My suitcase lies open in the middle of the room, but I cannot bring myself to close it. My clothes are still scattered around, and the heaviest thing among them is my degree—the very piece of paper I once fought so hard to earn, to touch, and to hold in my hands. Now that I finally have it, it feels heavy in my hands because, in the land I am supposed to return to, knowledge no longer has meaning. There, the voices of dreams have been silenced, and women are caught in a relentless storm of oblivion.
I take my degree out of my belongings. My fingers glide over the university’s name. Years ago, when I first crossed the border and stepped into the heavy air of an unfamiliar city, I imagined this moment. I thought the day I held my degree would be the day of my success. But now, this piece of paper is merely a reminder of a dream sacrificed to the bitter politics of Afghanistan’s history.
My phone vibrates. It is a message from my friend: “Congratulations, my friend! You’ve finished your studies. But do you really want to go back? And what will you do here…?” I take a deep breath. I have no answer, because my friend is right. How, really? How can I return to a land where the walls have grown taller; the windows have become smaller, and the sky is no longer ours to look up at? How can I return to a home that no longer feels like home?
I remember the nights when the idea of studying abroad first sparked my heart. The night sky, just as I had read in philosophy books, symbolized infinity and freedom to me. On those nights, I would gaze at the stars and ask myself: Could I cross these mental and geographical borders? My mind was filled with the complex equations of education, equations I could only solve in another world. As Aristotle says about the pursuit of truth, “To reach the truth, one must free oneself from limitations.”
I, too, wanted to free myself from the constraints of a traditional and customary society and discover the truth of knowledge and education in another land. Although many people around me opposed my decision, my heart was full of faith. Like the principle in physics that says, “The force that sets something in motion comes from within, not from without.” It was precisely this inner force that pushed me toward a destination in which I believed.
When I stepped into the airport, my heartbeat like a bird trapped in a cage. Thousands of conflicting thoughts and emotions swirled inside me. One foot remained in the home and country where I had always lived, while the other stepped toward an unknown world waiting for me. My family stood silently, their faces filled with questions and worries, staring at me. The moment I embraced my mother and felt her tears fall onto my shoulder; it was as though my world had collapsed. Her arms, which had always held me close, squeezed me more tightly than ever. But I knew I had to cross borders, leave, and learn—even if leaving meant passing through my mother’s tears and prayers.
Away from my family, in a strange and unfamiliar country, life felt like a blank page without words. The days passed, but every night, loneliness weighed so heavily on me in a foreign city that it felt as though the entire world rested on my shoulders. My mother’s voice over the phone, always whispering, “My daughter, take care of yourself,” had now become a voice from far away, one I could never reach, as though it had been left behind the walls of time and distance.
During the nights when I sat immersed in my textbooks in the small dormitory room, my tears seemed endless. Sometimes, I wondered whether I had the strength to carry on. Throughout history, Afghan women have been, in one way or another, prisoners of the geography of their homeland. But this time, that geography existed within me—in a mind and soul caught between home and university, separated by time and distance and consumed by a sense of displacement. Nothing could replace the warmth of my mother’s embrace or the comforting sound of my father’s voice.
From the beginning of my studies to their completion, challenges and hardships came at me like powerful waves. I was in a society where a large part of the population did not expect women to pursue higher education. The pressure was deeply felt, both psychologically and socially. Some people looked at me with doubt. Every word they spoke echoed with judgment and an unspoken question that lingered in the air: “Why should a girl stay so far away from home…?” But I was not afraid of their looks, because an inner voice kept telling me, “You can do it. Just keep going.”
Yes, I am that traveler who carried a lantern in search of light and wandered through the dark nights of history. I ran so far and struggled so hard that even my shadow grew breathless. But how can anyone dream of flying in a land where the sky is a low ceiling over women’s aspirations?
If knowledge is a stream of light, then I was a photon trying to pass through the cracks of ignorance. Yet the invisible barriers of society, like an overwhelming force, seek to change my course and push me back into darkness. Sometimes I wonder whether, in another land, I might have been propelled into a galaxy of success. But in that geography, the laws of physics are different: there, falling is the inevitable consequence of every ascent.
Yes, I fought; I was wounded, and I stood my ground. But the ground beneath my feet feels unstable, the air around me poisoned, and the very walls meant to protect me seem determined to bury me alive. Is this my failure, or is it the failure of a land that cages every bird before it can take flight?
