Real Stories, Real Change
"Cutting Through Rocks" Wins Grand Jury Prize at Sundance 2025—A Testament to IntoGreatUs’ Commitment to Community Support
At IntoGreatUs, we are dedicated to uplifting voices from underrepresented communities and ensuring that diverse perspectives are heard and celebrated. This year, we are proud to congratulate Cutting Through Rocks, a powerful film co-directed by two bold storytellers from underrepresented backgrounds, on winning the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance 2025.
From the very beginning, IntoGreatUs supported these filmmakers, recognizing their talent, resilience, and the urgent story they set out to tell. This achievement is not just a win for them—it is a testament to what’s possible when creators from marginalized backgrounds receive the support and opportunities they deserve.
We remain committed to fostering a space where underrepresented storytellers can thrive, push boundaries, and shape the future in all fields.
WRITING AS A REMEDY WORKSHOPS
Since 2024, we have launched and continued each quarter our program Writing as a Remedy, a workshop series created to support underserved women through creative writing. This initiative goes beyond teaching storytelling—it gives women a voice to reclaim their narratives and transform their lived experiences into powerful stories.
Through these workshops, participants explore their personal journeys, using writing as a tool to process trauma, manage emotions, and build resilience in the face of adversity. This method is not just theoretical—it is a proven approach to reducing stress and fostering emotional well-being.
Step by step, we will share the deeply moving stories written by these women—stories that offer raw, unfiltered insight into their realities, struggles, and extraordinary strength. With their consent, we invite you to read, reflect, and recognize the immense talent and courage of women who are rewriting their own futures, one word at a time.
Selected Writings
I Am the Lotus Flower
By: Hanieh Z.
The lotus is a flower that grows in the heart of a swamp—a flower that develops through hardship. I call myself the lotus flower; I am a young girl, a teenager, but one who has already faced suffering. My growth, my path toward my goals, happens in the heart of darkness. In Afghanistan, being a girl is not very visible; here, girls have almost no rights, except for oxygen, which they cannot even fully claim. And yet it feels like even this basic right is taken from us in another way.
For me, oxygen is education. Without education, I am just a lifeless body. I once read that humans are always dreaming, imagining, and turning thoughts into aspirations. Now, every Afghan girl is constantly dreaming, wishing for a happy life, and all these locked doors lead to a single key: education. But this key has been stolen from us for years by force, by our rival: ignorance. Ignorance wraps a veil over you, but never explains why.
I want to share a story of being a girl in the Baraki area with you.
Three years ago, I was in a class, studying, when suddenly the girls in the class started crying loudly. I ran to the doorway. No one remained except a few boys studying. I was confused and asked someone what had happened. He told me that in the public street, the authorities were enforcing the “command of virtue” and gathering girls; it was a critical situation. I was only thirteen at the time, and my clothes were not the kind that the authorities were targeting. I paused and thought: Where will they take the girls? Maybe to a party or somewhere else. Then why are Afghan girls afraid and crying?
I returned home. My mother was sitting on the path, scared and anxious. She said, “Do not go to your course for a while.”
I said, “Mother, you always encouraged me to study. Why won’t you let me go?”
The next day, I did not go because of my mother. That night, by chance, I saw on TV that in the streets of Baraki, girls were being struck with wires and taken away. My fear was still mild. The next day, under a pretext, I left home and went to class. But things had changed: fewer girls were visible in the streets; it was mostly men. When I entered the course, my friends were absent. That day, too, the public authorities were enforcing the command of virtue, and fear of being caught was real.
After that day, my family did not allow me to go to class again. I stayed home for a few days, feeling sad about missing my lessons, but I did not understand the full danger of being taken. After two weeks, my mother finally allowed me to return with great insistence. I went with a long black coat, which was very uncomfortable. On the way, I tripped twice. When I entered the class, the boys in my class laughed at me. I felt embarrassed with my long coat and face mask—it must have looked funny. That year, I still overcame the hardships and continued as much as I could.
Now, three years later, I am no longer just a girl who wants to study and achieve her dreams. Now, I want all girls to have the chance to study.
This year, when I was walking with my friend Farzaneh toward a public street in Baraki, some people stopped us and warned us not to go because the authorities were enforcing the command of virtue in that alley. It did not affect us; we moved forward. A woman, who could not speak, stopped us and tried to warn us with gestures. I was frightened, but with courage, we continued our study. On the way, I saw two vehicles with girls inside, and some wearing white coats. Tears fell from my eyes; my life was changing.
Again, the command of virtue and family fear tried to prevent me from going to my school. But I did not give up; I found another way to continue my lessons. I could only attend a school near my home. All these experiences motivated me to try harder, to believe in myself more. I decided to raise my voice to the world, to show that we, too, are women with a voice.
Although conditions are difficult, I strive to continue my education. My goal is to become president. To lead, I must pursue years of education and experience. I have begun taking steps to reach this goal. Now, I study and aim to become an engineer so I can enter leadership. I started leading by helping my friends; I created a group so everyone could express themselves with their words and writing. Leadership, for me, means helping others, not ruling over them.
I try to teach others as much as I know, because our conditions are the same, we are all in the same boat. I want to follow the path to my goal with the support of others and all the girls around me. I want Afghanistan to become a great country where every girl receives her rights. To achieve this, we must strive, endure, and build. When I tell others I want to become president, they ask, “Have you seen yourself? Look at your conditions. Do you have confidence?” But I always tell myself: I am not at the age to grieve for my country. Grieving is for those who caused these circumstances; the young generation is the bright generation.
Life everywhere has highs and lows. What matters is moving forward. The storm may have thrown our ship off course, but I am certain the One who created us protects us.
Although schools are closed, I want to reach my key from every angle. Like a lotus flower swinging in the swamp, I grow, sprout, and continue to thrive, as vibrant as the fruits of Khorasan’s gardens.
Cherries that Taste of Blood
By: Fatemeh A.
I was washing the dishes. The clatter of the plates echoed in my head like the sound of gunfire. The war itself had ended, but the battle fought between my memories never would.
“Marveh!” my mother called out.
I jumped, as if someone had suddenly jolted me awake. “Yes, Mother Jan!” I replied.
“Marveh! Go see if the jam has reached its setting point!”
I rinsed my hands and approached the pot. The plum jam was boiling, and inside me, something began to boil too—a feeling that had shaken my soul years ago was waking up again. My mother instructed:
“Taste it, see if the sweetness is just right.”
Reluctantly, I scooped a spoonful of jam. I waited for it to cool. With trembling hands, I brought the spoon to my mouth. But it was neither sweet nor even sour. For me, it tasted of blood.
The Republic had fallen, and a military state gripped the entire country. Father had heard that people, operating under the name of the Taliban, were entering homes, assaulting young girls, and stealing money, gold, and belongings. He told my mother: “In Khanabad district, they separated a girl from her fiancé and forced her into marriage at gunpoint.”
My mother, her lips pressed tightly together, finally spoke after a long silence, her voice trembling: “To hell with the money and gold. May God grant us a death with dignity.”
Then, in a voice quieter than before, she added, “We can’t stay here anymore. This homeland is no longer a place to live.”
At her words, Father’s eyebrows furrowed, and his face flushed as he shouted, “I will not leave this soil, this land, even if I die!”
But it was as if he recognized his own harsh tone. Immediately, he spoke more softly: “Outside of this geography, there is no life for us.”
The sounds of heavy shooting could occasionally be heard from near and far. A few bullets had even struck the walls of our house, leaving it resembling a ruin. Father wanted to send us to another place that was still under government control at the time. He said, “You go. I will stay here and look after the house.”
I understood my father’s deep attachment to our home. He couldn’t abandon the house he had built with his own hands. He couldn’t bring himself to leave the lemon orchard behind the yard, the cherry trees, or the rose bushes—just as we couldn’t bear to leave him. My hands were shaking, and I was overcome with a severe knot in my stomach. The thought that this might be our last time seeing him would not leave my mind. I looked into my father’s eyes; in their weariness, an old fear had awakened. He was tired, and perhaps he couldn’t bear any more loss. But there was no alternative. We tried to persuade him to come with us, but he was absolutely unwilling to leave the house. With trembling steps, we headed toward the car door. Seeing the quiet, deserted street made me recall the vibrant, bustling days before the war. Now, all the shops were closed, and not even a fly stirred on the road. Only stray dogs could be seen here and there, as if the smell of blood had drawn them to the pavement. My mother hugged my sister and me, then told my brother, who was driving, “Be very careful. Don’t do anything reckless!”
When we approached our destination, we saw several vehicles belonging to the security forces fleeing. In my heart, I prayed that they would at least return safely to their wives and children. A little further on, several other vehicles were speeding along behind them. But halfway there, the sound of gunfire erupted from every direction. Fearing that a bullet might hit the car, my brother steered it toward the forest so we could escape the ambush. As we drove deeper into the woods, the firing continued. It was nearing evening, and the sky was slowly darkening. Bullets, like shooting stars, were being fired everywhere, striking the trunks of the trees. We felt death was only a step away. My brother’s face was pale, and he was shaking. He lowered his head, and we did the same. My sister was crying. My stomach cramps had intensified; that cursed knot would always seize me whenever I was afraid. I thought about how I wished I had hugged my father one last time; I thought about his sad eyes, and I thought about death. A slight rustling sound was heard in the jungle. I slightly lifted my head to see what was happening. It was then that three men in military uniforms approached the edge of the forest. One of the men, agitated and distraught, swept his hands back through his hair, revealing a scar on his forehead—the source of the blood staining his face. In that very moment, his eyes suddenly lit up, as if an idea had struck him. He went over to his friend, whose left leg was limping, and whispered something quietly into his ear. The third officer kept looking around, occasionally glancing behind him, wary of the enemy’s arrival. Perhaps he was looking for a better escape route in the darkness. He approached the other two men, and they spoke. They seemed to have reached an agreement; they helped the man with the limp climb up a tree. He climbed with his bloody trousers, leaving a trace of blood on the cherry tree trunk. The other two officers also took refuge in the densely branched trees to remain safe from the view of the Taliban. Not even ten minutes later, a group of Taliban members arrived with their weapons. There were about ten or twelve of them. One, who was shorter and chubbier than the rest, said: “هغوی کافران آخر چېرته تللي دي؟” (Where have those infidels finally gone?)
The man standing beside him adjusted his rifle on his shoulder and said, “کېدی شي همدلته چاپېره وي، ډېر لیرې نهشي تللی.” (They might be around here; they couldn’t have gone far.)
They searched the area with their flashlights. The short, stocky man shouted loudly, “لارشو” (Let’s go!)
They all moved toward the road. I was relieved that they hadn’t been able to find the three men. With the cramps and trembling that had consumed my entire body, I told my mother, “They left.”
She offered a lifeless smile and said, “Shukr (Thank God).”
But at that very moment, two of the Taliban turned back. Like hunters aiming at sparrows, they targeted the top of the tree and fired. First, the man with the limp fell from the tree, and then the other two plummeted like birds. The stout man shone his flashlight on their faces and, with palpable hatred in his voice, said, “کافران! تاسو له موږ نهشي تښتېدلی؛ که جهنم ته هم ولاړ شئ، زه به مو پیدا کړم او په خپلو لاسونو به مو بیا جهنم ته واستوم.” (Infidels! You cannot escape us; even if you go to Hell, I will find you and send you back to Hell with my own hands.)
He spat on the faces of the two men. In the darkness of the forest, their eyes were glassy, and they writhed in their own blood. I was frozen. My eyes were fixated on the bodies that had fallen from the tree. Suddenly, my mother’s voice echoed in my ear.
The redness of the victims’ blood had spattered onto the unripe cherries. When the flashlight beam hit the tree, it looked as if the cherries had ripened prematurely. Since that day, all cherries have tasted of blood to me.
A Hidden Celebration
By: Shahla J.
Today is my graduation day. My certificate rests on the table, and the house is silent. There is no laughter, no gathering, not even a single word of congratulations. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall and the soft rustle of the curtain moving with the wind. This silence feels very different from the joy I remember.
It takes me back to my brother’s graduation day. Our home was full of light. The smell of fresh cake came from the kitchen, and my mother welcomed guests one by one with a smile. That day, the house was filled with voices, celebration, laughter, and life. But today, it is only me and a certificate hidden beside the window.
That morning my mother said, “Shehla, hide your certificate. Do not let anyone see it. You studied illegally, and it could bring trouble.”
Her words were simple, but they fell heavily on my heart. They reminded me how much our lives had changed. Now happiness must be quiet, careful, and unseen. Still, when I looked at my certificate, something deep inside me whispered, “You fought for this. You deserve it.” And it was true.
When schools were closed, it felt as if the world collapsed on me. I remember that morning clearly. My tea was still hot, but its taste turned bitter the moment I heard the news. The window was open, cold air touched my face, yet nothing felt colder than what I had just learned. Everything went dark suddenly. The path I had worked toward for years seemed to disappear beneath my feet. But even then, a quiet voice inside me said, “Do not stop.”
That was when studying in silence began. In my small room, beside a dried flowerpot with a few yellow leaves left. Sometimes I stared at it and felt it was just like me, tired, quiet, yet still alive. Each time I watered it, I felt as if I was keeping hope alive within myself.
Moving around during the Taliban period became extremely difficult. Once, I had to walk past Taliban members. I still remember the sound of my heartbeat. My steps were slow, but inside I was shaking. Their heavy footsteps, their weapons, their stares, and the fear that they might call out to me at any moment. Everything forced me to lower my head and pretend I was invisible. I prayed silently with every step. That was the moment I understood how much courage it takes to continue. I passed safely that day, but the memory of that fear still lives inside me as if it happened yesterday.
Slowly, I continued my studies. At night, when everyone slept, the glow of my laptop was the only light in the room. Every exam, every course, every small achievement felt like a victory.
And now, this certificate stands as the result of all those nights and days.
When I think again of my brother’s graduation, I feel no jealousy or sadness. I simply understand that our circumstances were different. He studied in a time of freedom. I studied in a time of restriction. He had celebration. I gained strength and endurance.
Today, even though the house is silent, something greater is lit inside my heart. I have learned that by refusing to surrender, a path can still be created, even when all roads seem closed.
Perhaps no one congratulated me today. Perhaps no cake was shared. But I carry my joy quietly within myself. By preparing my own graduation cake, I congratulated myself and reminded myself of an important truth. We must learn to care for ourselves. My happiness is made of hope. A hope that carried me forward, kept me from breaking, and now teaches me that I must help make the path brighter for the girls who come after me.
I have not turned back from this journey. I will continue. Because now I believe that even in silence, fear, and darkness, it is still possible to build a road toward the light.
Beyond the Gate
By: Sokineh
The rounding up of girls by the Taliban had become a nightmare that stole sleep from the eyes of the people of Afghanistan. Families would not let their daughters leave the house, and for most girls, the walls of home had become a prison. I was one of those girls, having spent nearly twenty days breathing only the air inside my home.
In those days, people worried more about their reputation than the lives of their daughters. The abduction of girls by the Taliban was seen as a dishonor to the family, never as the pain of being caged and longing to fly free. One day, tired of the confinement within these four walls, I decided I would step out of the cage built by men in power for women.
For days I had tried to be a good daughter. Whenever my mother was in a good mood, I would ask if I could go out, only to be met with refusal. The only thing I could do was retreat to my room and calm myself with tears.
One day, as the sun’s glare softened, I put on my outdoor clothes and said to my mother, “May I go outside? I’ll just walk a little and return quickly.”
She replied, “You’ve been stuck inside for days. Have you thought about your safety? I will come with you; it will make me feel better.”
I said, “No, I want to go alone. Besides, I’ll only go to the end of the alley and come back quickly.”
Without another word, my mother went back inside, leaving the door slightly open like a silent mouth.
With fear and hesitation, I stepped toward the door. Several times I brought my trembling hands to the gate handle and withdrew. On the other side of the gate, I saw nothing but danger. I felt as if I were pushing something heavy downwards with my hands, unable to open it. I hesitated, thinking, “Perhaps once I go out, there will be no coming back.”
Finally, I reached the end of the alley—the place I had promised my mother I would go. Surely she was worried, and I should have turned back. But I had promised myself I would reach the city. A thousand reasons told me not to go, yet I was determined to go at any cost.
The emptiness of the streets frightened me. The crunch of my shoes against the gravel shattered the deadly silence of the sleeping city. As I walked, a crow suddenly took flight from a dry tree branch, making my heart pound violently. Even the softest sounds now startled me, amplifying my fear. I was no longer the carefree bird that once sang on the branches; the city’s sky had become unfamiliar to my wings. I wanted to break free from the chains that bound me and step into a city that had never considered me worthy of being seen.
When I arrived in the city, it felt like a ghost town without women. After walking for a while, I leaned briefly against the glass of a restaurant. The scent of qabuli pulao and kebabs filled the air, a familiar aroma that carried me back to the past, reminding me of laughter that had once echoed from inside this place. I remembered girls entering and leaving in groups, books in hand, stopping for tea after class.
I pressed my face close to the glass, circling my eyes with both hands. The tables and chairs were neatly arranged; even the far curtains were drawn. Inside, only three men sat quietly in a corner, steam rising softly from their tea. The usual movement of girls in uniform, their laughter and chatter, was gone. I stepped away from the restaurant and continued walking.
The sound of car tires on the road was like the ticking of a clock at night. Like a disoriented bird, I looked in every direction. I saw a shopkeeper washing his vegetables with water, and a man seated nearby exhaling smoke into the air. Inside the library, only the librarian was visible, flipping through a book. On the streets, there were no passersby except for three middle-aged women shopping.
The silence made me question the timing of my journey. Perhaps I had arrived at the wrong hour. I checked my watch carefully: 4:00 p.m., a time that used to be busy in the city. I wanted to walk, to tell the Taliban with my quiet steps, “You can never keep me, a girl, at home.” But my spirit had left my body. I lacked the courage to take another step. I gave up and began walking back toward home.
On the public road leading back, men would glare at me as if I were a ghost. One man froze when he saw me and stared with such rage that I became deaf to his words. I felt as if, by stepping into the city, I had killed his father. My lower lip trembled as I clenched my teeth, feeling the sting of tears. I ignored all of it and walked faster to continue on my path.
As I neared the end of the road, Taliban vehicles suddenly appeared, moving in the opposite direction. Frozen in fear, my tears began to fall again. I could not move, my body trembling like a willow in a storm, my voice caught and unable to cry out.
The vehicles drew closer, until they were nearly upon me. My bag slipped from my shoulder, and I tried to summon the courage to stand. The car stopped just a step away, and I thought of my mother, wondering how she would cope with my absence and endure the scorn and whispers of the people.
I Found Myself in the Heart of Darkness
By: Tamana A.
Sometimes life becomes so heavy and difficult that even breathing feels like a battle. But we must remember that every sunrise comes after the darkest nights. At times, the feeling of darkness and heaviness settles in your heart, as if your voice is lost in silence, and no one hears or understands.
The days passed one by one, but not easily or calmly—they felt like a heavy burden I carried everywhere. I wished for a place where I could speak about my dreams, my goals, and my peace, and where someone would understand me.
I am an Afghan girl, and I try to stay strong and not lose myself. Especially when I look at girls like me, who, in these harsh times, fight every day against oppression, inequality, and threats from society, the government, and even family, carrying the weight of grief and hardship on their shoulders.
