On Sunday, my sister, who is also a journalist, gathered her official documents to find a way out of Afghanistan. But when she stopped by the bank to withdraw cash, there was none to be had. Then the crowd starting running away, shouting “Taliban are here!” She saw cars with riders holding the black and white flag. With her passport, she decided to rush to the airport; someone had promised to help her get out. But she never made it — a heavy traffic jam blocked her way. And the flight that she was supposed to board never took off, since the United States suspended all flights to evacuate U.S. staff first. Another family member trying to flee was robbed and was unable to reach anyone for hours. A friend made it to the airport looking for safe passage but remains stuck, with thousands more. There are reports of U.S. troops firing into the air to prevent people from boarding flights for U.S. diplomats and embassy staff…

The night before I left last week, my family threw a goodbye party. There was still some remote hope things might get better. We thought that, if needed, they could leave to a safe place, but only temporarily, since the family still had a small business to run. It all seems like a distant dream now. My sister and I used to go cycling around the city. (We were members of the female national cycling federation.) She even used her bike to go to the bank the day the Taliban arrived in Kabul. Now I can’t imagine girls biking freely like that ever again.

With reports circulating about Taliban militants raiding the houses of activists, journalists and others, I called my sister and told her to go home and hide all of our identity cards. Then I told her that she needed to destroy her guitar. She said her hands were unable to do that, but I pleaded with her. I told her the Taliban’s hands are capable of killing you for your art. But I can’t imagine literally shattering such an important part of who you are.