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.