Like many Afghan girls, I have not had an easy life. Especially after the Taliban took control of the country, taking over the government, changing the lives of all Afghan girls. Schools and courses were closed to us, and we were denied our fundamental right to education.
But we never accepted defeat. Together with four friends—Hanana, Atefa, Laila, and Narges—we formed a small group to work together, to study, and to continue learning. Within our group, we identify our dreams, goals, weaknesses, and strengths. We promised each other to be like five spirits in one body and to never give up on our efforts and struggles. We decided to show our families, our society, and the world that being a girl is not a crime, and we too, can achieve the right to education, a right every human being should have.
During these difficult days, when the city was filled with fear and grief and the Taliban humiliated girls for not wearing hijab and took them away, we went out to see the city. Even though our families opposed us, and even strangers looked at us differently when we carried books to courses, we moved forward proudly with our books in hand. We told ourselves that being a girl is not a crime, and studying is our right. No one can humiliate us for learning. With this confidence and spirit, we succeeded. When one of us felt hopeless, the others helped to solve the problem together.
Eventually, my group and I found an educational center where school books were being taught. We joined other girls there and encouraged more friends to attend. Now, many girls are studying and learning at this center. My group and I have achieved remarkable progress. I was able to form an association and lead it, working with many girls on educational and empowerment projects. This work gives me great satisfaction, and I feel at peace alongside other girls. I feel proud, and I know that my work honors myself, my family, and my teachers. Everyone believes I can succeed and achieve my big dream of becoming a doctor.
Among the five of us, Hanana was chosen as a leader for tomorrow by our beloved teacher, Ruyesh, after sharing her life story and challenges. My friend Atefa led a large reading group and organized in-person study sessions with other girls. Our other friends also achieved remarkable progress, each succeeding in their own way. All of this is due to our determination, consistent effort, resilience, solidarity, and refusal to give up.
We, Afghan girls, have learned that life means fighting, falling, and rising again. Life means being humiliated but still smiling. We have learned we must struggle. Sometimes, we just need to wait, breathe, and remind ourselves that one day our efforts will bear fruit. With hearts full of hope, we continue. Many of us dream of becoming leaders one day. We await the day when no girl will be denied her right to education and being a girl will never be seen as a crime.
This writing is not just a few lines of words; it is a piece of our hearts, the feelings of Afghan girls about a life that has never been easy. But as long as we are alive, we continue.
My message as an Afghan girl to my peers is this: never accept defeat. Continue your path with knowledge, awareness, and learning. The day will come when we all reach our goals, lead our country, and step forward united for a better future.
Be the Alchemist of Your Own Life
By: Farzaneh A.
I am a girl from a remote land, where the first scent my nose ever noticed was the smell of fresh soil and green grass. When I opened my eyes to the world, I felt my mother’s warm hand on my cheek for a brief moment, and then the taste of salty tears marked the beginning of her permanent absence from my life.
My father blamed me for that misfortune. His sharp and cold looks pricked my soul like thorns, and the grumbling of his voice echoed a bitter injustice in my ears. Gradually, that same gaze extended to my siblings. I didn’t know what to do. The home that was supposed to be my refuge turned into a place filled with coldness and heavy silence.
My sister, who was like my mother, left home under the heavy burden of forced marriage. With her departure, the house became cold and dark for me. There were no more soft touches, no laughter, no warmth to embrace me. I felt my sister with every fiber of my being. When I realized she was leaving, only God knew the pain that gripped me. Her leaving felt like the air had vanished from my lungs.
I stayed in that state for days until a woman entered our home. A house that had always smelled of fresh bread and warmth now carried the scent of tasteless food and sharp aromas. The shouts of my father and brother at her pained my ears. The house was filled with the sound of constant arguments.
Three years passed. I was seven, and the new woman had made my life bitter. The smell of undercooked or scant meals left the taste of hunger on my tongue. The force of her palm on my face left a pain and burning I could feel in my bones for days. With my brother gone to Kabul, the darkness and coldness of the house wrapped around me entirely.
I think I was a strong girl, carrying all these burdens even without a mother to speak to me, to comfort me, to guide me in navigating life. No one was there to tell me how to live, yet God came to my aid. My brother, who had gone to Kabul for work, returned. After some time, he took me with him to Kabul. There, for the first time, I heard the voice of calm in the silence of my room and smelled hope in the city air.
One day, a neighbor’s daughter spoke to me softly about studying. That word carried the scent of an unknown world. I felt something strange, as if studying held a deep meaning. When she spoke of lessons, a feeling of joy awakened within me. It was as if school had become my friend.
Two days later, she took my hand and led me to school. The scent of fresh books and clean paper filled my senses. My eyes were drawn to the blackboard, and the teacher’s voice, like a soothing melody, settled on my ears. Holding pen and paper, I felt life in my hands for the first time.
Today, at nineteen, when I look back, I can still taste all the hardships on my tongue, but the fragrance of success makes them bearable. I have become the alchemist of my own life; through facing challenges, seeing failures, hearing harsh words, feeling fear, and witnessing darkness, I have shaped myself and continue to shape myself. Now, I love my life.
From Reciting the Quran to Dreaming of Becoming a Rapper
By: Sakineh A.
The chair beneath me shook. Thousands of expectant eyes were fixed on me. I wanted to drop the microphone and run off the stage. My body trembled, my hands were sweaty, my cheeks flushed, and my breathing was difficult. I could hear nothing except the quiet murmur of my classmates, and I had no idea what they were saying.
Fear and anxiety consumed me. I worried someone would mock me, that I would forget the verses, or that my voice would shake and no one would listen. I felt like I was melting inside, but then a voice inside me said, Bismillah al-Rahman al-Rahim.
A heavy silence fell over the room and everyone listened. My voice was soft and shaky. Suddenly, a part of the surah slipped from my memory. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recall it until I heard a classmate quietly reciting it under her breath. At that moment, my mind cleared, I continued, and finally finished the recitation.
When I stepped down from the chair, my legs felt weak. I felt like there was no strength left in my body. I went to my classmates, and they laughed, saying, When you were reciting, the chair was shaking with you; we thought you were going to fall!
I smiled shyly and lowered my head. I sat in class, hands on my face, feeling proud despite all my fear, because it was the first time I had spoken in front of a large group. I was a girl from a family and a society that did not allow girls to speak. No one taught us how to talk in public or how to have confidence. We were given little importance, especially girls like me, who were quiet and introverted.
From that day, I started slowly. Every day I tried to learn the lessons, present at the board, or read aloud. At first, it was difficult; my tongue would tie when reading, especially at hard or complex words. While presenting, I would forget points and not understand why.
Some days, seeing others walk to school with friends, talk in class, explain lessons to one another, and then go home together made me envious. I wished I had friends, but my lack of confidence held me back.
Eventually, I decided to make a few close friends and succeeded. I became friends with several girls in my class who were confident and capable. I realized sometimes you need friends who are a step ahead to help when needed. At home, I also tried to talk more with my siblings and parents, sharing my experiences at school. Slowly, they began to listen, which motivated me greatly.
I was in sixth grade, my last school year. When Afghanistan fell and the Taliban, or the Islamic Emirate, took over Kabul, they no longer allowed girls to study past sixth grade. This crushed me; I saw no future for myself. But I still believed God would open a path. There is always light behind every darkness.
In the middle of my final year, around summer, it was time for the school discipline duties. This was a great opportunity to build my confidence. One teacher selected me because I was taller than most classmates. I accepted. Every day, I arrived early, made more friends, and helped organize the girls. I led several more activities, and this time, unlike the first, I had no stress. It was a major accomplishment in that Afghan society.
By the end of the year, exams were over, and when I received my results, I could hardly believe it. I had ranked fourth and entered Group A. I had always been in Group B. I was thrilled. Yet I had to say goodbye to school. It was hard, but unavoidable.
I exchanged contacts with friends and said goodbye. At the main gate, looking back, I recalled the days of playing with friends, my first leadership role, childhood, laughter… tears filled my eyes. I couldn’t stop myself as I left the school.
I left behind my good days, joys, and laughter at school. Only my body left; my soul remained. When I showed my family my grades, they were proud, but unfortunately, there was no longer a school for me.
That winter was harsh. I had nothing to do and spent my days doing handicrafts, longing to study. I thought, Sakineh, is this the result of all your effort, sewing thousands of garments? This thought made my body tremble. I sometimes wished I could go back instead of moving forward.
I was so lost in my own world that I did not notice spring had arrived. One day, leaving the house, I saw boys in white shirts and black pants heading to school. I looked at them with envy. I went to the school I had been expelled from, a place that had always been alive in my memory. Young girls entered with smiles; I was the only one missing. I was so focused on the school that I felt the cracked walls and rusty gates were speaking to me. Among that crowd, I felt invisible.
Returning home, I learned my mother had enrolled me in a religious school. I did not like female teachers, but I had to go. Mornings were aimless, afternoons were spent returning home. Slowly, I became the unmotivated, introverted girl I once was.
One day, I saw a banner at school saying, A Muslim girl who commits any sin and wears a hijab will be forgiven. My resentment toward the teachers grew; their appearance was modest, but their minds were strict. They misrepresented religion. While everyone knows God is merciful, they said He was unjust.
Music was forbidden. Even listening for one minute was a grave sin. I wanted to become a famous rapper. That was my dream—to perform in front of thousands—but they said women should not sing.
Despite everything, I had faith in God and began all my work in His name. I knew being an artist was not a sin. For me, wearing a hijab was not important; inner character was. A singer may not look perfect, but her heart could be pure, kind, and devoted.
I always believed the rigid rules imposed on me were not true religion. God is far kinder than these harsh rules. The God who created the universe and is closer than a vein to humanity does not want us to live in fear and limitation.
Sometimes I was afraid to say I wanted to be a rapper. In a country where girls have no rights, this dream seemed impossible. Yet I tried and asked God to guide me.
Eventually, I realized that in this path, only you and God are there; no one else truly stands by you. I decided to leave school. I was tired of wearing black, of mandatory hijab, of both male and female teachers. They misrepresented religion, which pained me. My family disagreed, but I made my choice. Staying would have cost me my hope every day.
I started dismantling limiting beliefs planted since childhood. I stopped using discouraging words. I set goals for my life: to finish school, earn a US scholarship, study at New York University, strengthen my body, pursue arts and music, become a famous rapper, a skilled writer, and one day a leader helping reclaim girls’ rights.
I also joined a public speaking class to overcome my fears. The first day was like a new light. My teacher was energetic and inspiring, teaching us to keep growing. Speaking in front of a group was difficult; my heart raced, hands shook, mind filled with fear: what if I messed up, laughed at, or forgot my words? But every day with the teacher’s help, I progressed. We even practiced speaking at home with our families.
Low confidence affects speaking anywhere, at home or outside. The teacher asked us to speak in front of our families. For me, quiet, shy, and reserved, it was the hardest exercise. But I did it and found it easier than expected. I had no stress. My family, who had never encouraged me before, supported me with smiles. I realized they believed in me; I just needed effort to earn their trust.
Looking into my sister’s eyes, I smiled more. I created my first public speaking video. Later, before class, my friend and I interviewed locals and shop owners about products. It was my first time speaking to the opposite gender. Previously, my lack of confidence prevented me from expressing myself, but that day was different.
At first, I had to do it alone. Men often gave us cold, disdainful looks, believing it wrong for women to speak. They thought girls wearing makeup were bad, studying was sinful, and making eye contact with men was a crime.
One day, we went to a computer shop. The young owner initially seemed cold, but after explaining our project, he warmed up and said, Okay, sure. Others around stared at us, implying women had no right to do this. I felt a little nervous but not enough to stop. I took a deep breath, smiled, and started. I heard a voice inside saying you can do this, and I did.
Over time, I reached a point where I could speak confidently, smile, and present without fear. The shy girl had become a girl unafraid of speaking, making mistakes, and being heard.
During speeches, I sometimes looked into the eyes of others, especially boys. I was no longer afraid. Mistakes were met with laughter, and I continued smiling.
When graduation day came and my name was called, Sakineh Amini, I walked forward proudly to receive my certificate. It felt like the world was smiling at me. It was indescribable.
After public speaking, I joined photography and videography classes. I now believe photos can be my second language. Sometimes words cannot convey feelings, but a photo can. I decided to study editing and continue my lessons.
The shy, unconfident girl from three years ago is gone. Now, I am a girl with thousands of dreams, capable of presenting to thousands. I am a small writer with big ambitions who wants to become a leader one day.
I have worked hard to get here. Some may lose motivation in hard times, but I use every day to remember who I am and what I deserve.
I have hope that one day I will achieve all my dreams. God willing, I will become a famous rapper. Until then, I will never stop trying.
Friends, when someone can achieve great success, we can too. We are no less than them. We just need to face our fears, trust God, and overcome them. Fear always exists, but we choose whether it stays or we destroy it.
Twelve Days of Darkness
By: Rabe-eh M.
For twelve days now, I have lost the meaning of my life. Twelve days where each day feels like a year, and every hour feels like standing outside in freezing air. For twelve days, I have not felt the freshness of the air. For twelve days, food has had no taste. For twelve days, laughter feels meaningless, tears feel voiceless, and sounds seem silent to me. Twelve days of nightmares, separation, and grief for school. Twelve days of silence. Twelve days without meaning.
I wish this were only a dream, that I could no longer take my steps toward school. I wish it were only an imagination that I can no longer sit on school benches and listen with my whole heart to lessons filled with love and gentleness.
I wish that twelve days ago, this news had not reached my ears, that the Taliban were gathering girls and not allowing them to leave their homes. The words I heard about collecting girls by the Taliban shocked me and left me frozen for moments. On one side were the new rules of the Taliban, and on the other side was my father. After learning about the gathering of girls, my father no longer allowed me to take a single step toward school. Alongside the restrictions of the Taliban, my father repeatedly told me, my daughter do not go outside.
Because of my family’s opposition and fear of the Taliban, I could not leave the house. Every morning when I woke up, I waited for my father to come and say, my daughter go study. But no matter how long I waited, it never happened. Many times my heart felt heavy, and I cried, asking God where I had gone wrong for this to happen to me. I cried and asked, is being a girl a crime? Why is life so hard for girls? Sometimes I asked myself, what part of this world should I hold on to, a world that looks bright on the outside but dark within?
I have been restricted in every way. I cannot even go outside with peace of mind. I am not allowed to hold a pen. I cannot wear the clothes I choose. The restrictions of the Taliban and my father’s fear have made life unbearably difficult until I see myself in a world empty of calm and understanding people. In the middle of all these worries, I have lost the meaning of my life. I cannot say anymore why I live.
I was a girl whose entire day revolved around school, courses, and teaching. In the mornings, I went to school, talked with my teachers and friends, studied, laughed, and joked. Then I returned home. In the afternoons, I went back again. I had about twenty students. I taught them English. I miss deeply that it has been twelve days since I last heard the noise of my students.
Although I am only sixteen years old, I feel as if I have grown up, yet I have not found the meaning of life. Today, I can no longer define life. The hardships have pressed heavily on my mind. Fear of the Taliban. Fear of losing my dignity. Fear of protecting my own name and my father’s honor.
Before, whenever someone asked me to define life, I spoke calmly with eyes full of hope and said life is myself. I did not say this out of pride or arrogance, but out of belief in my abilities.
In my view, the true meaning of life is oneself. Because until we are healthy, until we are happy, until we try, life has no meaning. But today I can no longer define life, because I cannot even step outside my home. How can I have motivation when hope no longer shines in my eyes? My heart no longer flutters at the thought of going to school.
Sometimes I think of memories that smell of learning. I remember days when we sat in classrooms, everyone holding a pen and notebook, carrying backpacks filled with dreams. How beautiful those days were, when classrooms, schools, markets, streets, and alleys were full of girls. Today, everything is empty of women and girls. No school holds the presence of girls. No market is filled with women.
Today, as the meaning of my life fades, I have become wiser. It feels as if pain is shaping me. I now understand the weight of suffering. I understand independence and its absence. I am no longer the little girl who played in the streets. Today, I am the real Rabe-eh, struggling in every way so that one day I may reach my dreams.
I know everyone has their own meaning of life. Until I give value to myself, I cannot plan for my future. Even though problems tighten around my throat like a knot, I am not so weak that I will fall because of them. If today I still hold a pen to write, it means a light of hope still shines in my heart, showing me the future.
A Journey to My First Day of School
By: Fatemeh A.
It was a calm, ordinary spring day. I felt like walking to my grandmother’s house, enjoying the clear, sunny sky and the fresh morning air. Children played in the streets, a woman brought warm bread from the bakery, and others, like me, were on their way somewhere. As I walked, memories stirred in my heart. This was the same path I had taken every day to school.
Suddenly, my excitement shifted. My eyes, full of joy, clouded over. My legs felt weak, as if they could no longer carry me. The streets, the little old blue shop, even the tall tree seemed to greet me, as if to say, “You are not seen as often anymore. You haven’t walked this path in four years.” I wanted to tell them, “I, too, have changed. I, too, want to return to those days,” but I only looked and let it all replay quietly in my mind.
Then, I saw a mother holding her little daughter’s hand, walking her to school. The girl was happy, confident, and proud as she made her way forward. Seeing them, a smile spread across my face. Perhaps it reminded me of the days I had eagerly held my mother’s hand on my way to school—the days my mother had argued with the principal just to get me enrolled. I could still hear her gentle, careful voice as she tried to convince the principal. But the principal, with furrowed brows and signs of fatigue, had said, “You are too late. All the students are enrolled; there is no space left.”
Her voice hit me like a harsh storm, sweeping away all the excitement I had for school. Before arriving, I had felt like a butterfly, my eyes shining with happiness at the thought of learning, wearing my uniform, sitting in class, making friends, and meeting a kind teacher. But the principal’s words left me frozen, like a statue with questions in my eyes. After my mother’s persistent efforts, I was finally accepted, and together we entered a classroom. My mother stayed a while, speaking briefly with the teacher, then left.
Stepping into the classroom, my heart raced. Everything seemed new and magical. The floor felt soft under my feet, almost like a sponge. Many students were already seated. Our teacher, a kind woman, found me a place and said, “Come sit here.” Her kindness shone through her warm smile and gentle voice. I sat politely. There were no chairs; we sat on the carpet. Yet, the students were organized, like books on a shelf.
Next to me sat a cheerful girl who seemed completely at ease. She asked my name, and I learned hers. Befriending her helped me feel comfortable.
What fascinated me most were the colorful drawings on the walls, glowing like a rainbow. The alphabet chart on the wall encouraged us to learn quickly. During the first hour, the teacher called our names and marked attendance. I focused on her board and pen, listening to her calm, patient voice. When she asked the girls to recite the poems they knew, the room filled with sweet voices, each poem carrying a unique feeling. I wanted to recite too. The teacher praised all our talents.
The hours passed like a gentle river, quiet but flowing. I especially enjoyed playing games in the school yard with my classmates. I watched their movements and listened to their laughter and excited shouts. It was the most thrilling part of the day.
That day became a beautiful, joyful memory in my mind. All my anxiety melted away. I wanted to go to school every day, to play and learn with my classmates. I counted the moments until I could wear my uniform and open my textbooks. From that day, school became a part of my life—not just for the games and songs, but because it was where I discovered myself and where my dreams began to take shape.
Now, when I see little girls going to school, my soul flies back to my own first days. I remember holding a pencil for the first time, writing carefully and eagerly in my notebook. I remember the colorful drawings that seemed like rainbows and the confidence I felt saying, “I want to be a doctor.” I wonder, “Do these girls feel the same excitement? Do they also want to go to school?”
