When the girl from next door told me, “There’s a place that teaches nursing and basic medical skills for aspiring doctors or nurses, but it operates in secret, hidden from the eyes of the Taliban—and it’s expensive,” a hopeful smile lit up my face. I rushed home, eager to share the news with my mother and father. But as soon as I arrived, I saw my father writhing in pain, as if silently weeping from agony. Seeing him like that, I asked, “Why don’t you go to the hospital?” He simply replied, “No, I’ll be fine. Instead of paying for a doctor, I should pay tuition for the education centers—so you, Rahmat, Ali, Fereshta, and Benin (your brothers and sisters) can continue your studies.” A lump formed in my throat so tightly I could hardly breathe. I hated myself in that moment—my father didn’t deserve to suffer for the sake of my dream. Poverty is one of the cruelest invisible chains—it suffocates me more than anything else. It stifles my breath, blocks my dreams, and drags me down whenever I try to chase my goals.
Looking at my parents, paying for a nursing foundation course seemed like an impossible dream. I hesitated to bring it up, but I still shared the idea with them. Without a pause, they said, “Of course! You’ve always wanted to become a doctor, to wear that white coat. Today, you can take small but meaningful steps toward that dream. Even though things are hard, and you’ll have to study in secret, we’ll support you as much as the circumstances allow.” Their words gave me wings—wings that lifted me toward the skies of my dreams. My parents are my greatest supporters. Even in the depths of poverty and hardship, they refuse to let us surrender or fall behind in our studies because of financial struggles. They shoulder even the immense risk of letting me attend that place.
Education costs a lot. There’s always a chance that the center could be exposed to the Taliban. The next day, I went to the facility to gather information. They told me, “We teach in secret. There’s always the risk of Taliban interference or shutdown. One semester costs 3,000 Afghanis, plus 1,000 for books. In total, with materials and everything included, it’s about 5,000 Afghanis per semester.” Hearing this, tears welled up in my eyes. I thought to myself, “This is too much. I can’t afford it. If my father pays for my tuition, he’ll have to cut household expenses. That means my family would have to eat less, just so I can pursue a dream. We’re barely surviving as it is, and I’d only be adding to their burden.”
Still, I quietly said, “Thank you for the information.” The administrator added, “Come to class tomorrow at 8 a.m.” The next day, I arrived eagerly at 8 sharp. It was a Wednesday in the month of April, 2025. I felt an overwhelming sense of joy. That day, we studied anatomy. The teacher made the lesson captivating. For several days, I attended class without paying. But soon, the finance office began pressuring me—they summoned me almost daily.
One day, I entered class on shaky legs, terrified they might expel me. A few minutes passed before the teacher entered and took attendance. Everyone had paid—except me. They threw me out of the exam hall, saying, “Until you pay, don’t come back!” I pleaded, “I can’t pay the full semester all at once. I can pay monthly. Don’t you see how bad our financial situation is?” But no one listened. It felt like, in this place, money was the only thing that mattered—my voice meant nothing. I walked home in despair, my head pounding. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Lost in thought, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going. Suddenly, I saw them: Taliban Morality Police, dressed in white coats, standing in front of me. My heart pounded with fear. I quickly hid the notebook I was carrying, hoping they wouldn’t realize I had come from class. There were about twenty of them, their terrifying faces enough to paralyze anyone. My body trembled with fear. They drew closer. My feet felt glued to the ground. More than anything, I feared they would discover I was secretly studying—and stop me. That they’d take education away from me again. That they’d take life away from me.
The world spun around me. My vision darkened like a heavy night falling over me. I asked myself, “Why are fear and poverty all I get in this corner of Kabul? Even where I go to learn, I’m humiliated—because I’m poor, because I’m a girl. Now I have to be afraid of them, too, just because I’m female. What did I do to deserve this? God, it’s enough! I’m human too. I just want to breathe freely, to study, to go to university, to walk across its courtyard. I have the right to take the entrance exam. It’s enough! God, Kabul has become a prison for me— a graveyard where I’m thrown out of secret classes because I can’t pay. It’s not fair that I must see my parents suffer in sickness, powerless. But what hurts more? I wear a full hijab, just as they’ve ordered us, time and again. So why must I still fear the Taliban’s Morality Police? Why do I have to suffer, when I’ve done nothing wrong?”
I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and tried to quell the fire of fear burning inside me. I kept walking, heavy steps carrying the weight of my pride. I didn’t want anyone to see my tears or my fear. I didn’t want to appear weak. My eyes, red with anger and sorrow, burned like fire. I clutched the book I had hidden behind my back and searched for a way to pass through it. I acted like I hadn’t even noticed them. Straightening my shoulders and lifting my chin, I released a shaky breath and walked right past. Though I could feel their piercing eyes following me, I forced myself to stay composed. When I reached home, I didn’t speak a word about the dreadful day I’d had—because my parents didn’t deserve that burden. It’s not their fault that I dream in a land where dreams are buried. No—the weight of this guilt is mine alone. My crime is this: I was born a girl in Afghanistan.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
