History does not remember only the oppressors; it also remembers those who witnessed injustice, understood it, and felt it, yet chose to remain silent. Silence in the face of injustice is not a sign of wisdom or neutrality; it is participation in its continuation. This is my protest: shame on such indifference, and shame on being mere spectators.
I do not remember ever giving up my education because of the hijab. Although my family sometimes opposed it, I never gave up. Wearing the same long black hijab and black chador, I continued to attend my classes.
But today was one of the worst days of my life. I was on my way to class when, suddenly, several women dressed in black, with only their eyes visible, stepped out of a white vehicle. Without any explanation, they forced a young woman, who was fully covered, into the vehicle.
The girl was trembling with fear. She could neither speak nor resist. Only one word escaped her lips, “Help.” I was standing right there. I did not understand what had happened or why they were taking her away. My legs were shaking so badly that I could not move toward her to help. But what could I, a young woman, have done when everyone else was only watching?
There were many men, women, and boys there, yet no one asked why they were taking her away. No one questioned what her crime was. Some even watched with smirks and said, “Let them take her so she can be a lesson to others.”
Do they not have daughters? Do they not have hearts? Have we truly reached a point where a girl can be taken away in front of a crowd, and no one reacts?
I saw the eyes of that innocent girl, eyes waiting for a voice, waiting for a hand to save her. Fear had completely overwhelmed me. Still, I took a few steps forward, but a woman grabbed my arm and pulled me back, saying, “Don’t go, my daughter. They will take you too.”
The entire incident lasted only a few seconds. The vehicle drove away, and I remained standing there. Everyone else went on with their lives as though nothing had happened.
After the vehicle disappeared from sight, I stood there for several minutes. My hands were trembling, and the girl’s voice would not leave my mind. I felt ashamed before my own conscience for being unable to do anything.
But what hurts me most is the silence of the people. I did not expect anyone to risk their life, but at the very least, they could have asked why this girl was being taken away. If only a few people had spoken up and said, “This girl is properly covered, and you have no right to take her,” perhaps she would not have been taken away. Instead, people remained spectators and stayed silent in the face of injustice.
We asked people to stand beside us, but time and again we have felt abandoned. Today, when I think of the girls of Herat, I feel that our pain is the same. Our cities may be different, but our fears, worries, and hopes are alike. That is why I am writing this to say that I stand with the girls of Herat and with all the girls of my homeland.
I do not know whether my voice will reach anyone, but I believe that one day we girls will succeed. A day will come when no girl will fear going to school or work, and when a person’s worth will be measured by knowledge, character, and humanity.
Sometimes I tell myself that I wish I had become a clown rather than a poet, rather than someone capable of thinking and feeling empathy. Because in my country, a person’s value is sometimes measured by a veil, a place where the main concern is only the chador and the hijab.