In a society that does not want its girls to study beyond sixth grade, will school be a place to nurture their dreams, or will it mark the end of them? Will they discover their dreams, or will school become a forbidden fantasy?
My heart aches for these girls. The world they enter closes its doors on them simply for being girls. But these closed doors will not make us surrender. Though they may leave a lasting pain, it is these struggles that make us stronger. We will continue on our path with determination and resilience. The girls of my homeland are like shining stars, fighting to be seen, heard, and claim their rights. We fight for what others take for granted, and that struggle makes us stronger. I know girls who have stumbled, suffered, been ignored, yet they never gave up. They took up pens again, wrote, studied, recited poetry, healed wounds, and built lives.
I am one of them. A girl whose doors were closed but who continued forward. I write, and I will always pursue my dreams. I know these hard days will pass. One day, all the girls of my homeland will go to school freely and study openly. I, we, all the girls of my homeland, will continue our journey.
Who Am I?
By: Bahara M.
I passed by the mirror. Suddenly, I saw someone in it. Out of fear and anxiety, I wanted to walk away, but a voice inside me shouted, “Look. Who is she?”
I stared at the mirror.
She looked so much like me. From her eyes, I could read the exhaustion of all these years, yet her lips were strangely smiling. Her hair was cut short at the roots. Thick eyebrows above her eyes only enhanced her beauty. I kept looking at her.
Yes. She was me.
Me?
Who am I?
I asked myself, but I heard no answer. Or maybe I did not want to hear it. Still, I knew this: this is not who I used to be. I was not always this sad.
Or was I?
I wanted to ignore the question, but my mind was already tangled in it.
A voice from deep within me, one I had silenced for years, screamed: “Do not let a beautiful future turn into regret, because in the future no one will carry your regrets for you.”
Regret.
That word sparked something inside me. And suddenly, I understood who I really am.
Yes. I understood.
I am me—sad but hopeful. Not hopeful for circumstances, not hopeful for myself, not hopeful even for the person I saw in the mirror.
I came back to myself. I was still in front of the mirror, but this time I returned with hope. I saw myself there—beautiful, unbreakable.
The mystery was solved. And only then did I truly understand who I am.
And now I ask you, the one reading this: Who are you?
If you know, that is wonderful. And if you do not, then go and discover yourself.
My Silenced Voice
By: Hamile Z.
I still remember that morning clearly, the day the sun rose through the smoke of Kabul. The sky was neither blue nor gray. It carried a color suspended between life and death. In the school courtyard, cracked walls reflected the light, and the laughter of girls blended with the scent of chalk and the rhythm of lessons. Life felt simple, fragile, yet full. None of us knew that on that day, those smiles would be taken from us forever.
Niloufar quietly hummed a poem. Sahar spoke about a dream she had the night before. Mahdia stared silently out the window. I was focused on my exam paper, feeling hope move through me with every word I wrote. I did not know that moments later, that sense of safety would disappear.
Suddenly, a sound erupted, not human and not from the sky. It came from the ground itself. The walls shook. Screams filled the air. In seconds, the school turned from a place of learning into a place of fear. Smoke and dust surrounded us. Girls ran in panic. There was nowhere to hide.
My exam paper was still in my hand. In the middle of the chaos, it was the only thing I could not release, as if letting go meant accepting that our education and our future were being taken away. I heard a mother calling her daughter’s name, her voice fading into the smoke. A teacher tried to calm us, but fear had already taken control. The air smelled of loss.
I ran until I reached my aunt’s home. I pressed my hands against my chest and tried to breathe, but my body would not calm. My eyes still saw the broken classroom. My ears still heard the gunfire. The smell of chalk and smoke followed me into the night. When I touched my gray school uniform, my heart broke. Every thread carried the memory of a smile that would never return.
From that day forward, time changed. Mornings felt heavy, and nights were filled with fear. Each time I closed my eyes, I remembered Niloufar’s voice, Sahar’s laughter, and Mahdia’s quiet gaze. Inside me, the school still exists, but without walls, without windows, and without its girls.
Today, I live with a silence that grows deeper each night. My voice was taken from me, yet something remains alive within that silence. It is not anger and not despair, but a simple truth. Violence cannot erase memory. No weapon can silence the laughter of girls who dreamed of learning.
The Unstoppable Voice
By: Sabereh A.
In a land not too far away, a girl was born where the value of women and girls meant nothing. I always wondered why a woman’s worth was less than a grain of dust. But I decided to continue my studies. I carried a passion in my heart to reach my dreams, and the world did not stop me.
I studied for twelve years and spent a year and a half preparing for the university entrance exam. Every day, I entered class with energy and excitement, telling myself, “Sabereh, when you step into this classroom, forget all the sorrows of the world. You are here to turn your dreams into reality. You are the architect of your life and future, whatever you choose.”
As I walked in, the first thing I did was look at the faces of all the girls. In each one, I saw a determined, motivated young woman. I smiled to myself and thought, “They are working so hard!” I felt proud of all of them.
Then one day, our teacher suddenly entered the classroom and said, “From now on, girls are not allowed to attend the university prep course.” I closed my eyes and imagined everything collapsing. I looked at the girls around me and saw their faces fill with sorrow and tears. All my dreams were wiped away in an instant, like chalk wiped from the board just moments ago.
I told myself it must be a joke, but no, it was the harsh reality that made every one of us shiver. I hugged the girls around me; they smelled of sadness and despair. At that moment, I noticed a bird flying outside the classroom window. I thought to myself, how lucky you are, continuing to soar despite all obstacles. After a few moments, we separated and encouraged each other as best we could. We kept repeating, “No, this cannot be true.” The only thought we all whispered was, why did the Taliban come and crush our dreams?
They created a false expectation that they would leave, so why haven’t they? How long must we keep our hopes in our hearts? How long must we rely on others? Why is our support never fulfilled? Days passed as we waited for a second announcement to resume classes, but it never came. All the girls were separated and went their own ways. Some got married and became mothers, some continued their studies in secret, some left the country, and some, like me, stayed in the homeland until family decisions led us to Iran.
Leaving my homeland was extremely difficult. Departing from the land of my childhood is an irreversible act. I had hoped to grow in my own country and witness the progress of all the girls there. But here, I will not stop. I will continue my path to the end. My dream has always been the freedom of my peers.
When I first arrived in Iran, I felt a deep unease. Every time I stepped outside, I felt homesick and unsafe. The challenges began again; I could not start my studies properly, and the restrictions repeated themselves. I was told I could not study or move freely outside. That was when I realized life could truly be difficult.
When I check on my friends, each faces her own struggles. Some face the hardships of motherhood, others continue secret education under fear. Since the schools closed, these hardships have fallen on every Afghan girl.
I often ask myself, “What can I do to succeed in life?” I am in a dark and uncertain place, yet I have not lost hope. I have tried many paths to reach my goals. In each one, I learned something new, faced challenges both exciting and discouraging, and found joy in each experience. Slowly, these paths became thrilling journeys for me.
Now I think maybe this is life: falling and rising, exhaustion and recovery, despair and perseverance, laughing through tears, crying amidst joy. But rest assured, anxiety passes, and after all hardships, comfort will come. God will make everything beautiful in its own way.
Friend, be proud of the effort you put toward your goals. Your character, your life, your success, and your happiness depend on these efforts. We live in a country where being a girl is a crime, and the bitterest phrase a girl can hear is, “I wish I were a boy.” But remember, the hardest paths lead to the most beautiful destinations. Be strong and tell yourself, I fight for myself, I seek peace for myself, I aim high for myself.
Change begins with the small steps we take today. Strong people pursue their dreams, and no obstacle can stop them. So come, let us continue on our remaining path together.
The Day Being a Girl Became a Crime
By: Zeinab S.
It was early morning, before breakfast. As was my daily habit, I reached for my English books to review them before heading to my course and the teacher’s lesson.
Because of the snowfall, I prepared to leave a little earlier than usual. That morning, a heavy sense of anxiety wrapped itself around me. Each time it returned, I tried to push it away. I do not know how many times I did that. Excited by the snow, I changed my clothes, had breakfast, and stepped outside.
The cold winter wind struck my face sharply. Snowflakes fell like tiny, lifeless pieces drifting from the sky. The streets and alleys were quieter than on previous days. At that moment, I wondered why others did not enjoy walking on snow.
When I reached the corner near my friend’s house, I began shaping a snowball. By the time she arrived, it had slowly turned into the head of a large snowman. My fingers had turned red from the cold. With trembling hands, I broke dry branches from a tree and used them to make the snowman’s eyes and mouth. When my friend arrived, we walked toward the course together.
I always loved the atmosphere of the course center. The blue walls and the motivational English quotes filled me with energy and hope. Before we even entered the hall, I greeted the manager and one of the teachers loudly.
The manager’s response froze me in place.
He approached us with worry on his face and, without mercy, refused to let us enter the classroom.
For a moment, my heart stopped beating. Something inside me screamed that all the rumors I had heard were true. With a trembling voice and a lump in my throat, I asked, “Why?”
He replied harshly, “No more questions. All girls’ courses have been closed. You are not allowed to enter the classroom. Leave immediately. If the morality patrol arrives, it could cause trouble.”
Inside me, it felt as if thousands of clouds were colliding. I tried to keep them from crashing, tried not to let my anger explode or my tears fall, but I failed. My tears began to pour like large snowflakes.
When I turned my gaze from the manager’s face to the window, I felt as if the snow was silently pounding against it. As the snowfall grew heavier, it seemed to cry out against injustice. The snow on the ground had turned dark and wet, just like my eyes. It was as if even the snow was full of unshed tears.
I no longer cared where I was or who could see me crying. I stared only at the closed classroom door and allowed my tears to fall freely. My heart was exhausted by the world. Where was the justice in this? My male classmates could enter the classroom without restriction, yet we were forced to stay home simply for being girls.
“Girls, please leave immediately,” the man said again.
I gathered myself and walked away with my friend. I said goodbye to all the dreams and hopes I had grown in that place. Because I was a girl, and in that space, that alone was considered a crime. Not only there, but across my entire homeland.
I cried silently as I walked, trying to comfort myself. The joy I had felt that morning was gone. I was trembling from within, as if my body, too, had frozen under the snow. My legs felt weak, barely able to move.
Only one sentence echoed in my ears again and again:
“All girls’ courses have been closed.”
I felt myself collapse under those words. For the first time, I truly understood the weight of my crime. The crime of being a girl.
Even walking on the snow began to feel unbearable. With every step, I imagined the snow breaking beneath my feet, the sound like something being crushed. When I reached the main road, my eyes searched instinctively for the girls who, in previous days, walked toward the course smiling, books in their hands, sharing stories.
That day, only a few girls could be seen. Instead of smiles, sorrow covered their faces. When I passed near them, I saw that they were crying silently. There was no pride, no shame. We had simply given ourselves permission to fall apart.
The tree branches bent under the weight of the snow, just like our shoulders under the burden of being girls.
A Silenced Voice from Afghanistan
By: Habibeh A.
A faint light shone from the corner of the window onto my books, which had been gathering dust in the corner of my room for a long time. The sound of dripping water from the kitchen tap broke the silence of the room. The branches of the trees swayed gently, showing that a soft breeze was passing through. Leaning against the wall, I watched the birds jumping from one branch to another.
The sound of the dripping water and the quiet of the room had completely blended. My mother called me for breakfast. I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. I set the table, and almost all my family members were already there. The smell of warm bread baked in the clay oven filled the house, and everyone spoke happily about its taste.
My mother came in with freshly baked bread. The first bite I took brought back a memory.
I was in ninth grade.
Golden sunlight slowly touched the tall almond tree branches in our yard, and the pleasant smell of fresh bread spread through the morning air. I shared some of that warm bread with the birds that sat every morning on the roof of our small home. They were my close friends. Every day, I told them about my dreams, about how one day I would fly just like them.
Those days felt completely different.
After feeding the birds, I got ready to go to school. Because we had midterm exams, I felt a little nervous. When I arrived at school, everything felt strange. Without saying a word, I walked straight into the classroom.
Inside, I saw Fatema and Raqia sitting by the window on the second bench, studying. They did not notice me. When I sat on the first bench in front of Raqia, she looked up and loudly asked why I was late. Before I could answer, the teacher entered, and the exam began.
That day we had a math exam. After it ended, the teacher stood in front of the class with a troubled face and said, “Until we meet again, I place you in God’s protection.”
Fatema, who was very curious, asked, “Teacher, why are you speaking like this? Does that mean we should not come to school tomorrow?”
With a lump in his throat, the teacher replied, “The provinces of Afghanistan are falling one after another to the Taliban. Perhaps today or tomorrow, Mazar-e-Sharif will fall as well. I ask you to stay in your homes until security is restored.”
One of my classmates asked, “Will the Taliban allow us to study?”
The teacher answered, “Yes, they will allow you to continue your education.”
Hearing this, I felt relieved. Together with Fatema and Raqia, we walked home. On the way, while Raqia and I were talking, something about Fatema caught my attention. She walked quietly, her eyes fixed on the ground. It felt as though a heavy sadness rested on her shoulders.
I softly called her name. She looked at me with tearful eyes, like a spring cloud full of unspoken words. When I asked what was wrong, she whispered with a trembling voice, “My mother says the Taliban are bad people. They treat women and girls like animals. They believe women and girls should not study or work outside the home.”
Raqia confirmed her words.
Fatema’s words stayed in my mind. We said goodbye, hoping we would study together again. That night, Mazar-e-Sharif fell to the Taliban.
I woke up to this terrible news. That morning felt different from all others. Everything was quiet. No children were playing in the streets, no voices of neighbors, no women leaving early for work. Fear-filled silence had taken over the city.
My father did not go to work that day. Yet despite everything, my mother baked warm bread again and told us at the table, “Just as the sun rises after every night, these days will also pass.”
My father agreed.
That same day, the Taliban took Kabul. After that, Afghanistan completely collapsed.
Everyone was worried: my family, my friends, my mother, and I.
After taking power, the Taliban closed schools and universities to girls and women one by one. Women were banned from working outside the home. Their voices were declared forbidden. Women and girls were arrested, abused, and tortured without reason. Girls were banned from taking the university entrance exam.
If schools and universities had not been closed, I could have taken the entrance exam this year and worked toward my dreams. By banning girls from education, the Taliban chained their dreams as well.
That day was the worst day of my life.
More than four years have passed since then. In these years, I have witnessed many painful things. My friends and classmates, one by one, either took their own lives or were forced into early marriages.
Today, the same beautiful sun shines again, and the same smell of warm bread fills the air. But instead of exam stress, I worry about my future. Dreaming has turned into a nightmare. My books gather dust in the corner of my small room, and my pen feels empty of words.
Yet despite everything, I am still Habibeh.
A girl born from pain, from despair, from forgetting. A girl who still hopes. A girl who wipes the dust from her books and dreams, and believes that the future is meant to be beautiful.
A Girls’ Night
By: Fatemeh M.
The excitement was palpable that night. I was eager to create lasting, beautiful memories with my friends. I had always yearned for a girls-only gathering, a trip, or an outing—a space where we could be just girls, crafting our own special moments. On the surface, being a girl might seem like just two words, but do you know what hopes, what secrets, what dreams, and what ideals lie hidden within them? In my opinion, being a girl, especially in Afghanistan, is one of the world’s toughest tasks. Here, seeing a dream turn into reality can sometimes feel impossible. Because you are a girl, you can’t choose your own path. Because you are a girl, you cannot spend the night away from home alone.
Finally, the clock ticked on, and after an endless wait, the moment was slowly approaching. Every passing second filled me with a mixture of excitement, stress, longing, and fear. To keep myself grounded until the evening, I opened my book. I sat on a plastic chair behind a wobbly wooden desk, hugged my knees, and placed the book on my lap. I reopened The Girl Who Drank the Moon where I had marked my spot and buried myself in the novel. I glanced at the window, which was higher and farther back than my desk. From there, I could see the bare branches of the trees—stripped of their leaves and flowers, ready to plunge into their winter sleep. A gentle breeze blew, swaying the branches and creating a faint rustling sound. Small birds sat in pairs upon the branches, singing songs of love and freedom in the cool air of late summer transitioning into autumn. When the breeze drifted in through the window, I breathed it deep into my lungs, feeling refreshed and more excited for the night ahead. The sky darkened, and the sweet sound of the call to prayer (Azan) reached my ears. My father called out, urging us to pray so we wouldn’t be late for the gathering.
I went to the courtyard. The northern wind was still blowing, playing with the edge of my scarf, pulling the strands of hair that had escaped across my eyes. I walked toward the courtyard gate and pulled the latch. It opened with a soft click. In the street, the wind was stronger than inside the courtyard. The darkness, the dancing branches, and the sound of dogs barking all came together to create a bleak and frightening scene. I looked right—no one, just darkness. I looked left and saw Fowziyeh struggling to close her home’s gate. She wore a black chador and carried something wrapped in cloth and a tray in her hands. Together with the family and Fowziyeh, we set off for the party.
When it was time for dinner, everyone gathered around the tablecloth. The beautiful aroma of traditional home-cooked food filled the house. After we ate, Fowziyeh, Nazdanah, and I went to wash the dishes, sharing jokes and laughter the whole time. Eventually, all the guests began to head home. My father stepped outside to the courtyard to say goodbye to the host. My mother also got ready to leave.
Nazdanah asked me eagerly, “Did your father agree? Please tell me you’re staying tonight!”
I told her, “I haven’t spoken to Father yet, but I asked Mother to get his permission. If I talk to Father myself, he might get angry and refuse.”
I went to my mother and begged her to ask my father. At first, she was hesitant, saying Father might argue or make a fuss. My sister brought my belongings from home and said, “Come, let’s go.”
I took my things but kept looking at my mother. Nazdanah joined me, pleading with my mother as well. Finally, my mother gave in. I prayed my father wouldn’t get angry. He agreed. I was ecstatic, barely containing myself. I said goodbye to my mother, kissed my brother Ehsan, and rushed back to the girls. They had finished the dishes and taken them back to the house. The guest room was empty, and the three of us went inside. Nazdanah turned on the electric heater, and we gathered around it to warm our frozen hands. The faint smell of the heater and the slight crackle of electricity filled the entire room. We spread out our notebooks and worked through some math problems together.
After a little while, we were all tired. I picked up my phone and put my favorite song on. We slowly gathered up our notebooks and started filming silly videos of ourselves. Sometimes Nazdanah filmed, and sometimes I did. Since Nazdanah had makeup, we asked her to bring it out. The three of us stood in front of the mirror, putting on makeup together. I picked up the eyeliner to apply it, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t manage it; I only succeeded in smudging my eyes with black. We tried to film trending videos, but they didn’t work out, so we gave up on that idea.
When I connected to the internet, Zahra, Marziyeh, and Tamanna were on a video call, and we joined their group. We talked and teased each other until the internet connection grew weak, forcing us to hang up. Time was passing quickly, and it was time to sleep. The three of us lay down next to each other, turned off the lamp, and told stories.
Because Fowziyeh was afraid of scary stories, Nazdanah and I kept teasing her. She got annoyed, and her anger only made us laugh harder. Nazdanah said, “It was so good that all three of us were together tonight. It was a truly memorable evening. I’m glad your mother let you stay. I will remember this night forever.”
We all closed our eyes, reviewing our dreams, and were soon lost in the sweet world of sleep, imagining a day when we could all get scholarships, study abroad together, and each pursue a professional career.
