The scenes at Brisbane airport that summer a few years ago did not feel real. The terminal was almost empty, but security was intense. Medics in face shields stood alongside masked officials, making the place feel less like an arrival hall and more like a containment zone.

Our bus – carrying newly arrived Afghans evacuated after the fall of Kabul – was escorted by police to a tall, expensive-looking hotel. One by one, we were funnelled into separate rooms, processed with clinical efficiency. We were told little, except that we would not leave for two weeks.

Kabul had fallen only days earlier. In the space of weeks, a 20-year experiment in rebuilding a country collapsed. An entire generation – my generation – who had grown up believing in elections, education and the possibility of peace, watched their future disappear almost overnight.

Behind locked doors, with heavy hearts and very little certainty, we began the wait to start a new life in a new country, Australia.

Within minutes of checking in, my phone rang. It was Sardar, another newly arrived Afghan. His voice sounded different – lighter, almost joyful.

“Turn on the TV,” he said. “Cricket is on. Rashid is playing. Here. In Australia.”

That moment mattered more than most Australians will ever know.

Locked inside quarantine rooms in Brisbane, Afghan refugees glued themselves to........

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