Another Kankor exam was passed without my participation or that of my peers. The oppressed daughters of my country, with tearful eyes, stare helplessly at the examination notices. This year, another group joins us, the deprived. Every year, our numbers grow, yet it seems no one finds this strange, let alone disturbing. A strange incident from Ramadan has resurfaced in my mind, more vivid than ever, reminding me just how far I’ve drifted from my dreams. That memory smirks bitterly, telling me that my dreams are now held captive, miles away, clenched in the fists of tyrants. Tonight, that memory torments my soul.
It was around six in the evening when I returned home from work. As usual, I rushed straight to the kitchen to prepare Iftar. Once everything was ready and the table set, my mother had just finished her prayers. I greeted her and sat down. In the middle of the meal, she suddenly burst into laughter. She laughed while I sat there, puzzled. What had happened? I asked several times, but she was laughing so hard she couldn’t speak. Finally, as her laughter died down, she asked, “Did you notice anything on the shelf in the hallway when you came in?”
I thought for a moment. The shelf? I always came in such a hurry to get dinner ready that I rarely noticed anything. What could it be? Was it my birthday? Had they bought me a gift? Seeing my curiosity, she said, “Your father bought two notebooks today. When I asked him why, he said, ‘The new year has begun and she’ll need them for her schoolwork.’ He still thinks you go to school.”
My heart sank. It felt like it shattered. Everything else paled in comparison to that one sentence. It echoed in my ears: “He still thinks you go to school.” And he was right. I no longer went to school.
I cried for myself on the inside, but outwardly I forced a laugh and said, “Sometimes they forget their daughter is no longer a schoolgirl, but a blooming young woman.” I buried my inner turmoil behind that one sentence and a smile, as if I had heard nothing. But even that sentence brought back painful memories. For the past three years, uttering it in front of elders was enough to spark a conversation about marriage.
After that, I couldn’t even remember what I ate or drank. My mind was consumed by what had just happened. Since when was it a tradition to buy notebooks at the start of the year? I knew the answer. It was a habit rooted in the planning of someone who was no longer around to witness the outcome of their efforts. I’ll never forget their words. Back when I still went to school, I used to save money to buy my books and supplies. But they would say, “Look, it’s wonderful that you want to rely on yourself, but be strategic. Let them spend on your education. Let them believe it’s their duty. Let them learn that supporting your education is their responsibility. I studied with great difficulty. I want you, now that it’s your turn to shine in this battlefield, not to suffer the way I did.”
It was strange. Both my mother and that person always ended their advice with the same sentiment: that they didn’t want me to experience the hardships they did. No matter the situation, they supported me with everything they had.
He used to say, “When you score first in the Kankor exam, take me with you to all the interviews. I’ll tell them how hard you worked to get there.” I would laugh and reply, “Of course I’ll take you. You’ve always supported me.” Now, the talk of the Kankor exam is echoing through the city once again, but he is gone, and I no longer have the right to study.
Today, my condition—and that of the deprived girls of my land—feels eerily like the days of Muharram. Back then, the enemies cut off water to Imam Hussain to weaken him. For the past three years, the water of life has been cut off from us, so that we too might collapse. We are like fish cast out from the sea, flailing on the shore for a drop of water. The water of life lies within reach, and yet it feels impossibly far. For us, education is the water of life. I wish they wouldn’t take it away from us.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
