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.