Sitting cross-legged on a richly patterned Afghan rug in a Melbourne living room, we chatted for hours, reflecting on the fall of Kabul four years ago that brought us together and nurtured a bond of friendship across continents.
We had first connected in the chaos of August 2021, when the fall of Kabul shattered decades of fragile progress towards democracy, freedom and peace in Afghanistan. Our reunion this winter in Melbourne should have been pure joy – a celebration of survival and friendship – but it began in the quiet rows of a Muslim graveyard. We were there for the funeral of our mutual friend, Barez.
I saw the grief on their faces as we stood for the final prayers. “It is so sad,” Simon said softly, his voice carrying that mix of resignation and wisdom you only hear from people who have faced loss head on.
Later that afternoon, driving through Melbourne’s southern suburbs, we joined other Reuters colleagues for lunch at an Afghan restaurant. The scent of cardamom rice, grilled kebabs and freshly baked naan wrapped around us like a memory. Over green tea, we slipped into the past – and suddenly I was back in Kabul on 15 August 2021.
At midday I was sipping pomegranate juice at a roadside cafe in the heart of the city, just across the street from the Presidential Palace. It was a hot, tense day. Rumours had swirled since dawn: Taliban fighters were advancing on the capital, checkpoint after checkpoint falling to them without a shot fired.
The sound came suddenly – the sharp crackle of gunfire. It seemed to come from everywhere at once. Panic spread like a shockwave through the street.
For months Afghans had lived under the shadow of the US withdrawal but no one imagined the end would come this quickly. Only that morning government officials were assuring the public that Kabul was secure. By noon the illusion was gone.
I later learned the shots came from a bank, where security guards fired AK-47s into the air to control a desperate crowd of customers trying to withdraw their savings. But in that moment we all assumed the worst – that Taliban fighters were already here, storming the heart of the city.
I left my half-finished glass on the table, paid the bill and ran for my car. Within hours the Taliban were in control of police stations, hoisting their white flags, and establishing checkpoints. Shop shutters slammed shut. The city held its breath.
Within hours my phone buzzed with a message from Simon Gardner – urgent but calm: “Get to the safehouse now. We will figure out the next steps.”
I didn’t know Simon before that day. As a British journalist based in London, his efforts protected not only the lives of reporters on the frontlines but also the very principle of a free press and, in a way, democracy itself. From that first message, he became my lifeline – working contacts, finding routes and keeping me focused when fear threatened to paralyse me.
For days I tried to reach Kabul airport. The scenes were apocalyptic – tens of thousands of people crushed against its gates, the roar of military planes, gunshots echoing as desperate crowds surged forward. I returned to the safehouse more than once, my attempts ending in failure and near disaster. Simon never once suggested giving up. “We just had to keep trying,” he says now. “The situation was changing by the hour – we had to adapt.”
Eventually I made it out. I had to leave my family behind for their safety. But reaching Islamabad was only the end of the first chapter. I landed with little more than a backpack and the clothes I was wearing. Weeks turned into months of uncertainty. I couldn’t return to Taliban-controlled Afghanistan – it was too dangerous. But the road ahead was blocked by paperwork, shifting immigration rules and the political realities of resettlement.
That’s when James McKenzie entered the picture. A longstanding Reuters colleague from Sydney whom I barely knew, he arrived in Islamabad with a clear mission: to help get Afghan journalists out of limbo.
James’s style was different from Simon’s. Where Simon was the strategist, James was the steady hand on the shoulder – the one who kept morale alive. He would spend hours with displaced families, trying out his limited Persian to make everyone smile, explaining complex forms and navigating the wall of bureaucracy that stood between us and safety.
The process was gruelling but somehow, between Simon’s network and James’s persistence, the impossible became possible. Months later I stepped off a plane on to Australian soil.
Now, four years later, hosting the two in Melbourne – where I feel at home – was heartwarming. At the Afghan restaurant I gave Simon and James a small gift: coins engraved with the name of Dorothea Mackellar, the Australian poet whose words for me capture the contradictions of belonging to more than one land.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains
• Shadi Khan Saif is an editor, producer and journalist who has worked in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Germany and Australia
