It was one of the rare sunny winter weekends in Melbourne when the air feels nice and warm. I had been avoiding my volleyball group’s calls for months with different reasons: work, weather, or just not feeling up for it. But my friends weren’t ready to let me drift away. So they all showed up, one by one, at my doorstep.
I had no choice but to host them. I rushed around, borrowing extra chairs from my Polish neighbour, setting up tea, fruit and whatever snacks I had. In Afghan culture, hospitality doesn’t wait for planning – it kicks in the moment a guest arrives.
Once we were all seated in the back yard, they got straight to it. No small talk. Why had I been skipping our weekly games? Was I losing interest? Their questions came fast, wrapped in jokes but serious underneath. I tried to laugh it off and blamed everything I could think of, but they didn’t let up.
The time passed quickly, and the sun started dipping behind the rooftops. Just as the air turned cooler and I thought of getting the heater, I noticed a soft, smoky smell drifting in from next door. Firewood.
Sardar, the loudest of us, stopped mid-sentence and said, “Do you all smell that?” We all turned toward it. And just like that, the energy shifted. We were still sitting in Melbourne, but for a moment, we were back in Kabul.
The scent – warm, deep, and familiar – hit something in all of us. It was the smell of Kabul winters, of firewood burning in stoves, of homes pushing back against the cold. It reminded me of early mornings when my mother would boil water for tea, and the house would slowly come to life in the glow.
In Kabul, firewood smoke wasn’t just in the background. It was part of the rhythm of winter. It mixed with the smell of fresh bread and the sound of radio news in the morning. It clung to our clothes, our hair and even our memories. It meant life was moving forward.
When I first arrived in Melbourne, I noticed winter felt really cold in a strange and dull way. The heating coming from machines without any scent or sound felt empty.
Every drift of the firewood invoked further memories of snowy winters. It brought back to me the sweet memories of Shab-e Yalda, the longest night of the year – a tradition across Afghanistan, Iran and parts of Central Asia, which is not marked with loud parties but with small, intimate gatherings. Families stay up late with poetry, dried fruit, fresh pomegranates and stories. It’s a way to face the darkest night with light, warmth and hope.
Sardar remembered sitting around a small fire with his grandparents, reading poems by Hafez, the great Persian poet who believed in love and beauty even in the coldest moments: The long nights of winter will not last forever / The warmth of compassion is the light of the heart.
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And there is Rumi, who taught us that the soul needs warmth just as the body does: Set your life on fire / Seek those who fan your flames.
Sitting there with my friends, I realised that memory and meaning can arrive unexpectedly. Sometimes, in a poem. Sometimes, in a smell drifting across a fence. My Polish neighbour had no idea he was reminding a group of Afghans of their homeland, their traditions, their families.
Now, each winter in Melbourne, I look for that scent. Sometimes I find it while walking past an old brick home, or near a bakery using a wood oven. Every time, it stops me in my tracks. I breathe it in and close my eyes for a moment. For those of us far from where we were born, memory lives in the details. In sound, scent and small rituals. And in those details, we find pieces of home.
That evening, we didn’t play volleyball, but we realised what we truly needed; the simple and warm connection of being together.