Being a girl in Afghanistan is one of the world’s toughest tasks. In a society like this, it’s difficult to have a ‘pink’ world—to act like girls and have girly dreams. Yet, even here, there is beauty. Everything depends on a transformation, a small word, or a simple action to build a feminine world of love, kindness, forgiveness, and grace. Being a “girl” may seem like just two words on the surface, but do you know what hopes, what secrets, what dreams, and what ideals lie hidden within them?"
A Heart Overburdened with Grief
By: Faezeh M.
I sit before the mirror, combing my hair. The curtains in the room sway to the rhythm of the northern wind, carrying the waves of my hair in every direction. As I look at the color of my own hair, I am reminded of the bride; it was the exact same shade as mine. Their wedding ceremony was yesterday—a gathering completely unlike any other. In the midst of the soaring sounds of celebration and dancing, Uncle Qadir entered the hall to perform the traditional ritual, the ravaj, of fastening his daughter’s belt. With a face etched with sorrow, my uncle approached the bride and prepared to tie her sash. I will never forget those moments; they were minutes weighted with unbearable gravity. Seeing a father whose tears streamed down his face as he fastened his daughter’s belt was agonizing. The bride dropped her bouquet, sought refuge in her father’s embrace, and they wept together. My eyes recoiled from the sight. The voices of her younger sisters also rose in protest, insistently asking the groom’s family, “Where are you taking our sister?”
The sound of the music and celebration struggled against the cries of the little girls. Everyone held their breath, staring in shock at the child bride. Once again, the bride broke down in tears and clutched her sisters close. This somber scene showed the true, bitter reality of separation for people who share such deep, sincere affection. The noise and weeping completely transformed the atmosphere. Suddenly, the groom’s father arrived. He placed his hand on the bride’s father’s shoulder with a happy smile and said: “Today is a day for joy, music, and celebration—not wailing and mourning!”
He then turned to his new bride and commanded: “Enough! Stop crying now!” He took her hand, seated her in the car, and they left.
This is a memory I will never forget: seeing those tears, that heartbreaking longing, and a young girl who is far too small to be a mother! The image of the tearful eyes of a girl my own age haunts me. When I think of those moments, a wave of despair washes over me. I fear that if two or three more girls this young are forced into marriage, this injustice will eventually become a normalized custom (rasm-o-ravaj) in my country, and all girls will be reduced to simple housemaids and mothers in their adolescence. My deepest fear is the day when women are seen only as beings created for housekeeping.
The memory of that heartbreaking scene and the fears that have taken root in my heart have stolen my sleep. I think to myself that before my nightmare becomes reality, I must make a decision. I must encourage the women of my country to pursue education and gain awareness. I can save them. I must continue, with the help of my friends, the activities we do to empower and educate our mothers. We must prove to all oppressors and tyrants that truth will always triumph over falsehood! This phrase is not just a slogan to me; it is a profound belief.
A Leather-Bound Notebook
By: Fereshteh S.
The stationery shop was chaotic, everyone searching for something. I, too, was looking for a notebook to contain my new writings. I had just picked up a leather-bound journal, examining its covers, when I felt the weight of a gaze upon me. I lifted my eyes, searching. The eyes of the stranger were strangely familiar: a woman about my mother’s age, graying hair escaping from beneath her black, dotted chador, smiling at me while holding a small girl’s hand. I tried to ignore it all, haggling with the vendor over the journal’s price. The woman approached, speaking in a gentle voice, “Are you Fereshteh?”
I nodded, still failing to place the unfamiliar face. She continued, “You haven’t changed at all. See? I recognized you right away.”
I was bewildered. Who was this woman? How did she know me? As if reading my mind, she tapped the back of my hand and said, “It’s Soraya. Don’t you recognize me?”
I truly hadn’t. Could this be Soraya? Why had she changed so drastically? What story did the wrinkles on her face tell? How old was she for her hair to have turned gray? Soraya was my childhood friend, my schoolmate. Without preamble, I simply uttered her name: “Soraya!”
She laughed. “Yes. It’s me.”
She opened her arms and said, “Come, hug me.” Without hesitation, I threw myself into her embrace, listening for three or four minutes to the occasional racing of her heart. Seven years had passed since our last meeting. I had lost track of Soraya one summer evening when her family moved away from our neighborhood. We shared a lifetime of memories in those dusty childhood alleys. I had asked our mutual friends about her many times, but they had no news. Eventually, I stopped looking. Soraya took my hand. “Come, I have a world of things to tell you.”
When we finally found a quiet place to sit, Soraya rested her head on my shoulder and whispered, “I was so thirsty to see a familiar face. It’s as if God sent you to me.”
I squeezed her hand and urged her, “Tell me about your life.” Soraya sighed deeply. “Fereshteh, you know life owes me a great debt.”
Soraya had dropped out of school in the seventh grade. I learned from her that the reason was marriage. Years ago, her father had borrowed money from a man named Alireza. Years passed, and he was never able to pay the debt. He finally promised Soraya to one of Alireza’s sons instead. But when Alireza returned from Iran and saw a beautiful, striking girl like Soraya, he decided to marry her himself. Unable to repay the money, Soraya’s father reluctantly consented, and Soraya married Alireza, a man her father’s age. A year and a few months later, their daughter, Zahra, was born. Soraya told me of her hardship, of the bitter taste of life she had endured, all for the sake of her child. Six years into their marriage, Alireza passed away. Soraya and Zahra were left utterly alone, especially since Soraya’s own family had migrated to Iran following the change in government. Soraya had no choice but to live with Alireza’s other wife and children.
Soraya sighed again, wiping her tears. “Alireza’s wife doesn’t feed me; she beats and abuses me. But at least my physical safety is assured here, and that is a tremendous comfort to me, Fereshteh.”
I nodded toward the little girl holding her hand. “Is this Zahra?”
She smiled. “Yes, dear auntie. Zahra is in first grade this year and she is trying so hard to achieve a good position.”
I kissed Zahra and embraced Soraya with the force of all those years of longing. Soraya continued, “Fereshteh, I am not little anymore. I have become the breadwinner for my family, and I work.”
I told her I wanted to see her again. She welcomed the idea with a warm smile, promising we would. That night, returning home, I opened my new notebook and began to write.
I am a woman, and I have come of age in a society full of inequalities. A society that sees my presence in the public sphere as a disgrace and holds the opposite sex superior. Those who believe that the home and the kitchen are my rightful and only place, and marriage is the only right I have in this life. But no! I will prove that a woman is just as capable as a man. I salute the dignity and spirit of the brave women of my land who have never surrendered. If I were to try to describe the firm resolve and spirit of the women of my country with mere words, I would surely be doing them an injustice; for to truly describe the valor and perseverance of Afghan women, one would have to forge a pen from the moon and use the stars as ink.
When No One Came
By: Kameleh H.
No one asked. Not that they didn’t want to, perhaps they simply didn’t see it. Change arrives subtly, silently. Nobody noticed as that once-vibrant girl slowly grew quieter, lost her energy, and drifted further away than ever before.
It was like the fine dust that slowly settles on a windowpane, gradually obscuring the view behind it.
Everything began the day the doors of the school were closed. For many, it was just a political decision, but for me, it was the end of the world upon which I had built the foundation of my dreams. School wasn’t just a place for lessons; it was life itself. When I lost that environment, I gradually detached from everything: from my friends, from my hopes, and from the girl I used to be.
After that day, the world slowly darkened, and the sun no longer held any warmth.
Days came and went, and the nights pressed down on my heart, heavier than ever, like a sodden, suffocating blanket. My mind was filled with questions, but there was no space for complaint, nor anyone to listen.
My phone was in my hand, and as usual, I was scrolling through the Instagram Explore page. As always, it was saturated with those motivational videos—the boring, repetitive kind.
How carefree must their lives be for them to constantly preach repeating positive affirmations?
My heart ached for those who genuinely believed those videos could fix their mood. How can a video possibly save someone’s life? Another motivational clip opened. The bright screen light shone directly onto my face. The speaker’s voice was calm and firm, as if he was speaking directly to me. He delivered a piece of ridiculous advice: “No one is coming to save you. You have to get up yourself.”
A sentence I’d heard a thousand times, but this time it sounded more foolish than ever. How can a person care so much for everyone and want to keep everyone happy, only to realize that when they need help, no one is willing to offer it? Right there, I put the phone down and stared out the window. The night was darker than usual, and the sound of crickets filled the air. That sentence had etched itself into my mind like an inscription on stone. I couldn’t believe it then, but I couldn’t shake it either—perhaps because it was the truth. I saved the video and watched it several times. A few days later, I finally understood it was the right message, and I began to search deeper. I scoured, I read, I listened. Books, podcasts, absorbing the experiences and stories of people who had been broken like me and had risen again. Every word they wrote was a small light in the darkness of my mind. Despite all the reading and all my efforts, something vital was still missing. I was only reading books and listening to podcasts, and to me, that wasn’t enough. I missed the structure of classes, the scent of new textbooks, and my goals. Then one day, amidst my endless searching, my eye caught the name of an online School for Afghan girls. Several feelings rushed toward me simultaneously: doubt, hope, fear, and elation. I clicked the link and filled out the registration form. After days oscillating between doubt and happiness, I finally received my acceptance email.
The first day of the online school, I felt a sense of profound relief. I had re-entered a world I thought I had lost. Online classes might not have replicated the physical atmosphere of a real school, but my hope had returned. It felt as if this small opening had washed away the heavy dust weighing on my heart. Achieving my goals was no longer an impossible dream.
A Modern Buried-Alive
By: Shakila A.
The relentless tick-tock of the clock shatters the silence in the room. Your hands move, writing, but your ears are attuned only to that sound. A dullness clouds your head; you’ve lost count of how many sleeping pills you swallowed last night, the remnants of their hold still clinging to you. Since morning, you’ve been seated at your desk, pouring out thoughts onto paper without feeling fatigue, trying to unburden your mind. You set the pen down and glance at the clock on the wall—it reads 2:25. Rising from your desk, you decide to make coffee. You despise the instant kind that only requires boiling water. It lacks the true bite of genuine coffee. So, you grind the beans, heat a small amount of water in a little white kettle, let it steep, and slowly pour it over the grounds. Once the brew is ready, you return to your room.
You take a sip, then place the mug on the desk. You lie down on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling and the light fixture hanging from it. You survey the room. The silver curtains are still drawn shut. Very little sunlight manages to pierce through, casting a faint reflection onto the bookshelf, giving that corner a unique, muted beauty. The painting of white birds in flight hangs on the wall. Sometimes, you wish you were a bird, able to take flight toward another land the moment sorrow began to weigh you down—to escape everything that hurt you, to fly to a place where breathing itself felt like living. But no. You are human. That is an impossible, unreachable fantasy. As a human, you break, you weep, you smile, you get wounded, you become attached, you love, you fail, and you surrender. Despite all of it, you are forced to continue on your path, your journey—even if you choose to bring this story to an end. What a creature the human is, enduring the accumulation of all sorrow, defeat, victory, and the relentless battering of fate.
You check the clock again; it’s 2:40. It’s Tuesday, and you must be ready to leave in a few minutes. If it were up to you, you would never agree to go, but life sometimes compels you to do things against your will. Things haven’t gone well so far; let this obligation just add to the pile.
You finish the rest of your coffee and stand up. You pull the long, black Chapan[1]—that reaches past your heels—from the wardrobe and put it on. You wrap the green scarf around your head. You grab your black mask and your bag, and step out of the house. Reaching the bus stop, you wait for a taxi. Inside the cab, you stare out the window. You look everywhere, but your mind is preoccupied. Single-story houses, shops, and trees line the route. It’s the season of falling leaves, yet it’s only early autumn; some green still clings to the tall, steadfast trees that haven’t yet surrendered to the fall winds. But inevitably, the leaves will fall. The end of every green story is yellowing and departure.
The taxi speeds past farmland, now bare save for the soil. Between the tall and short trees, you see sculpted statues. You look toward the sturdy, high mountains—Salas and Shamama—which remain standing amidst the peaks despite terrible collapses, still carrying and transmitting that ancient history within their chests. The taxi rushes by, but the image of the Buddha and the caves remains etched in your mind for a moment. Looking at those caves, you think of the people who lived there, two millennia ago, in that ancient time. You wish you had been born in that era, living side-by-side with peace, love, and sincerity. Traveling freely, driven by love, rather than facing the constant cutting at your own roots in this modern time. The scene quickly fades, and you move away from the Buddha. Traffic in Mirhashem Square briefly halts the taxi, to see the passengers, before permitting movement again. After paying the fare, you step out and turn left from Elkhan Circle, heading toward your destination: the psychologist’s office. Just as you are about to knock, the door opens from inside. The person stands directly in front of you. You study him. You think you haven’t seen him here before. He appear to be around 25, with curly hair and a relatively long, black beard, wearing a cream-colored shirt and trousers, topped with a black vest. You have no idea why he would be here, but you secretly hope no one seeks this place out due to profound grief. You step aside to let him pass, then enter.
Dr. Sepehr sits in the middle of the room, dressed in a dark suit and a blue pullover. Sunlight streams through the window, illuminating his desk. You sit on the chair opposite him, clasping your hands together over your knees. After greetings, the doctor asks, “How was your past week? Were you able to improve your state even a little with the exercises?”
The cycle of questions and answers begins again—words and phrases that are neither comforting nor helpful. You only end up recounting everything you have endured, which only makes you feel worse than before.
“No,” I reply, “none of it helped. How can two simple exercises possibly make a person better?”
The doctor removes his glasses and sets them on the desk. He takes a sip from the glass of coffee on his desk. A few minutes of silence descend. You turn your head to look at the clock. It shows 3:20. You think about the forty minutes you are obligated to spend here. Your breath catches; you close your eyes, take a deep breath, and let it out.
The doctor continues, “Look at yourself Niyayesh, at the precious, minute details of your life. Don’t any of those things bring you back to life? Doesn’t loving any of them give you hope for living?”
This time, he doesn’t ask you to express what is tormenting you or inquire about past experiences and painful emotions.
You gather your thoughts and respond, “Of course they do, but I don’t have the strength to go on anymore.”
Your legs feel weak for the journey ahead. Life, this forced necessity of breathing, makes the path feel narrow. Sometimes life becomes so harsh you wish you could hold your breath and escape the prison of this existence, to take flight.
The doctor says, “Close your eyes.”
You slowly close your eyes, striving for just a moment of release. The doctor continues, “Now, I want you to imagine you are in a hospital, surrounded by patients who have only one desire: complete health. But you have that. Or imagine you are in prison, seeing people who long for just one moment to step out of those four walls and walk in the open air, to breathe, but you can breathe. Don’t let the external barriers stop you; if the doors are shut on you, your lofty thoughts are still soaring, and no one can lock them. Don’t stare so long at the closed door that you fail to see the open ones and miss the opportunity. Or picture a cemetery, filled with people who no longer have the chance to be with their loved ones, but you do have that chance.”
The psychologist continues, “Now, open your eyes.”
You open them, wanting, for the first time, to see the half-full glass.
The doctor puts his glasses back on and continues, “What are they? The reasons that give you hope for life? Think about what you have and answer me.”
You think hard about what you possess that gives you a reason to keep living. You say, “My parents, my brother and sister. If I can’t keep going for myself, I can do it for them.”
“Family,” he says, “even if you don’t ask, they are a part of you. They stay with you. Sometimes, to continue living, you don’t need grand, unattainable dreams. Sometimes, a single word, a smile, the presence of one person, being grateful for your blessings—that gives you hope. Sometimes, you don’t absolutely need to have everything to be content and keep living. Just enjoying what you have is enough to give you hope for life. Stop yearning for what you lack; enjoy what you have. Life isn’t worth spending on regret.”
The doctor spins his pen between his fingers and continues.
“Even if just one thing gives you hope, keep going. Living requires more courage than dying. You don’t want to be a coward, do you? You must be brave. If you were a coward, life wouldn’t have piled so many problems on you. You are brave, and you must allow that strong, powerful self to overcome these difficulties. Life doesn’t grant everyone a chance to shine, but your life has chosen you to become stronger through its challenges.”
You nod in agreement. The session time is up. You prepare to leave. He says again, “For tonight, I need you to write a list of everything you love and everything that gives you hope for life. Even if it’s something small, prepare it and bring it to the next session. You can come tomorrow at this same time; we’ll move the session up from next week.”
It is 8 PM. You intend to write the list, lying in bed. You pick up your mobile and notice the scars on your wrist, and once again, the memories of that night flash before your eyes.
One Month Ago
You open your eyes. Sunlight has already reached the middle of the room. Your head is spinning. Your body lies heavy and loose on the bed. You reach for your phone on the bedside table and check the screen: 11:00 a.m., Monday, the 5th of Shahrivar.
It has been months of this drifting, this life without structure. You wake up late, lock yourself away in a corner of your room, and spend your days there. You feel no strength left to keep going. You glance at the calendar. It has been four hundred and forty days since you last stepped into the place you used to call your dream. You say it to yourself again: four hundred and forty days since you really lived, since you stood in the place you had reached with blood, effort, and stubborn hope. A place that belonged to you, that was taken from you. The home of your goals. You cannot go back, and the best years of your life are passing while you are trapped, doing nothing, like an innocent person waiting quietly for execution.
You pick up a pen and draw another cross over today’s date. Another black day. Your thoughts run wild, and you cannot stop them. Exhausted, you sit at your desk, take out paper and pen, and start writing a letter to your sister. When you finish, you slip into her room and hide the letter under her clothes, somewhere she will not find it too quickly. That way, if death changes its mind and leaves you behind, you can retrieve it before Nadere ever sees it.
You go to the kitchen and think about how your story might end. Which way, which method, which final line. Your hands are shaking and in the quiet you keep repeating to yourself: suicide, suicide, there is no other way left. You open the cupboard and choose a sharp knife, one that will not take much effort. You wrap it in your sleeve so it cannot be seen and walk back toward your room.
At the door to the sitting room you stop. You hear your mother talking with the neighbor, telling her you are still not awake and worrying over why you sleep so late. You do not step inside. You do not want your mother to see that you are up. You go back to your room instead, close the door, and sit on the bed. You set the knife on the table, pull your knees up to your chest, rest your head on them, and try to steady the shaking in your hands and feet. You cannot calm down. A strange, empty laughter slips out of you, the kind that makes you feel like a madwoman.
You pick up the knife again and bring it close to your wrist, thinking about the end of this life. You do not cry. You do not hesitate. You think only one word: suicide.
When the thought of suicide takes over, it fills everything. All that remains is the question of how. In this part of the world, you have to be tough, almost indestructible, just to survive what life places in your path. To endure all the ways you are buried alive in modern times.
You press the knife against your wrist and begin to drag it, slowly, toward the vein.
And then you do not know what happens.
Your head aches. You feel as if you are waking from a heavy, drugged sleep. The smell of medicine hangs in the air. You manage to open your eyes and look at your hands. Both wrists are wrapped in bandages. Memory returns in fragments. You realize why you are lying in a hospital bed with an IV tube in your arm. You think to yourself: I survived again. Death ran away. A single tear slips from your eye.
You look around the room. No one is there. You pull out the IV and get out of bed. At the door you hear voices and pause to listen. The doctor is talking to your sister.
“Why did she do this to herself?”
