It was just a normal day when I heard people screaming and shouts of “Towards the airport! Towards the airport!” At that moment, I remembered thinking something terrible was about to happen.

I saw people running, trying to escape Afghanistan. Suddenly it felt like my whole world, full of dreams, had turned into a nightmare.

I had a choice to make. If l left immediately, there was still a chance of achieving my dream – a life and an education in a free country. But only if I was on one of the last US planes leaving Kabul airport.

My older brother Hashmat and I headed to the airport. I saw more than a thousand people outside the gates, waiting to get inside. I was not the only one who had a dream. Everyone there wanted a peaceful life, and that’s why they hoped to leave.

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But I also saw men with long beards holding rifles – I suddenly remembered the word “Taliban”. But you could not look straight into the eyes of the Taliban. There was too much anger there for us.

I saw a military booth standing right outside the big wall surrounding the airport. The only way to get inside was climbing on to the booth and then on to a 6m-high wall. I climbed up, standing next to an elderly man with a grey beard.

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At the top, I heard someone calling out my name. It was Hashmat, who was also on top of the wall. I jumped and landed safely, but the elderly man broke his leg as he hit the ground. He called out: “Brother, help me!” I tried to comfort him, but I was no use.

My brother and I rushed to get inside the main airport. As I was running, I saw a Taliban fighter – about 20 years old, with a small beard and anger in his eyes. He fired three or four bullets in the air when he saw us. He struck my brother on the back with his rifle, forcing him to the ground. He stood up, and we began to run.

While running, I found myself slowing down at one point. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, and I remembered those lovely memories I had had with my friends and classmates. The funny conversations, the morning gossips on the bus. All those memories just came and went by in those few seconds.

As we got closer and closer to the US planes, I saw a huge crowd next to them. Some of the aircraft were the old commercial planes of Afghanistan, and some were US military carriers. As we hurried towards one of those, I saw it start to move, making its way to the runway.

The plane made three or four turns as it readied to fly. Yet I saw that people were holding the small metal part outside the plane next to the fuel tank. I wondered if they were really going to hang on there or jump off once the plane was ready for take-off. When the plane had made its last circle around the runway, I saw the terrified faces of people holding on for their lives.

The plane took off with full speed, but as it made its way upwards into the sky, small pieces of what looked like paper were falling from the back of the aircraft. They were not pieces of paper. They were human beings – those who had been hanging on to the small metal part attached to the plane. They hit the ground. When I got closer, I saw three or four bodies with no hands and no legs; they had been cut into pieces.

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I stayed in the airport for a couple more hours with Hashmat. At 4pm, we gave up. As we left the airport, I saw more Taliban standing at the door and showing the exit to people who gazed silently at the floor, recalling the horrifying experience.

I still remember those bodies I saw. I still remember their faces before the plane took off. I will not forget the little smile each had prior to a death that nobody imagined possible. I made my way back home with my brother. I could see families with their handbags and luggage, like normal families going for holidays. But it was not a holiday; it was a race for their lives.

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I saw military caravans and armoured vehicles, but inside them were new faces – people with turbans around their heads, laughing and cheering. I still remember that taxi ride with my brother: my beautiful Kabul was looking so very uncomfortable.

When I reached home, I saw that my clothes were ripped and my whole back was scratched. My shoes were torn, my hand was bleeding, my throat was full of dust, and all the bones in my body felt as though they were crashing into each other.

I still had hope. My older brother, Naimat, had made it to the UK through its Chevening scholarship route just before the collapse happened. Thankfully, Naimat and his family, my mum and dad, my sister and I were also included in the evacuation process nine days later.

When we reached the UK, we felt love and warmth. I am thankful to everyone who helped us, especially the British government and the people. Now, thanks to the support of teachers and a university committed to helping refugees fulfil their potential, I will start an undergraduate course this autumn.

Back in August 2021, I was no one – a 16-year-old schoolboy who hoped to help the people of his country and to serve his community. I cannot forget what I saw at Kabul airport, but those memories will drive me to push harder for my dreams.

Naweed Zafary will start an engineering degree at the University of Sussex next month.

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