country, which is what I did. When my family said I must leave, I didn’t understand why. I was around 16 years old. 

As a child this was very hard for me, but I listened to my parents. I found a smuggler and waited until he had enough people to send to Iran. Initially we were four people but when we left Afghanistan, we were 500. 

We left first for Pakistan. On the way to Iran we passed through many Taliban checkpoints — places where countless Afghan people have died doing the exact same thing as us. 

We went through the mountains — hungry and thirsty for days. I remember the weather was so cold. 

After 10 days in the mountains between Iran and Pakistan, constantly hiding from thieves and police, the experienced smugglers and guards told us we were safe to move on. 

They moved us all to a small village in the Zahidan province and from there we were transported by bus and other smaller vehicles to Tehran. 

I was with a group of 13 people in a small car. The smuggler hid me and two others in the trunk. 

No-one cared if we died — they wouldn’t wait for us if we fell down or fell behind. And they were always armed — we couldn’t fight against them even if we wanted to. Finally, we arrived in Tehran.

Our relatives and friends came to take us to their houses, and we said goodbye to our companions. 

I thought it was finished. I thought: “I am safe now.” But this was just the beginning.

After two weeks in Tehran I was arrested by Iranian police. I was going to be deported. 

So I called my brother. A friend of his told me that if I registered to go and fight in Syria I would be able to leave the detention centre and I would not be sent back to Afghanistan. 

We didn’t have a choice. I registered and quickly received a call. They said: “Are you ready to be a razmandah?” This means fighter in my language. I said yes, but I was asking myself if I was really ready to die. Was I ready to escape one danger and put myself in an even deadlier situation? 

But I was a child, I wanted to learn something new and I wanted to know if heaven was real. 

We were taken by plane to Damascus and they sent us to our first mission — to Homs to fight against Isis. 

We worked every day for two months until we finished our mission when we were allowed to go back to Iran. And then they sent us again for another two months. 

My job was in the back — ammunition and armory storage. I was not supposed to be on the front line, but I was curious. 

In those days I saw my first bodies — bodies without heads or legs or arms. Many of my friends were murdered. That was why I agreed to go for a third time — soldiers have brotherhood and when our friends die it is difficult for us to deal with. 

But the third time was different. After 40 or so nights Isis attacked us with all of their forces. 

Our soldiers needed ammunition. War doesn’t have a schedule. War can’t tell time, but five minutes can change the result of a battle. 

I was sent to the front line to distribute ammunition that night. The driver brought us to the front line but on the way he turned off the car, turned around to us, and said: “Save yourselves.” 

That was when something hit the vehicle. It exploded. We had gotten out just in time and the last thing I remember before I woke up in the hospital was hiding behind some nearby rocks. 

We were lucky. When I woke up in the hospital my friends said I had been unconscious for a few days. I’m here still and I’m alive, but the memories of this time and the effects are still with me. 

With the help of my family and doctors I recovered. But I was still only half myself, and my documents were about to expire. 

I went to renew my documents in Iran and the officer told me that I would have to go back to Syria to get a residence permit and then return to Iran to have my papers extended.

At this point I was not well enough to go alone anywhere, and my family would never let me return to Syria. But I couldn’t return to Afghanistan. 

It’s difficult to explain the political and personal situation, but I was no longer welcome in my home country. I had to move forward — I had to go to Europe. 

I brought myself to Greece. After one month in Lesbos I received a call from my younger brother. He too had been sent to Iran for hopes of a better life. He asked me if he knew where our older brother Ali* was. 

I said, “No I don’t. I am in Greece.” I thought they were together in Iran. But Ali’s phone was turned off. We grew worried. My family asked the police to search for my brother and after three weeks I received very painful news: the police had found his burned body without his head. He had an enemy. I was exploding and life was very awful for me.

Of the group I came with to Greece I am the last one still on the island. The rest of them left within a year of their arrival. They have normal lives now. But I was waiting and hoping to get my documents so I can have a normal life too. 

Then the asylum authorities rejected me for the first and second time and they detained me. Last year I was held in prison within Moria camp for 45 days before I was released. 

And again, I was hoping and waiting for a positive decision. But I couldn’t wait any more. 

Later that year I left for Athens and then to Patras in western Greece — the next step on the way to Italy. 

I took a chance and I found a smuggler who said: “Tonight you will go, inshallah.”

I was happy, very happy, and dreaming of the life I had been fighting for. I knew it would be risky. Lots of people have died being smuggled this way. But I just needed to be smuggled one more time. And then I could find peace. 

We were 14 people in a truck filled with oranges. The truck drove one hour, then two, then three and four and we realised we were not going to Italy as the smugglers had promised. 

Some were saying the truck might go to Tirana in Albania and then go to Italy, but we couldn’t risk the possibility of being taken to Turkey. 

So we knocked and shouted to stop the truck, and the driver stopped, realising we were in the back. He called the police. They sent me back to Lesbos. Now I am in prison again. 

I have been here for many months. Rejection after rejection, waiting for days and nights to pass.

Of course, it is boring and difficult, but I have to wait and survive. So many of the refugees in here have had much worse pasts than me. 

I want to say to everyone, stay strong. There will be good days. Follow your dreams and never lose hope. And I want to say another thing that is so important to me — I have made a family on this side of the world, and I want to say thank you to them from where I am today. My family has made me forget my circumstances and dream of the day we will be reunited. 

I am thankful for what I have now, and I accept my uncertain future. I’m hoping and waiting for a beautiful life in peace. I wish this for everyone and if it is the price of our unfair pasts then the future will be very, very sweet. Thank you to human-rights groups, thank you to the anti-racists, thank you to people who give us their time and support us. 

* Names have been changed to protect the author’s identity. 

The writer (who cannot be named to protect his identity) sent his harrowing testimony from inside the “pre-removal” centre within Moria camp. 

The compound is effectively a prison within a prison, where detainees are only allowed to go outside twice a day for one hour. 

It has been many months since he was trapped there awaiting possible deportation to Afghanistan. 

His story shows how getting asylum in Greece doesn’t depend on your past but how well you can tell it in the interview. 

His claim has been rejected twice. But he remains hopeful, and tries to fill his time building on his language and writing skills and teaching them to his fellow detainees.