Your sister, still in shock and crying, answers through her sobs. “I don’t know, doctor. She wasn’t well last night. I asked what was wrong, but she didn’t say. She always keeps her sadness inside. She never wants to talk about it, not even with me.”
“You need to watch her more closely,” the doctor says. “She has tried once. It is possible she will try again. If you can, persuade her to see a psychologist.”
“You mean she might do this another time?” Nadere asks. “I will try my best.”
“Yes, it is possible. She could wake up at any moment. You should go in to her.”
When your sister opens the door, she finds you standing behind it in the hospital gown. She does not say much, just asks how you feel.
“Thank God you woke up. You scared us so much,” she says and pulls you into her arms.
“Can we go home?” you ask. “I can’t breathe in here.”
“But you just regained consciousness,” she protests. “They’ll probably keep you tonight. They only let one family member stay with a patient, so the others went home.”
You insist that you feel fine, that nothing hurts. In the end she has to speak to the doctors. The two of you go home together. Your attempt to put a final period on your story failed. When even death refuses you, it feels as if there is nowhere left in the world to go.
At home everyone is waiting. Shocked. Frightened. We never know each other’s worth. Only when someone is on the edge of leaving, when their time almost runs out, do we suddenly realize how dear they are. That is when they become precious, when their life becomes something we cling to. And by then it is so late. A whole lifetime slips away and at the very end we understand how valuable it was. If only we cherished each other and loved each other properly from the beginning.
Nadere comes into your room. She wants to sleep there with you. Maybe fear is forcing her to stay close, fear that you might try again. When someone decides to end their own life, death itself stops being frightening.
“At the moment you tried to end it,” she asks, “didn’t you think of anyone? Not yourself, not your life, not me, not our parents. Not even our brother?”
“I did think of everyone,” you answer quietly. “But there was one thing that pulled me more strongly than all of that. Suicide. Ending it.”
You drink some water and then ask, “Would you have been sad if I’d died?”
She comes closer to the window, takes your hands in hers, and says, “Of course I would.”
You repeat it in your mind: of course she would. Then another voice inside you calls it a lie. You tell yourself no one would truly be sad if you vanished. No one would cry. There is only you and yourself. No one else.
“If that’s true,” you ask, “then in these three years when I was drowning in pain, why did you never ask how I was, not even once?”
“You were sad?” she replies. “You never said anything. How was I supposed to know?”
“Yes,” you say. “That is exactly it. The people closest to us are the ones we forget. We get used to their presence. We forget to notice their joy and their sorrow. We forget to ask how they are, forget to put a smile on their face, forget to be their reason to feel okay when life gets heavy. We get so lost in our own chaos that we forget our loved ones need us, beyond money, beyond daily needs. They need to hear ‘I love you.’ They need to be reminded they matter. They do not just need our bodies in the room. They need to hear, ‘You are important to me. You are not alone. I’m here and I will stay.’ They need to know their existence gives us strength, so they don’t sit quietly with their grief and feel alone even while we’re beside them.”
She hesitates, then asks, “Do you want to share it with me?”
“Share what?”
“Your sadness. Your pain.”
You tell her that by now you have grown used to it, that you’ve learned to live with it. You have learned to stand up and fall down with your own wounds. Talking about them feels pointless. Nadere falls silent.
You lie down and stare at the ceiling. After a while she says, “I know it is hard for you, but would you consider seeing a psychologist? I know I might not be able to heal your pain, but a psychologist might help you find a way forward.”
“It won’t help,” you say.
You pull the blanket over your head and close your eyes, trying to force yourself to sleep.
The night passed. Nadere keeps insisting that you should see someone. People regret most not the things they did, but the things they never tried. As a last resort, you agree to go. At worst, nothing changes. At least the attempt will not harm you.
After asking around among friends and colleagues, Nadere finds Dr. Sepehr and makes an appointment.
One afternoon at three o’clock you go with her to his office. That is where it begins: the first time you share your most painful feelings with another human being. The aches you never admitted even to your sister are dragged into the light here, in the hope that there might be a cure.
There is a soft knock at the door, and you pull your gaze away from the scars on your wrists. Nadere walks holding a plate of fruit. Her hair is loose, falling over her shoulders. You sit up in bed while she comes to sit next to you. She offers you fruit, and you take a red apple. As you bite into it, she asks, “How are the sessions going?”
“They feel like hanging between life and death,” you say. “We’ll see who wins in the end, me or life.”
“You will win,” she answers. “When life wounds you, it also teaches you how strong you can be. These scars are what make your steps stronger than before. You learned how to lose before you learned how to win. That way you don’t truly lose anymore.”
“But continuing is hard,” you say.
She lifts an envelope in her hand. You recognize it instantly. The letter you wrote to her, meant to be found after your death.
“I read this,” she says. “I know these are hard days, and not just for you. All of us are struggling in our own ways. We all break. But courage is in continuing. Do you know why diamonds are so bright and so valuable? Because they endure pressure. They survive harsh, painful stages before they shine. If everyone chose death at the first sign of limitation, there would be no one left, no one successful, no one at all. You are at your own diamond stage. You have to endure it. When your patience runs out, cry, scream, sleep, do whatever you need, but keep going, Niyayesh. Promise me you will not think about those things again.”
“I promise,” you say.
She hugs you, yawns, and says she is tired. She lies down on your bed and quickly falls asleep.
After she drifts off, you go to your desk. You pick up your pen and start writing the list the doctor asked for. When you finish, you read your letter again.
My dear Nadere,
I don’t know how you will feel when you receive this letter after my death, but please don’t be sad and don’t cry for me. Since last night I have felt strange. My head spins and that sentence keeps flashing before my eyes, boiling my brain: “A woman’s voice is shameful.” Then came the message saying not to return to the course from tomorrow, and that piled on top of four hundred and forty dark days. The only place where I still felt I existed, where I still felt I was learning, has been taken away. All the doors closed and the hope I had disappeared. I feel this life is no longer worth fighting for. Every path I step onto ends in a wall, and fate keeps writing me badly. I made it this far, but I no longer see the strength in myself to go on. I have seen and experienced enough. Here, you live a kind of modern burial alive. You are neither alive nor dead, caught somewhere between an unclear fate and endless sorrow. Every time I try to start again, life pushes me back down. I have survived to this point and these twenty years of breathing are enough for me. I don’t want those forced breaths anymore.
I wanted to be strong too, not to shake with every wind, but no matter what I do, every day life pours a new sadness into my cup and makes endurance harder and harder. I wanted to reach the dreams I had arranged for myself, but my patience has been used up. I cannot bear it. Here is where I broke and surrendered.
I hope instead of crying for me, you will smile, because I will leave this prison at last and find peace.
Niyayesh
The sessions continue every week, and today you are on your way again. You feel a little lighter than before. You repeat Nadere’s words in your mind as you walk. When you arrive, Dr. Sepehr sees the slight change in your face and gives a small, warm smile. His efforts and his words have not been wasted.
You take the list out of your bag and hand it to him. He unfolds it and starts reading. It has only one line.
“I will fight for my healing and keep going.”
He smiles and says, “No one in this world is better for you than you. Do not take away your own right to live, even if in all the noise of life you spend your whole lifetime just breathing and only truly live for one single day.”
[1] Kind of a coat
The Blue Umbrella
By: Khadijeh S. M.
Rain had been falling since the night before—relentless, unforgiving, and exhausting. It was as if the sky was having a tantrum. There was no moonlight, no sun, only clouds, the vast thunder of the sky, and the torrential downpour…
In the morning, the scent of wet earth, mixed with a profound sense of despair, reached me. When I looked out the window, a thick fog had consumed the entire alley. Nothing held any beauty in my eyes. Even the sound of the rain, once a comforting lullaby, now only frayed my nerves and made me miserable.
My heart was heavy. The loneliness, coupled with my mother’s absence, pressed hard against my chest. Furthermore, I had received bad news at work the day before; things hadn’t gone well. I had also slept poorly the night before due to the intense thunder and lightning—though whether I had no dream or had a nightmare, I couldn’t recall.
I was hungry, but I had no appetite for anything. With effort, I pulled myself out of bed and headed straight for my messy kitchen. The kitchen was cold, just like my heart. The bread was gone, and I didn’t even have the patience to boil water for tea.
Listlessly, I pulled on my brown chador[1] and picked up the blue umbrella lying in the corner of the room. It was the same umbrella my dear mother used to open over my head when I was a child. The same mother whose image is now confined to a cracked frame on a scribbled-on wall.
I stepped outside. The alleys were waterlogged and lifeless. People rushed past one another, indifferent and preoccupied. It felt as if the world had collapsed, but no one had the time or inclination to notice.
The smell of fresh bread drifted from a distance, but it brought me no joy. The line at the bakery was short. An elderly man, wearing a worn-out coat, was already standing ahead of me. His gaze was weary, and his voice was broken and trembling. One expects little else from an old man, but seeing him only made me more agitated and weary. When the bread was finally in my hands, I didn’t feel its warmth. Blandness seemed to be infecting everything, day by day. I took a small bite, only enough to stave off hunger, not for pleasure.
On the way back, the rain intensified. Aside from my head covered by the umbrella and the loaf of bread tucked under my arm, my entire body was drenched. My feet were soaked, my clothes clung to my skin. I had no patience for anything, not even myself, and I was deeply dissatisfied with this state. My eyes fell upon a woman. She was not very old, but she looked isolated and helpless, her poverty etched onto her face. She was miserable like me, just in a different way.
She was sitting huddled against a wall. Her clothes were soaked, her white hair plastered to her face, her head bowed amidst the rain and runoff, trapped by necessity. No one looked at her; everyone passed by, as if she didn’t exist.
I paused for a moment. I don’t know what came over me. Perhaps seeing her state finally broke my own heart. I walked over and, without a word, held my blue umbrella over her head. The woman looked up. Her eyes were tired, but something flickered deep within them—a hope that seemed to tremble in her heart. Perhaps my greeting in that brutal cold had offered her a spark of joy.
“You… you have an umbrella?” She asked.
An involuntary smile touched my lips—a smile I don’t know where it came from. “Yes, dear auntie, and now you do too.”
The woman smiled back. It was a small smile, but in that moment, it warmed the world. She said, “No one looked at me today. No one asked if the rain was bothering me.”
Understanding her plight and recognizing the callousness of people around us, I replied, “Today was the day someone needed to stay. Perhaps this act of staying is what saves something.”
A long silence followed, broken only by the sound of the rain. Then she asked, “What is your name?”
“Soha,” I replied.
She smiled, and as the lines around her mouth deepened, she said, “Soha… That’s a beautiful name. Like the light of a star on a rainy night.”
Turned away from the loneliness of my room that had been torturing me, I sat with her. I shared my warm bread, and we talked. She spoke of her daughter, Mahtab, who had left home years ago, on a rainy day just like this one, and never returned. I listened, without judgment, with the ears of my heart. Though I didn’t open my own heart’s wounds, we shared a common pain: loneliness.
Slowly, the rain no longer felt so cold. Its sound had become like my mother’s old lullaby again. My umbrella was no longer just mine; it sheltered two people. And my heart—that great stone of despair sitting on my chest—had melted away, perhaps by the rain, perhaps by the woman’s kindness.
That day, my world changed. Not because of a grand event, but by sharing my blue umbrella and sitting with a woman waiting for her “Mahtab”[2]
I learned that sometimes, it is simply enough to stay, enough to offer shelter under your umbrella to one person, and gift kindness to others.
[1] Kind of a veil for women, [2] Meaning moonlight in Farsi
She Stands
By: Mahdieh H.
The first time I saw her, she was standing behind the dusty school window. She wasn't crying, nor was she speaking. She just stared out at the courtyard. At the almond tree whose blossoms had fallen. At the cracked earth where the words "Life is beautiful" were written.
Her skin was as white as paper, but not from delicacy—it was from an utter lifelessness. Her eyes were colorless; neither brown nor black. A shade that seemed to have collected all the world's pain, leaving nothing left for display.
No one knew exactly what had happened. Only whispers circulated in the air.
One person said, "Maybe her family..."
Another said, "Maybe someone has hurt her..."
And then everyone fell silent. Because some things simply can't be spoken. Some pain is not the kind that can be soothed with words.
At first, she barely even breathed. Every loud noise or sudden movement seemed to take her back to a place she desperately did not want to revisit. The sound of the door, the yell of a supervisor, the passing of boys in the alley—everything was terrifying for her.
She would whisper something under her breath. Perhaps it was a prayer. Not loud, not for anyone else—only for herself.
Little by little, I tried to get close to her. Not with conversation, but with my presence. I would sit beside her. I’d bring her tea. I’d talk about my day. She only listened. Sometimes I would smile, and she would raise her gaze toward the sky.
Once, I saw her sketchbook. Written in pen in the middle of a page were the words: "When it broke, the mirrors stopped showing me."
In that moment, I understood that whatever had happened was one of those things that alienates a person from their own self.
I felt that someone had stolen her trust in the dark and carried it away.
But she was still here. She still came to school. She still stood by that same window every single day.
Weeks passed.
Until one afternoon, as we sat together in the courtyard, she quietly said, "Do you think I can be like I was before? The person who walked out of the house without fear?"
I told her, "Maybe it won't be exactly like before... but you can rebuild yourself. A stronger self. Someone who, despite all this pain, still continues."
She said, "But I don't feel like I know myself anymore."
I smiled.
"Sometimes, to know yourself, you have to start over from the beginning. Slowly. Without rushing."
From that day on, she slowly began to change.
Her first change was that she combed her hair. Then, little by little, her eyes returned to look at the people around her.
She started drawing. Sometimes she would talk about her dreams. Sometimes about her fears.
Her trust was returning—slowly and with difficulty.
But it was returning.
One day, she sat next to that same almond tree. The sunlight fell on her face. She smiled. Not for anyone, just for herself.
We never spoke about that night.
But when we walked together, her shadow no longer trembled.
Even today, she is not fully healed.
She still falls silent on some nights. She still struggles to trust anyone.
But when you pass by her, you see it: **She stands.**
On the very earth where someone once wrote: ""Life is beautiful.""
Colored Pencils for Setareh
By: Narges N.
A heavy, unceasing rain pounded against the frozen windowpanes, and the sound of its patter mingled with the gusting wind. Inside the house it was warm; the heater burned slowly with its warm flames, but a strange cold had nested in my heart that no heater could chase away. I sat at the table by the window and took the colored pencils out of their box to paint, but there was no enthusiasm in me. My hands touched the pencils but my mind was elsewhere—thinking of Setareh.
I saw Setareh every morning and evening. A thin, frail girl with a thin scarf and worn shoes who sold flowers in the cold air. Her voice was alive in my ear: “Auntie, would you like to buy a flower?”
Each time I passed her, I saw her frozen hands trying to warm themselves with the heat of her mouth, but it wasn’t enough.
I put the green color on the paper, but my hand shook. No line was drawn. I looked at the glass. The steam from my mother’s freshly brewed tea quietly settled on the lip of the window. My mother’s voice came from the kitchen: “Narges dear! Come, my girl, hot tea is ready.”
I sat by the heater. The scent of fresh tea mixed with the smell of warm bread. My mother smiled and placed the cup of tea in front of me: “Drink, my daughter, it will warm you.”
I drank the tea, but the warmth that reached my throat did not reach my heart. Setareh, in her thin clothes, in that cold weather, became vivid before my eyes.
With each sip of tea I remembered Setareh. It was two o’clock. I put on my gloves and left the house. The alleys smelled of coal smoke. On the way to class, I saw Setareh again. She wore the same thin clothes and with the same voice, trembling from the cold, called out to people to buy her flowers.
“Auntie, uncle, would you buy a flower?”
Her flowers, too, had wilted from the cold. No one looked at her. I could not pass by indifferently. I approached her, took her cold hands, and asked how she was.
“I’m fine, sister. No one buys my flowers. The weather is so cold.”
She spoke of her martyred father. Of a mother who do chores in other people’s homes and of a house without a heater. Of little brothers and sisters who are hungry and waiting for her.
All I could say was: “Setareh, if you want to study, I will help you.”
Her tears flowed. She hugged me tightly and asked in a trembling voice, “Will you really help me? So I can study?”
I kissed her face and said, “Yes, my dear. You deserve the best.”
With a heavy heart I reached the class. My students were waiting for me. When the lesson ended, one of the students raised his hand and asked, “Teacher! In your opinion, what is the most beautiful feeling in the world?”
The classroom filled with voices. One said: “Freedom.”
Another said: “Happiness.”
A third quietly murmured: “Warmth.”
I smiled but said nothing. That word, “warmth,” reminded me of Setareh shivering in the cold rain, warming her hands with the heat of her mouth.
When I returned home, my eyes fell on the box of colored pencils. I reached in and took the green pencil. I remembered how happy I had been the day I won it at school. But now the meaning of those colors had become something else. I put them back into the box one by one and smiled. I wrapped it with a ribbon and wrote on it: “For Setareh, to color her dreams.”
Now I knew what my student’s answer was. The most beautiful feeling in the world is the moment you give warmth to someone’s heart and see that your own heart has grown many times warmer.
The Last Day of School
By: Rokeyah D.
It was a morning like any other, that dark day. I wore my black school uniform, clutched my books, and carried the familiar smile that came from the sheer joy of learning. Yet, a tight knot of dread had settled in my stomach. Our country was deep in the shadow of the Taliban’s rule, and I lived in fear they might take us away. I walked to school with that terror—it’s like knowing you might die, but still wanting to walk the path to the very end. Along the way, my mind was a torrent of negative thoughts, conjuring images that felt agonizing and difficult for a fifteen-year-old girl. No one suspected that this day would be the final farewell to our desks, the blackboard, and the world of our dreams. When we entered the classroom, our teacher’s eyes were bloodshot, her hands trembling. She didn’t speak, looking at us as if it were the last day of our lives. Then, the principal entered and announced: “The school gates are closed until further notice!”
A wave of terror washed over us at the news. The enemy felt terrifyingly close. In that same moment, the head teacher shared the news that my classmate’s father had been martyred. We cried, choked by fear, but our voices were silenced. The horrifying sounds of gunfire and explosions were everywhere. The school window shattered, and shards of glass rained down onto my classmate’s face, covering her in blood. Even nature seemed to conspire with the oppressors; the frightening howl of the wind and the falling glass made the atmosphere horrific.
Just a few days after their arrival, the Taliban decreed that our school be shut down. They closed girls’ schools above the sixth grade. This decision not only slammed the doors of education on over one and a half million girls but also extinguished the bright future of an entire young generation in our country.
In those first days when the school doors were sealed against girls, a heavy silence and a profound sorrow settled over the educational landscape. My countrywomen, with tear-filled eyes and hearts heavy with loss, stared at the classrooms they were forbidden to enter. Their gazes held a thousand untold pains. The books and pens that were once tools for realizing dreams had now become painful symbols of shattered aspirations. Nature continued to mirror our grief; the wind’s wild, hidden face howled everywhere, and a thick fog abruptly enveloped the ground even in the middle of the day.
It was incredibly painful. While the rest of the world stepped toward progress and equality in the twenty-first century, the girls of my country were being deprived of their most basic human rights. This situation is not just a violation of the rights of Afghan girls—it is a breach of fundamental human rights and a serious threat to all women globally.
I will never forget the last day of school. Tears welled in my eyes, not just because I had lost something, but because I didn’t know if I would ever be able to return. I walked out of school clutching the very books that had been the hope of my morning. The village alleyways were filled with silence and dread. The darkness of that day, which I carried in my tear-filled eyes and the lump in my throat, remains with me. The Taliban had arrived, bringing not just guns, but darkness—a darkness meant for the minds that yearned to be illuminated.
