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.