NEWS
"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
In 2024, we launched Writing as a Remedy, a groundbreaking workshop series designed to empower 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.
Winter 2024
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.