They sealed the school doors, yet they could not close the doors of our hope, our aspirations, and our dreams. We still believe that with internal efforts and international support, the doors of the schools will open for us again, and we can use our pens and books to build a bright future for ourselves and the world.
It is Possible to Sprout from Stone
By: Sadaf Sh.
The trees had turned vividly green. A gentle breeze caressed her skin. Birds hopped from one lush, green branch to another. The sound of their calls filled her ears, and she felt a sense of peace—yet, in her heart, a storm raged on, continuous and relentless. She often thought she couldn’t go on, that she had no fervor left for life. But a voice within whispered: Maryam, you are strong. As long as you don’t surrender, no one can break you under the weight of oppression. You will never accept defeat. Every day, Maryam would look at the achievements she had fought so hard for, and tears would stream down her face. Yet, these were tears that gave her renewed strength, pushing her forward with even greater resolve. Her goal was clear: to achieve independence and to sprout, like a green shoot, from the very heart of her problems. But the conditions were brutal. Day and night, she looked to the heavens and poured out her heart to God, certain that a good future awaited her. Maryam never gave up her efforts. The more her adversaries created limitations, the harder she fought to reach her dreams. Her deepest wish was for her parents to one day stand tall and say, “Well done, my daughter! You succeeded in becoming a brilliant doctor and did not let our sacrifices be in vain.” This is the aspiration of every Afghan girl: to bring pride to herself and her family. What truly pained Maryam was that she was stuck in the eleventh grade, unable to continue her education because schools and universities were closed to girls. Maryam was disoriented, yet she never stopped learning. Sometimes, she felt cursed because every door she tried to open was shut in her face. Still, she had faith in her own abilities and knew that one day she would achieve her dreams—dreams like studying in Canada. She believed in that goal, but how?
From the day all classes were closed to girls, a pall of despair fell over them. Maryam was one of these girls. Initially, she didn’t leave the house for days. All her future aspirations had faded. But in a quiet corner of her heart, a tiny flame of hope remained, and that small spark gave her the power to endure. Maryam was always engaged in learning. She was fluent in English, and despite her young age, she taught the language to smaller girls—those who were still permitted to study up to the sixth grade—at various learning centers. One day, quite by chance, the principal of the Uranus Institute, a woman named Najla, informed Maryam of a golden opportunity. Najla knew Maryam was thirsty for such a chance. She introduced her to an organization that supported Afghan girls in taking the TOEFL exam. Anyone who scored high enough could continue their education abroad.
Maryam was overjoyed by this opportunity. She had one month until the test. She studied day and night, convinced this was her last chance.
Finally, the TOEFL exam arrived. Maryam was buzzing with excitement. She took the test online. She was anxious about her score; she desperately needed a high one. After the exam, she waited for the results. Maryam’s fateful date was June 1st.
When she received the email, her stress and worry intensified. She opened it, unable to look immediately. She was trembling. When her eyes finally fell on the score, they lit up—yes!
She had achieved an even higher score than she had hoped. She now had the choice to continue her education in France, Germany, Canada, or Turkey.
She chose Canada.
After finishing high school in Canada, Maryam was accepted into the medical program. She is now focused on her studies and is currently in her fifth semester of medicine.
She recently received a letter from her friend, Morsal, who wrote about the difficult conditions in Afghanistan and how unhappy she was. Reading the letter took Maryam back to the days when conditions were so tough and yet she persevered. It wasn’t easy; she overcame countless hardships: depression, anxiety, stress, and the oppressive pressure of society.
Maryam wrote back to Morsal:
“Never give up on your path. Have faith in your own capabilities, and do not let anything block you from reaching your goals. Perhaps one day, you will be the next Maryam.”
I am like you
By: Shakiba M.
It was a quiet morning. My mother was rolling out the bread dough, and the warm, yeasty smell of the oven filled the air. Little did I know that today I would hear a story that would stay etched in my mind forever.
The day Aunt Fatemeh began to speak of her past, her voice seemed to resurrect the silent history of countless women in my own mind.
Aunt Fatemeh’s voice came from a place deep in the past. She had come to our house that day to share the story of her life, and she began like this:
“When I was just a little girl, I was married off at a very young age. Before I even knew what the world was about, I was sent to my husband’s home.”
She raised her hands up beside her face and continued, “That brief period of growing up was immediately equated with the end of childhood and being sent to the marriage home. They would say, ‘You’re a grown woman now, you must marry—how long will you stay in your father’s house?’ People would gossip: ‘So-and-so’s daughter is getting older, yet she remains in her father’s house without a husband...’ Without ever asking the girl if she even wanted to marry, or if she understood anything about married life, or if she was truly ready to handle its struggles. Instead, they married her off to whomever they chose.”
She let out a heavy breath. Her eyes flashed, not with joy, but with a bitter memory still lingering in her heart. With a calm voice, her gaze fixed on the rug, she said, “I hadn't even settled into married life when I became a mother. Then, just a few years later, with two small children, I lost my husband.”
I had only listened until this point, but I couldn't help but ask, “Aunt, how did you lose your husband?”
She paused for a moment, her eyes locked on the carpet, as if her mind had drifted far back.
She let out a long sigh and said, “It was a cold night. A cool wind crept into the room through the cracks in the door. The oil lamp in the corner barely illuminated a small part of the room with its weak flame. My husband, Hamid, was lying in the corner. His face was colorless, and his breathing was shallow. A bowl of water and a damp cloth lay next to his bed. I sat beside him, holding our two children, who were shivering from the cold in my arms. I didn't know whether to worry more about him or about the chill seeping into my children’s bones. His voice was fading, and the rattle in his chest grew louder. I called to him softly, ‘Are you awake?’ but received no answer. It felt as if time had stopped, and the only sound in the room was the plink of my tears falling onto the blanket. My children woke up. One asked, ‘Mom, what happened?’ I couldn’t answer. I just pulled them close, hugged them tight, and whispered, ‘Go to sleep, my darling... Just go to sleep...’ That was all I could manage to say.”
A question occupied my mind, and I asked again, “Aunt, that night you lost your husband, were you alone?”
She shook her head. She used the corner of her chador to wipe a tear that had fallen onto the floor.
“Loneliness is just a word,” she said. “I was buried among the walls of that room, and there was no one to hear my voice.”
I asked quietly again, “What happened next? How did you manage with two little ones?”
She looked at me, a bitter smile touching her lips.
“I don’t know, my dear. Sometimes, simply being a mother keeps you alive. You might not be able to endure it for yourself, but you must live for your children. This isn't the end of my story. I have suffered more than you can imagine. The night I lost my husband, I realized that from that night on, everything in my life would change. In my life full of worries, it was just me and two small children, lost in their innocent world, ignorant of what fate had in store. The house and the loneliness on one side, and the stares and gossip that people threw behind my back every day on the other—they were all like thorns to me. The rumors spread so far that my own brother, instead of supporting me, said I should die. Simply because I was a woman, a widow, and a mother of two. It was dusk, and the sky, like my heart, was cloudy and grim. I was sitting in the room, holding my trembling hands. I heard my brother’s footsteps coming from the yard. They were heavy and menacing. He threw the door open so hard that I jumped up with a sharp cry. With bloodshot eyes, he shouted, ‘You are no longer welcome here. A widowed woman is a disgrace to the family! Everyone is talking about you!’ He pointed a warning finger at me and continued, ‘You will either stay in this room and never step out so I don't have to hear people talking about you, or I will kill you right here so no one is left for people to gossip about!’ I couldn’t believe it was my own brother speaking to me like this. In my heart, I prayed, ‘Oh God! If someone is going to kill me, let it be a stranger, not my brother.’”
She looked at me with red-rimmed eyes that held more pain than a thousand knife wounds. My chest burned hearing those final words. With a trembling voice, I asked, “Did your brother really want to kill you?”
With a pain in her voice that I could feel, she replied, “Yes, he wanted to, but God did not will it.”
“Were you very scared?” I asked again.
She paused. Then she said, “No, not of dying, but I was terrified that my children would be orphaned.”
At that moment, her composure broke. Tears streamed from her eyes, one by one, like scattered pearls. She wiped them with the edge of her chador, but the lump in her throat remained. She cleared her throat, sat up straight, and continued.
“Those dark and black days are behind me. I married again. Now, with a son and three more daughters, I thank God for my children.”
I sat motionless, my own eyes welling up. In my heart, I thought how cruel can people be? When your own brother—your own flesh and blood—intends to take your life, you stop expecting anything from strangers. Why? Just because you are a woman? Aren't we created by the same earth as you? Didn't the same spirit breathe life into both of us? Or is my earth somehow different from yours? With all these unanswered questions swirling in my mind, I wrestled internally, but I said nothing. It was only when my gaze met hers that something formed between us: an empathy, an understanding of a bitter truth: “I am like you.”
I write from my dream, from melodies that have never been heard
By: Zeinab S.
Everything began with a magical moment in my childhood; that moment when we celebrated my fifth birthday in a small but joy-filled room. People with smiling, kind faces had formed a circle around me. The room where we celebrated was not very big—maybe it only fit fifteen people—but it was enough for everyone, and if someone came we welcomed them kindly and well. The walls of the room were white and clean, and I was sitting on a liver-colored mattress; right there I tasted the meaning of a dream for the first time.
They had placed a small table in front of me, as small and lovely as I was. Its top was covered with a white cloth embroidered with colorful flowers, colors that seemed to paint the happiest days of my life. Behind me little colored paper pieces strung together with thread swayed dancing in the breeze from a fan. I blew out the candles that spelled my name and the phrase “Happy Birthday,” and when they went out the sound of clapping and cheering rose up. Everyone was happy. I was happy too. I laughed, I clapped, and my heart raced. I awaited opening the gifts arranged to my left. Among them my eye fell on one of the taped boxes: a square box wrapped in red foil. I finally opened the presents, but I saved that one for last. When I opened it, my world suddenly shook and my eyes sparkled with joy. Inside was a piano, brown and small, suitable for me and my hands. When I picked it up and hugged it, with the first touch and the first look something inside me seemed to light up; maybe a light or perhaps an excitement or a love I had never experienced. I jumped up and down, I laughed, like a bird that has just learned to fly and greets the sky with its whole being.
I was young and it was still too early for me to go to school, so my whole world and my daily occupation became the little brown piano. When I put my hand on the keys of my little piano, my delicate fingers danced on its white keys, sometimes on “Do,” sometimes on “Mi.” In my mind I composed melodies of my own. When I sat alone in a corner of the yard beside the colorful jasmine flowers, I closed my eyes and thought and pictured everything I now call a dream. When I closed my eyes I traveled completely from the real world to my world of dreams, a world where I was my own orchestra, my own musician, my own singer.
Slowly days, weeks, months, and years passed and I never forgot my appointment with the corner of solitude and my dream world. Every day, even if only for an hour, I would go and be alone with myself. The days passed quickly; each day I grew older than the day before. I turned seven, then nine, then eleven, then twelve until I reached today, when I am fifteen.
Now that ten years have passed nothing is as it was before. There is no longer any jasmine at the edge of our yard. I no longer have enough time to go to the world of wishes and my dreams. Now that I live in a country where, with the arrival of the Taliban, even voices have become sinful, all the songs I had composed in my mind have been suffocated in my chest. Now fear walks like a shadow behind me and will not leave me, and no one, no one pays any attention to these pains and fears.
My little brown piano is still there, on top of a mantel covered with a white floral runner; like a wound that has never healed, I have only hidden it. Every day a quiet, silent dust settles on its keys, like forgetfulness, like a gradual death. It is drifting away from me, becoming more of a stranger, like a dream that no one believes in anymore.
Many times, when my eyes fall on it, a sound pounds from the depths of my heart and bursts out. Not a whisper, not a moan but a shout! A loud, sharp cry full of anger and sorrow. I rise with trembling but determined steps. I take the piano down; I shake. With my fingers, which cling to the piano from anxiety and longing, I wipe its dust away, like someone trying to dig the ashes of hope out from under the dirt.
I sit in a corner. I hold the piano in my arms, not just because it is my instrument, but because it is a keepsake of my dream life. I close my eyes and imagine the future; a future that can no longer be seen clearly and is vague, lost in the fog of war and discrimination. Sometimes I ask myself: is this really the destiny that was written for me? Do I deserve all this silence, all this suffocation?
But I feel and know that this is not something I deserve. If there is even a shred of justice left in this world, I do not deserve this darkness. Neither I nor any other girl!
And still, with all the wounds and fears that accompany me, I believe this is not the end of my story and it should not be. I must go on. Because if I have no breath to sing, I still have the strength to write. I am still alive. And as long as I am alive, I write... I write to become a voice, even if no one listens.
The Last Journey
By: Narges M.
I glanced at my wristwatch and quickened my steps. My breath grew heavy, each exhaling sharp and loud in the open air. Gasping, I reached the gate. As my palm pressed against the half-open door, a shiver ran through me. What if I was too late? I pushed the door open and stepped inside. My sister stood in the middle of the courtyard, gripping the handle of her suitcase tightly. She was leaving, returning to her home. The corners of her lips curled into a small smile. You made it just in time. I exhaled softly. I was afraid you’d leave without saying goodbye. At my words, her smile faded. Her damp eyes flickered away for a moment before she stepped closer. She opened her arms, and I instinctively wrapped mine around her waist, resting my head against her shoulder. Near my ear, she murmured, Before he left, Father kissed you in his sleep. I stiffened, then tightened my embrace. Swallowing hard, I blinked rapidly, fighting the sting in my eyes. A strange feeling pressed against my chest—was it regret? Regret for the careless words I had spoken? Or for the way my mind had been pulled back into the past? Maybe it was fear, fear of the truth I had just allowed myself to say out loud. But how could I hide these feelings when they followed me into every farewell? I wanted to tell her that I had felt the warmth of Father’s kiss in her embrace—but I also wished I had felt the warmth of his last hug. I wished I had opened my eyes in time to see him before he left on his final journey. But instead of saying any of this, I pulled away from my sister and kissed her cheek. I watched her walk away until my eyes grew tired of staring at the empty space she left behind. I exhaled shakily and realized my hand had moved to my chest. The familiar heaviness returned, the same weight that had settled there so many times before. Breathing grew difficult. I pressed my palm against my ribs, rubbing the spot where the ache lived, trying to ease the tightness. By now, I had grown used to this feeling—it always came when I watched someone leave. It was my silent farewell, my way of letting go. But this time, the exhaustion from running made it worse. I closed my eyes and released a slow, burned-out breath. Do I always have to rush to make it in time for every farewell? How long would I keep fearing departures without goodbyes? Would every journey remind me of my father’s last one? What a painful memory—to know that I had not stayed awake, that I had missed my chance to hold onto him, to take refuge in his embrace one last time. Above me, the sound of an airplane rumbled through the sky. I lifted my gaze. Clouds drifted apart—another journey. A cool breeze brushed past—another goodbye. A shiver ran down my spine. This cold, this flight—it felt just like that morning. That bitter morning when my father left me behind with nothing but a memory. A memory of cold. Of flight. Of departure. That morning, I had wrapped a thin blanket around myself, seeking warmth, not knowing that its warmth was keeping me from feeling the last warmth of my father’s embrace. A distant murmur stirred in my ears. Slowly, I opened my eyes. My gaze met my father’s deep brown eyes. The lines around them looked fainter than I remembered—or perhaps I only saw them that way now. My eyelids grew heavy again. The night wrapped around me, pulling me back into darkness. And then I felt it. His touch. Fingertips, warm and gentle, brushing softly against my skin. The press of his lips against my cheek, leaving behind the warmth of a kiss. The slight scratch of his beard, a whisper of his presence against my face. The scent of him—faint yet familiar, lingering in the air like a trace of morning. I sank to the ground, hugging my knees to my chest. As my sister departed today, I realized something—I had never truly forgotten my father’s last journey. The one I had always told myself had no farewell. Or maybe, today, I finally remembered the truth. The moment I had buried deep in my mind. It wasn’t my father who had left without a goodbye. It was me who hadn’t woken up. I lifted my gaze and watched the airplane fade into the distance. Maybe, after all this time, I was still that eight-year-old child. Still sitting in the cold morning air. Still watching the sky. Still waiting for the flight to return.
A Cry in Silence and an Unfinished Song
By: Parastoo M.
I want to write about a night when a little skylark was thrust from her innocent childhood into a strange, bewildering world — a world where she could no longer be a child or act like one. That night, when she witnessed her mother being brutally attacked, her smile froze on her face. She stood by the wall, watching through a curtain of tears as her tall father loomed over her mother. A thick stick was pressed against her mother's throat, but she was too young to understand exactly what was happening — or why her father was doing this. She was just a small, defenseless girl, and in the quiet of that village night, the only thing she could think of to save her mother was to scream. She screamed, begged her father, pleaded with him in the name of God to let her mother go. In her innocent voice, she said, Look how beautiful the stars are tonight. Please don't upset them. If you hurt my mother, you won’t be able to see their smiles anymore. But her father wouldn't stop. He pressed harder against her mother's throat until her hands and feet went limp and her body stopped moving. This was the most terrifying nightmare of the little skylark's life. Frozen in fear and helplessness, she summoned every ounce of her strength and let out a piercing cry — loud enough to wake the sleeping neighbors. They rushed to the house and managed to rescue the mother and daughter from her father’s grasp. From that night on, the little skylark was abruptly thrown into a strange, unfamiliar world. A world where a woman was seen as powerless, subordinate to a man who considered himself the king of the house — whose every command had to be followed without question. A world where she had to lock away her wooden dolls, her paper houses, and her playful laughter in the chest of her heart. She had to learn not to laugh too loudly, to walk softly, to stop running, and to distance herself from her childhood friends and games. This new world held no wonder for her. Even in her young age, she instinctively knew that this was not how life was meant to be. But the world she now faced was no longer filled with endless smiles and games. Each night, the echo of her mother's cries replayed in her mind — like a bitter, never-ending song. The little skylark, who once ran freely and laughed without care, now hid in the corners of the house, silencing even the sound of her own breath for fear of provoking her father and causing new violence. She could no longer meet her mother's gaze — those eyes once full of love and tenderness now seemed tired and dim. Yet her mother remained strong and spirited. Despite the hardships and endless labor, there were moments when, overwhelmed by sorrow, her mother would softly hum old songs. Those whispered songs, along with her rare smiles, became a flicker of light for the little skylark — as if her whole world could shine again, even if just for a moment. Every night before bed, she would stare at her dolls — the wooden ones her mother had lovingly carved from tree branches and stitched beautiful clothes for. Once her closest companions, they now seemed distant. She would cradle them in her arms and whisper, maybe when I grow up, I’ll be able to play with you again... maybe when everything changes. Even though deep down she didn't truly believe it, a small spark inside her refused to be extinguished. She couldn't accept that life was meant to be like this. As she sat quietly in the silence of her home, she would think about snippets of conversation she had overheard between her mother and the neighbors — whispers that the world wouldn't always stay the same, that maybe, someday, women could laugh freely, live without fear, and walk with pride. That fragile hope — like a faint light in the darkness — lived on in her heart. The little skylark made a vow to herself: one day, when she grew up, she would help build a world where no girl would have to lock away her dreams or silence her voice. A world where mothers could laugh with their children and where men would understand that strength was never meant to hurt. She knew the road ahead would be difficult. But she believed that even the smallest change could make a difference. Because one thing the stars had taught her was this: Even in the darkest of nights, a single star can shine — and show the way.
Nothing Lasts Forever!
By: Arezoo N.
In this world, many people are deprived of their rights — the right to live safely, to have their basic needs met, and to be treated with dignity. Every day, they endure injustice and hardships just to survive. I have witnessed and lived through this pain. I have experienced difficult days and sleepless nights filled with anxiety. Yet, I continue to hope — hope for brighter futures and bigger dreams. Even if it takes years, I still hold on to my dreams. I want to take different steps. I want to create good outcomes, to learn from both good and bad experiences. I want to stay true to myself, even when facing challenges. Though the path is hard, I keep moving forward because I know that no situation is permanent. Nothing lasts forever.
The Collapse of Beliefs and the Rise of Pain
By: Farzana A.
I want to write about a feeling that never leaves my mind, a feeling from the day when not only my city but all my beliefs and dreams crumbled. It was a morning like any other, yet the air felt heavy and unfamiliar. A ceremony was planned at the university to honor the top students. At the same time, in one of Kabul’s faculties, there was a book exhibition I had been eagerly waiting for. But despite all the plans, my heart was uneasy that day. For several days, I had been hearing news about the fall of provinces to the Taliban. While I felt secure in Kabul, the idea that the capital—home to the government and military forces—could fall seemed impossible. Still, on that day, despite my worries, I stepped out of my house with unease in my heart. I was halfway to my destination when my phone rang. It was my mother. A strange sense of dread washed over me. I picked up the phone. Hello, Mom. But my mother didn’t answer with a greeting; her voice was full of fear. Where are you? I replied, At the Dahbori intersection, near the university. Why, Mom? Come back quickly! They say the Taliban have reached Kabul. Be careful, my daughter. Everything around me turned dark. My mother's words shocked me so deeply that I could hardly believe them. As I saw men and women rushing past, and shops closing everywhere, my disbelief turned into realization. When I reached Pul-e-Surkh, I saw military tanks heading toward the city center. That was when I knew it was true—yes, Kabul had fallen. With tears in my eyes and a troubled mind, I continued my journey. Memories from twenty years ago flooded my mind—the time when girls had no right to education and couldn’t go outside without a male guardian. I finally made it home to find my father and brother had returned as well. I asked them in despair, Why did you come back? Why did it have to happen like this? My father, his face in turmoil, answered, The government has fallen. Everything is in chaos. They abandoned the country and saved themselves. That day, we heard no news until evening. The next day, I connected to the internet and saw images from Kabul's airport. Scenes of people desperately trying to escape their lost country with their loved ones. But fate was cruel. Those who clung to the wheels of the planes fell from the sky. The stories and images of those moments deepened the bitterness and horror of Kabul's fall. Days and nights passed, and one heartbreaking piece of news after another arrived. Young people, even families with children, sat at the airport in the heat, hungry and thirsty, hoping to escape this hell. Yet many never returned. Kabul's airport had become a hell for the hopes of young people. At night, the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and cries echoed from the airport. Kabul was no longer Kabul. The country had been lost. After that day, thousands of our youth had to leave the country. Many headed to Iran, while others embarked on perilous journeys in search of work to support their families. Some ventured even farther away, always hoping for a better life but carrying the pain of being separated from loved ones and their homeland. Mothers aged with the distance from their children, sisters worried about their brothers. After those days, hope faded away, one after another. Universities were closed to girls, and we were separated from our loved ones and friends. The Taliban initially declared that only boys could study and imposed strict rules on girls, allowing them to attend university only if they wore the full veil and adhered to harsh conditions. But a few months later, even this slim hope was shattered. The doors to universities and schools were closed to girls for good. At times, I lost my hope, but when I look at other girls who continue to strive and struggle, I find myself believing again. I have faith that we will rise once more, and Kabul will regain its freedom.
I Fight
By: Fatemeh Q.
It was one of those chilly fall days when the sun had just risen slightly above the horizon, and the air was cooler than usual. The dry leaves beneath our feet rustled, and the mild breeze carried the smell of damp earth. I had gotten ready earlier than everyone else. I threw my backpack over my shoulder and went toward my little sister, Zeynab. She had just woken up, her face still sleepy, but the excitement of going to school was visible in her eyes. I said, Hurry up, we're going to be late! Zeynab quickly got ready, and we both walked briskly out of the house. The empty streets of the city, under the pale sunlight, seemed to honor the silence of the early morning. The scent of burnt leaves and moist earth filled the air. Zeynab and I shrugged our shoulders against the chilly autumn breeze, but our eagerness to get to school made us disregard the cold. Zeynab's laughter brought a strange warmth to that cold morning. Our school, Hadaf, with its crumbling walls and dusty ground, though simple and old, held a special meaning for us. It was the place where the days of our childhood were written, filled with countless hopes and dreams. Zeynab hurried towards her class, and I made my way to the fourth-grade class. When the school bell rang, all the children stood in line for morning assembly, and as usual, after the prayers and national anthem, they went to their classrooms. When the teacher entered the classroom, our eyes were fixed on her warm smile. She said: children, today I have a surprise for you. We brought new notebooks for you. This sentence sparked a fire of excitement in the classroom, and everyone looked at the teacher with enthusiasm. I had always loved the scent of new paper. The chance to have new notebooks felt amazing to me. The sweet scent of fresh paper, mixed with my childlike excitement, filled my heart. Moments later, Mr. Kazemi, one of the school staff, entered with large cartons and placed them on the teacher's desk. The teacher began calling names. The children went one by one to collect their notebooks. I eagerly stared at the colorful notebooks, waiting for my name to be called. But as more names were read aloud, the number of notebooks dwindled. Eventually, the boxes were empty, and my name, along with Arezu's, was not called. With a lump in my throat, I said: Miss, you didn't call my name or Arezu's. We need notebooks too. But the teacher, without looking at me, said coldly: These notebooks are only for Iranian children. You are Afghan, so you don't qualify. Her words hit me like a hammer. My entire being froze. Tears began to flow uncontrollably from my eyes. The sound of the children's laughter turned into a painful silence for me. Arezu, sitting next to me, lowered her head. It felt as if the entire world had collapsed around us. When the final bell rang, Zeynab and I returned home, our eyes filled with tears. Seeing our swollen and sad faces, our mother asked worriedly, What happened, my dear? Why are you crying? Zeynab cried out loud and threw herself into my mother's arms. With a trembling voice, I explained everything. My mother paused for a moment in silence, then a smile spread across her face. She said: It's okay, don't worry. I'll buy you notebooks, even better ones. She took Zeynab's hand and said: Come on, today I'll take you somewhere. We went to a large stationery store. The walls of the store were filled with colorful notebooks and bright pencils. Zeynab excitedly picked out notebooks with colorful covers, while I chose a simple yet beautiful one. But a feeling of discomfort lingered in my heart. The longing for those simple school notebooks was not something easily forgotten. That night, as I placed my new notebook in my backpack, I made a decision. Even if something didn’t belong to me, I would strive to obtain it. This thought wasn’t just a simple decision; it ignited a drive within me to find a way. The next day, when Shahin, one of my classmates, said she didn’t know how to write her new essay, I saw an opportunity. I said, If you want, I’ll write it for you, but in exchange, you’ll give me one of your notebooks. She happily agreed. I got my first notebook. A few days later, Menijeh, another classmate who always struggled with math and often got punished, came to me with a worried look. Menijeh was a lazy girl who frequently had to write long punishments because she didn’t do her homework. This time, with tired hands from writing, she approached me and said, Can you help me with my punishments? If I don’t finish them, the teacher will get angry again. I saw another opportunity and said: Okay, I’ll help you, but you have to give me one of your new notebooks. Menijeh, tired of the teacher’s harshness, agreed, and I helped her with her punishments. Thus, I obtained another one of those notebooks that had been distributed to the children. Days passed, and with each opportunity, I tried to collect more notebooks. Slowly but surely, the notebooks I had missed out on on the first day in class began to fill my hands. Every time I placed one of those notebooks into my backpack, I felt a sense of achievement in my heart. These notebooks were more than just paper; each one symbolized the effort I had made to acquire something that had been denied to me. Now, when I looked at my backpack, the stack of notebooks not only reminded me of my efforts, but also of the lesson I had learned: I would never allow anything, not even injustice, to prevent me from moving forward. This bitter experience, with all its difficulties, taught me that I should always fight for what I want, even if the world tries to ignore me.
This Shall Pass Too
By: Fereshteh R.
It was one of those hot summer days when, as usual, we were at our favorite spot, Café Sample. I still remember the atmosphere of that day at the café—the fragrance of amber and coffee, with the tunes of Master Sarban's Turkish music filling the air, creating a unique ambiance. But the murmurs and the anxiety that lingered in the air kept anyone from paying attention to the beautiful song: Your Eyes Like a Narcissus, Your Hair Like a Symbol. The worry was evident in everyone's eyes. Ali had been working at the café for three years. He was of Qizilbash descent, a disciplined young man with light brown hair and a welcoming smile. He approached to take our order. I glanced at the moment and realized it was that familiar time again. I turned to Ali and said, This is the last time, Ali. The news of the Taliban’s takeover of provinces was spreading rapidly, and the anxiety reached us as well. I asked, Do you think Kabul will fall too? With a hesitant look, he replied: I don't know, but it's possible. Kabul is the capital, and it might not be that easy. After all, all the foreign embassies are here. That day, when we were leaving the café, I scribbled on the notepad: Nothing is the same anymore, not even these days. We left and walked from Pul-e-Surkh to Baraki, and when it was time to say goodbye, I hugged Khatereh tightly. It felt like my heart whispered that it might be our last meeting. The very next day, Sunday, August 15th, Kabul, the capital, and the last province fell to the Taliban. An unprecedented panic gripped the entire city. People were scrambling toward the borders and the airport, fleeing the city. In her final message to me, Khatereh had written: Take care of yourself. We will be crossing the Afghan border in an hour. Khatereh, along with everyone else, left the country. I remembered her last words: If the Taliban reach Kabul, we will have to flee. My father was a high-ranking officer in the army, and the Taliban will not spare him. She had fled to the other side of the border, but I had no idea where. Three months later, after the Taliban took control, I mustered the courage to leave my home. With the daily news reports spreading one after the other, I became obligated to wear the full hijab. I walked towards Pul-e-Surkh and reached Café Sample, but when I arrived, I was stunned. The place was completely empty. I don’t know how long I stood there, crying. I remembered all the beautiful memories I had there—drinking coffee, listening to Master Sarban’s melodies, hearing the sound of motorcycles, and even the familiar greetings: Aren’t you my cousin? Sample was more than just a café for us. It was our safe haven. We gathered there, spending hours in conversation, sharing our thoughts. Sample was a sanctuary for groups of young men and women who spent their free time after university there. But then the Taliban announced: No unmarried men and women are allowed to roam the streets and talk to each other. After this announcement, no one dared to visit cafés anymore. On my way home, I spotted a familiar face in the distance. It was Ali, the young man who had worked at Sample. His once-sharp features were now hidden behind a thick beard, and his light brown hair was tucked under a black turban, making him almost unrecognizable. He was standing with armed men, arguing with a young woman who wasn't wearing a black veil. Seeing him, and the countless changes I had seen in the city, made me curse this land. No one was free anymore. No one could dress as they pleased. Sample no longer existed, nor did the joyful gatherings of friends. The once comforting walk across Pul-e-Surkh had lost its warmth. The world I knew was gone, and amidst all these absences, I stood in confusion, remembering the words I had written at Sample: This shall pass too.
The Ambitious Girl
By: Hamideh A.
It was the first year of the Taliban’s rule, and I was attending one of the few educational centers still open, learning English. Days passed, and with each day, the restrictions on us grew tighter, and our fears deepened. Every day, our teachers would remind us to properly observe hijab. I was exhausted from hearing this repeated constantly. But for the sake of my dreams and goals, I knew I had to comply. One day, as I entered the classroom, the teacher followed me in and called out: Hey girl, stand still! I froze in place. She pointed at me and said harshly. Why aren't you properly veiled? Why is your hair showing? Either fix your hijab, or you won't be allowed to come back. She even threatened me, adding, If this happens again, I’ll drag you straight to the Taliban’s morality police. I was too stunned to speak — the only words I could muster were a trembling: Yes, teacher. Terrified, I returned to my seat. Tears welled up in my eyes, my throat tightened with a heavy lump, and my mind swirled with endless questions. Why? Why should I be humiliated and threatened over a single strand of hair? Was I not a human being? Since when did being a girl — a woman — become a crime? That night felt endless. A night that refused to end, a darkness without dawn. I lay awake, turning over all these questions in my mind, unable to sleep. But the next morning, as I woke, a small light of hope rekindled inside me. I remembered something one of my empowerment teachers once said: Girls, always remember this old story about Mullah Nasruddin: Never walk in front of a tyrant, and never walk behind a mule. Why? Because if you walk in front of a tyrant — whether you're guilty or not — you'll face insults, beatings, prison, torture, or even death. And if you walk behind a mule, you risk getting kicked hard. The Taliban are like both — a tyrant and a mule, she had said. Her words stuck with me. I realized: Even if I couldn’t choose what to wear or the color of my clothes, I could still choose my attitude. I could either crumble under the weight of being a woman in this society — or I could accept this reality and turn hardship into opportunity. I made a silent promise to myself that day: I would not allow these barriers to crush my dreams. I would endure, fight, and reach my goals. If they told me to cover up — fine. As long as they let me study, I would do whatever it took. Because someday, I would make sure that simply being a girl would no longer be treated like a crime. Instead of giving in to despair, I would strive to become a leader — to claim freedom not just for myself, but for all the girls and women after me. That day, something inside me changed. I decided I would no longer allow fear and threats to keep me from education. I decided I would fight — with courage, with resilience — to break the chains of humiliation, injustice, and inequality that had imprisoned my community for too long. Today, I am stronger. I believe in myself. And that strength — that resilience — is a symbol of my womanhood: the determination to never abandon my dreams, no matter how high they soar. Rather than being trampled by the tyrants and mules of this world, I will help free my sisters from this cycle of oppression. And to every woman and every girl out there, I say: We are like the sun — no cloud can hide us. The more they try to bury our light, the brighter we shine. Today, I live for a dream that keeps me moving forward. I see these hardships not as obstacles, but as fuel to grow even stronger. I remind myself daily: I will not bow to oppression. I will continue walking this path — so that the next generation will not be denied their basic rights because of their gender. We are stronger than they think. We will rise.
I Chose Life—Let Me Live
By: Maryam A.
I want to share an experience that changed me—one that gave me a deeper strength and a clearer purpose to keep pursuing my dreams, no matter the obstacles. Earlier today, I came across a post that shook me: a report about the rising suicide rates among girls in Afghanistan. It stopped me cold. I couldn’t help but think—maybe some people expected I’d be one of them. Maybe they assumed I’d eventually be crushed by the weight of it all. But I’ve never wanted to end my life. Still, there were moments—too many—when it felt like the world expected me to. The stares. The judgment. The way people looked at me like I didn’t belong, as if I wasn’t supposed to exist at all. One night, that feeling became terrifyingly real. It was just after sunset. The call to prayer echoed through the city as people rushed home, the streets slowly emptying. My two younger brothers and I were on our way to my uncle’s house, walking along the main road. Then, suddenly, everything shifted. Three girls passed us—dressed fashionably, their makeup flawless. Without warning, one of them struck my younger brother. Another shoved me aside like I was nothing. I stopped, shocked, my heart pounding. A few steps ahead, I turned back and asked, Why did you do that? The girl sneered and said something that made my blood run cold: I don’t have money to give beggars like you. Her words hit like a slap. I clenched my fists, my voice shaking as I said: He’s just a child. We’re not beggars. Why would you treat us this way? But I didn’t get a chance to say much more. Out of nowhere, a group of Taliban members appeared—as if they’d been watching, waiting for a moment like this. One of them stepped forward, his voice sharp: What’s going on here? Before I could speak, the girls lied—quickly, smoothly, with no hesitation. They claimed I had asked them for money and started a fight. I felt the air leave my lungs. Their words, so effortless, carried weight. The Talib’s eyes turned to me, cold and filled with suspicion. The fear was instant and overwhelming. My legs locked. My mind raced. And then came the words I feared most: We’re taking you to the station. Everyone knows what that means. You don’t need to be guilty. You just need to be a girl. My little brother clung to me, his voice cracking as he cried: We didn’t do anything… we just wanted to know why they hit us. I could barely think. The fear wrapped around me like a vice. I couldn’t breathe. Then—just when all hope seemed lost—a voice broke through the tension. An elderly woman with white hair stepped forward. Calm but firm, she grabbed one of the men by the beard and said, Mujahid Sahib, this girl didn’t do anything. There’s been a misunderstanding. Let them go. She was our guardian angel. I didn’t wait. I grabbed my brothers and ran. Our feet pounded the pavement. My breath came in ragged gasps. Every step away from that street felt like an act of defiance against death itself. That night could have been the end of my story. When they said they were taking me, my mind flashed with the images of girls who’d been dragged away before—girls who never returned the same. I ran, thinking of whether I had been a good daughter, whether I had done enough with the time I was given. At home, I collapsed. I cried until I had nothing left. My eyes swelled shut. My body ached. I paced the hallway whispering, You’re safe now. You’re safe. But I wasn’t sure I believed it. The next morning, I forced myself to go to class. I walked the same streets where, just hours before, I had feared for my life. Everything replayed in my head on a constant loop. At one point, as I stepped into an empty street, a friend yanked me back. My scarf slipped. That’s all it took. Whispers began around us. She must be tired of life. She probably wants to die. Even my friend turned to me and asked, Maryam, what’s wrong with you today? Are you really that fed up? I stood there for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to steady myself. And then I said—clearly, firmly: No. I want to live. I want to survive. That night, because of a stranger’s cruelty and a lie, I almost lost everything. But later, I found something that brought me back—an old notebook filled with dreams and promises I had made to myself. Reading those words, I remembered who I was before the fear, before the judgment, before the world tried to erase me. And I made a decision. I will not let this break me. I will not let fear or lies steal my future. That night, I was nearly punished for a crime I didn’t commit. But I will not let that moment define me. I will keep fighting. I will keep dreaming. Because I choose to live. And I choose to rise.
Mother
By: Saida S.
The word mother carries a deep and special meaning in every language. She was the first teacher of my life, the one who, with her love and compassion, taught me how to navigate this world. I remember how much I depended on her hands during my childhood. Whenever I wanted to understand something or felt pain and sorrow, I would run to her arms for comfort. Not only did she give me love, but through her stories and advice, she made the world more understandable. As I entered my teenage years, I sometimes distanced myself from her. I thought I could be independent and no longer needed her guidance. But every time I truly needed her, I could feel her presence beside me. She was always there, patiently waiting for me. Every time I came home, she greeted me with a smile and open arms. The death of my mother was a seismic event in my life. When I received that bitter news, I felt like my world had suddenly collapsed. I couldn’t believe that I would never again hear her soothing voice or feel the safety of her embrace. In that moment, my life split into two parts: before my mother’s death and after it. The days that followed her passing were filled with sorrow and disorder. Every corner of the house reminded me of her. The scent of her perfume still lingered in the air, and every object I touched brought back memories. I felt loneliness, and at times, I found myself remembering the moments I had spent with her. I remembered how we would drink tea together on rainy days, listening to music. These memories, though sweet, were also painful. My mother’s death taught me how fleeting life is. No one can escape the will of fate, and we must come to terms with this bitter reality. But on the other hand, I learned that she will always be alive in my heart. I understand the value of her love and care more deeply than ever. Whenever I face challenges in life, I remember her advice and try to act according to it. Over time, I learned that I must continue living and honor her legacy. She taught me to be strong and to stand firm in the face of adversity. Every time I think of her, I try to offer love and compassion to others, continuing the cycle she began. Although my mother is no longer physically here, her presence in my life remains eternal. She is a part of me, and I must be proud of her. Her memory will always live in my heart, and I strive to keep her spirit alive and follow her path in my life.
A Bitter Dream That Shook My Soul
By Sahar N.
As I brushed my soft brown hair, the sound of my phone ringing interrupted the quiet. It was my friend, Basira. We had planned to go for a walk, have some ice cream, and enjoy ourselves. When I answered the call, she suggested we go to a place called Samangan Dovom. The name was unfamiliar to me, but I dismissed it and ended the call, then proceeded with getting ready. As I was adjusting my light blue hijab in front of the small mirror, suddenly the angry voice of my brother filled the house. The words he spoke felt like a cold stone settling on my heart. He said, You can go out and enjoy yourself now, but let me remind you that time is running out. Someone must come with you and take you there. His words hit me like a heavy hammer. When my mother, in agreement, added: The Taliban say that girls over the age of sixteen should get married, it felt as though the entire world had come crashing down on me. This bitter and harsh conversation had been in my dream—a dream so vivid that its reality shook me to the core. When I woke up, my neck ached in a strange way, and the icy sensation from the dream still lingered. The room was dark, and the call to prayer had not yet been announced. Scenes from the dream kept replaying in my mind. I would close my eyes, but the bitter gazes of my family and their discouraging words felt like daggers piercing my soul. Every time I tried to rid myself of these images, the sounds of that dream echoed in my ears. My mother, who had just returned from the bazaar, kindly asked about my condition: Are you okay? Hearing the tremor in my voice, she became concerned. I replied: I had a bad dream. But with a hint of sadness, she responded: How many times have I told you not to speak of bad dreams? The interpretation of such dreams is exactly as you said. Though her kindness eased some of the weight of the dream, I still felt an odd sensation. My mind was filled with questions. Why did I have such a dream? Why did the fear and despair in the dream feel so real? Why does the bitter feeling from that moment still reside within me? Thousands of questions and thoughts occupied my mind. I spent that day lost in thought. As I headed towards my class in the morning, seeing the Taliban on the way revived the bitterness of the dream. Their presence, their numbers, and their cold gazes brought everything back to mind. Even when the lessons began, I couldn't escape the grip of that dream.This dream had struck me like a hammer and caused deep pain, but I realized that every hardship carries with it the potential for awareness. It is we, humans, who must transform our pain into reflection and understanding. I too turned the bitterness and coldness of that dream into an opportunity for personal growth and learned valuable lessons from it.
This Was Me, the Dancer, Not the Fighter
By: Shakila H.
As I quickly ascended the last steps of our house, the sound of my feet pounding on the stairs revealed the internal struggle I was going through. Yet, my mind kept racing with the question: why do I get so angry so quickly? These arguments and confrontations with my father were slowly wearing me down. But what if my father was right? Maybe none of it was his fault after all. Whether I accept it or not, three years should have been enough to accept the fall of Kabul, to come to terms with everything that had happened during those years. When I reached the rooftop, I slowed my pace and sat gently on the cold surface. I had always loved this spot, the place that had become my quiet refuge in this chaotic city. I think the roof made these past three years a little more bearable. The distant city lights flickered in the darkness, and the direct moonlight above confirmed it was the middle of the night. The summer night’s breeze gently brushed through my hair, bringing an odd sense of calm. I took a deep breath, allowing myself to relax for the first time. Perhaps for once, it wasn't my fault. Maybe it was just the fault of geography, the wrong place at the wrong time. This situation would break anyone. I curled my knees to my chest, my hair wrapping around my shoulders, as if it wanted to embrace me and remind me that I wasn’t alone. My vision blurred, and my mind was filled with questions I hadn’t had answers for in a long time. Perhaps, with time, I would learn to accept things. Maybe it wouldn't be as difficult as I kept making it out to be. But the reality—whether I liked it or not—was something I couldn’t escape. I was trapped in a bad situation, lost in the darkness of my meaningless thoughts, stuck between the dead ends of my mind and the crossroads of countless memories and dreams. Sometimes, I despised myself. I felt overwhelmed by exhaustion and an endless stream of thoughts. It was as though I had been working for years without rest, and now all I wanted was to sleep deeply and peacefully for a long time. Perhaps after this deep sleep, another story might begin. A new version of me, no longer exhausted and lost, would emerge. A version that didn't drown in thoughts or despair. My gaze wandered into the distance, and my eyes caught a glimpse of an airplane departing from Kabul, flying over the mountains of Athens. That sight suddenly transported me back three years. I remembered the nights I would watch multiple flights, thinking that the people on those planes were lucky, as they were leaving this land behind. Perhaps it was this thought that had led me to a dream that could have been real. If only I had been one of those thousands of passengers, leaving this soil on one of those many flights. The weight of this longing pressed so deeply on my chest that I could almost feel the heaviness in my heart. As the airplane disappeared into the horizon, I felt as though a part of me was leaving with it, heading over borders, past oceans, to a place where no air from this land would ever reach me. Suddenly, I was pulled back to the present, right in the middle of a large, dark hall, where the only light came from the organized spotlight that circled around a girl on stage. I found myself there, not among the thousands eagerly waiting for my performance, but standing behind the stage, my back to the audience, wearing a red dress that reached just above my knees, my hair styled in waves, cascading around my shoulders. The firmness in my body, the balance I held on my feet, all of it controlled my inner excitement and nerves in a strange way. I held my breath, waiting for the performance I had worked on for over a year to begin. This was going to be a historic moment. I could hear murmurs from behind, indicating that thousands were present to witness my art. As the sound of the music began, I felt a surge of energy. I exhaled and slowly raised my arms, spinning my body to the right, signaling the start of my dance. The audience erupted into cheers, whistles, and excitement. I couldn’t tell exactly how many were there, but I could feel that it was more than ten thousand, all cheering for me, and that was the greatest joy for a dancer. Somehow, I managed to maintain my balance and let my body move flawlessly to the rhythm of the music. I wanted to give everything I had, pouring all my energy into creating the best performance possible. This moment, this feeling, was incredible. A lifetime of dreams was dancing with me in front of thousands of eager eyes, watching and admiring. This was me, a dancer, not a fighter. A me full of pure excitement and passion, not the exhausted, defeated me. As a cold gust of wind made me shiver, I snapped back to reality. Like a spark, all the sweet thoughts faded, and in the blink of an eye, I was back on this rooftop, in the same city, with the same exhaustion. The difference now was that there was no airplane flying through the dark night sky. It was gone, disappeared. And yet, here I was again, a survivor, just like three years ago.
The Forbidden Land
By: Zahra M.
When he spoke, it was as if a hot blade was being driven straight into my heart. I couldn’t imagine anything more painful than hearing the people I hold dearest—those closest to me in this life—admire and praise the Taliban, the very group that stole my freedom and the freedom of every girl like me. As though nothing had ever happened. As if my pain didn’t matter. Each time my father received a call from our relatives in Iran, he would talk proudly about the Taliban. He’d say things like, They’ve built roads, they’ve removed street vendors, they’ve brought order back to the city. But I never once heard him say: The Taliban have taken away women's rights—our right to education, the right to work, the right to enjoy ourselves, the right to dress freely, the right to move, and most of all, the right to live. Life has become bitter for my daughter. Hearing those words from my father's mouth wasn’t just painful—it was deeply confusing. And yet, in the corners of my mind, I tried to understand him. Maybe I even tried to justify it. He’s an Afghan man, after all. He grew up in a society where men are raised to believe they hold all the power. Since boyhood, he was taught that his mother, sister, and wife were his responsibility—and ultimately, his property. That it was his job to decide for them, to rule over them. Can I really expect someone raised with that mindset to understand a woman’s longing for freedom? I told myself: What can you expect from a man who, from the moment he could tell left from right, was told that control belongs to him? That a woman's rights aren’t hers to claim but his to allow? You can't expect him to suddenly believe in equality, in democracy, in women’s rights. Still, I struggle to make peace with his words. This is a land of silence and restriction. Can you believe that in today’s world—even learning has become a crime for girls like me? When studying itself is forbidden, how can I possibly dream of real freedom, or hope for democracy? While I’m deep in thought—trying to calm the Zahra inside me, trying to convince her not to ache—my mother’s voice cuts through the silence: Get up and bring tea for your brother. And just like that, I'm reminded once again: Even at home, even here, my duty is to serve.
Black Shoes with Small Flowers
By: Zahra Q.
The scorching heat of the summer sun relentlessly blazed across the sky, and the suffocating warmth wrapped the streets and alleys in its tight embrace. In those hot days of life, simple yet challenging, a little girl named Ameneh moved between the old walls and the half-dilapidated classrooms of her school. A girl with small yet vivid dreams, hidden in her silence and her innocent smiles. When the school bell rang, all the girls plunged into their endless excitement and childlike joy, but Ameneh calmly sat at her desk, spinning her pencil in her hand. Her heart longed for the small, delicate black shoes with tiny flowers that the other girls wore. But she knew that asking her father, who had been out of work for months, for such a thing meant adding weight to the already heavy burden he carried. The path home was filled with tangled thoughts. With every step, she tried to organize the words in her mind. She had to gather the courage to speak her heart tonight. When she reached near the house, she saw a yellow car parked at the door. Strange shoes were lined up by the door, and voices could be heard from inside the house. She entered and saw guests she didn’t recognize. A lump formed in her throat; tonight, perhaps she wouldn’t get the chance to speak to her father either. Suddenly, a kindly older man with white beard and a warm smile greeted her. Ameneh, my sweet! Did you come from school?
Before she could respond, her mother, brimming with excitement, called out: Oh, my daughter! Your uncle has come all the way from Iran, come see what he has brought for you! Ameneh, still lost in thoughts of the shoes she desired, curiously looked at the white bag her mother held. Moments later, the black shoes with tiny flowers—the very ones she had dreamt of—emerged from the bag. Ameneh’s eyes lit up, her throat tightened, and with an indescribable joy, she embraced the shoes. That hot summer day became one that Ameneh would never forget; the day her small dream became a reality, delivered by the loving hands of her dear uncle from a faraway place.
Light in the Darkness
By: Zaynab S.
It was a day like any other winter day—short, cold, smoky, and polluted. Like the past months, I had no energy for effort, no motivation to chase my dreams. My days had become a cycle of sleeping, eating, and wandering through the lifeless streets of Kabul or walking in the mountains near my home. Everywhere, there was only one thing to see: the Taliban. The news, the streets, the roads, schools, universities, cafes—everything revolved around one thing: the Taliban. Whether washing dishes, sleeping, or even reading Yuval Noah Harari’s books, their presence was inescapable. The streets, however, were the best place to feel their presence, along with the nightmares they had brought upon us. Yes! The streets were the best place, for now, they belonged to the Taliban. Every night, I dreamed of the morality police, of the Taliban either killing me or me killing them. Strange yet familiar dreams. Still, I walked shoulder to shoulder with the Taliban in the streets of Kabul. Despite my fear that one of them might shoot me, I was determined—Kabul and its streets belonged to us, not them. Though I never admitted it, deep down, I was searching for a thread, something, anything, to reconnect me to the life I had left behind in the summer heat of that year, when Kabul fell, and the Taliban took over. That life was gone. I could no longer feel it in my breath. Winter in Afghanistan is always harsh, whether or not the Taliban are in power. Most people lack fuel to heat their homes, but the real hardship was that neither our homes nor our hearts were warm anymore. That winter was the first after the fall of Kabul. When Kabul fell, I lost my life, my hope, my excitement for the future. I had no reason to continue, no dreams to pursue. Without those dreams, life was nothing more than the act of inhaling and exhaling.The Taliban had shut down schools, universities, beauty salons, bathhouses, parks—everything for women. Yet, I still searched for a thread to tie me back to the past, to the person I used to be: a cheerful, always-smiling, energetic, and hopeful girl. Somehow, I felt that nature held that connection for me—in the mountains near my home, in the sunlight on bright days, in the snow and rain on cloudy ones. That was why I had developed the habit of walking—because for a few moments, I could find peace. One snowy day, as usual, I went to the mountain near our home. Every year, children there build ice slides, and their shouts of joy echo all the way to our house, even though we live 25 to 30 houses away from the mountain. Despite the cold and the falling snow, many children were playing there. I stood and watched them for almost an hour. They threw themselves down the long, slippery ice slides, then ran back up to do it all over again. That was when I noticed a little girl. She was wearing a pink hooded coat, long boots, and black gloves. She lifted her face toward the sky, spread her arms wide, and stood there as the snow soaked her face. She laughed. It was as if she was living the happiest day of her life, as if all her wishes had come true. Suddenly, she threw herself onto the snow, lying down, moving her arms and legs in opposite directions like a clock’s hands in reverse. But then she must have felt the cold, as she stood up, shook off the snow, and slowly walked toward the street until she disappeared. She vanished—but I found myself. In that moment, a spark lit up in my mind. Language courses were still open. I could still learn English and free myself from the Taliban forever. The next day, I enrolled in an English class. I never saw that girl again. But every time I faced a challenge, every time I searched for hope, for a thread, for the meaning of life, I remembered her. I often asked myself: How could snow bring so much happiness? That girl had been there to show me the way, to reconnect me to life, to remind me that my lifeline wasn’t in grand achievements that would astonish the world—it was in my own unexplainable excitement, my ability to find joy in the smallest things, even in the shadow of the Taliban’s rule. After that day, not only did I continue my English classes, but I also picked up my pen and paper again. I wrote down my goals and dreams once more and searched for ways to achieve them. That was how I went from knowing no English to passing the TOEFL. That day taught me to be a good sign-reader—to see light instead of despair, to chase my dreams even under the shadow of the Taliban.
Exhalation
By: Zohal H.
The sound of the drum rises higher, like two women competing to bring out the most painful and distressing events of the previous night. Her steps are quick, not only to escape the rush of her thoughts but also to get to the hallway faster. She hears the sound of a broom sweeping across the floor. As she nears, her gaze is caught by the small droplets of water dripping from the edge of the stairs. She quickly merges both stairs into one and reaches the hallway, with her own footsteps following her behind. A wave of heat suddenly hits her. The hallway is busy, and everyone waits for their turn. The smell of medicine and antiseptic fills her nose. She catches a glimpse of Fawzia through the slightly open door of her room. She is busy vaccinating her patient’s arm. As usual, Fawzia is composed, with a few strands of her auburn hair falling over her face. She notices that, like Fawzia, everyone else is absorbed in their daily routines. It feels as though only her life has been altered, and no one cares. She can glance at the crowded hallway like every time she’s passed through, seeing the patients waiting their turn. She can observe the young girl twirling her engagement ring around her finger coquettishly. She notices the two women reclining on chairs in the hallway, whispering about her. But behind her eyes, she cannot stop her mind from running. The constant sound of the drum disrupts her thoughts. She finally reaches her room, clearly much later than usual. The sun is at its peak, and its orange light seeps through the window onto the white tiles of the room. She carefully removes her slippers, placing them under her teeth and letting them go. She paces back and forth a bit. Her gaze falls upon the white examination bed. Her thoughts are interrupted once again by the persistent sound of the drum. Both women continue to drum, now singing. Poem: Who will look at the starry sky, As the flames of love rise high. A leaf turns, another is lost, A heart, torn between love and its cost. Everything seems connected, each event unfolding one after another in her mind. She recalls the moment when she barely managed to escape from Hamidullah’s smiling face, feeling like a hundred horses suddenly galloped in her heart. It was last night. She couldn’t hide her excitement and restless energy. She was happy because Hamidullah had kept his promise, and after all these years, she was now remembering the bustling, lively sounds of the house. Several young girls, having finally overcome all obstacles, had gathered together. The clinking of the drum and the red henna marks, the white garments, all belonged to last night. The images in her mind become faster and faster, not allowing her to focus on her present surroundings. Her mind drifts back to Hamidullah’s room, the small, tidy room filled with their essentials for a two-person life. The room where a large clock hung on the wall, showing a picture of the two of them together. She recalls looking at the clock, seeing the small hand on twelve and the large hand nearing it. Before she could process any more, she heard Fawzia’s voice, pulling her from her thoughts. How come you're back so early, bride-to-be? I didn't expect that. As she puts on her white coat, she looks at Fawzia. She is smiling, standing in the doorway, giving her a meaningful wink. Fawzia clearly doesn’t know what’s happened recently. She silently acknowledges that it all happened so fast. Their work always steals their chance for long conversations. Fawzia, not waiting for an explanation, asks again: Has Reda come today? Should I tell her it's her turn? Fawzia adds: The patients are waiting too. Feeling tired, she requests Fawzia to handle this in a few minutes. Fawzia agrees, turning away. She fidgets with her coat sleeve and shoves her hand inside. But Fawzia’s voice pulls her attention back: I see your hands have turned reddish. It looks like your husband is still in love with you. She watches Fawzia leave. Quickly, she locks the door behind her. Her knees begin to shake. The feeling of the henna on her hands comes rushing back. She moves her hands into the pockets of her white coat, deep in thought. Fawzia's words echo in her mind: Your hands are so colorful, it’s clear your husband still loves you. Her thoughts race back to Hamidullah’s moist kiss on her forehead, the memory of him from the whole of last night. She feels the warmth rising in her face. She closes her eyes and feels like she’s being thrown back from morning to the chaos of last night. Everything suddenly feels terrifying. She is afraid of everyone—her husband’s entire family, from his father to his brothers, everyone. She could only look at Hamidullah, but his head was down, and he didn’t say a word. Her own trembling voice was weak and fragile as she asked him, What are your father and brothers saying, Hamid? And Hamidullah’s voice, barely audible, came through clenched teeth: They’re right. The meaningless justifications of Hamidullah roll in her mind, one after another. What does she have? She stays home, cooks, cleans, does whatever you want her to. But you say she’s not capable of it. None of the women in our village have stood up to their men like she has. How can you expect your wife to be like the women you know? Hamidullah’s words shook her to her core. It was hard to believe that the man who had once fought for her was now saying such things. He knew how much she loved her job. Her path in life had begun to crumble right before her eyes. She saw herself as a victim, a victim of the twisted mindset of her husband’s family, a victim of her own choices. She chokes back tears, the sting of Hamidullah’s touch still lingering on her skin. As she recalls the moments of this morning, when Hamidullah, his face twisted, shouted in front of both families: Unless you’re dead, you don’t leave this house! My wife belongs to me... I won’t give her a divorce! But she did get divorced. When he finally gave her her dowry and covered the wedding expenses, she was given the divorce. When his brothers, one by one, criticized her job, she got the divorce. When his mother whispered in her ear: How could you call a woman who works outside the house your wife? She was given the divorce. She signed the divorce papers with Hamidullah’s signature and her own, ending it all. Her mind races back to the chaotic scenario of her life. The doorbell rings. Fawzia has sent the first patient into her room. She wipes her face with her sleeve, takes a quick look at the clock. This time, the small hand is on twelve, and the large hand has just passed it.