I walk through a city where people quickly grow used to everything—even to a looming catastrophe that threatens to destroy everyone’s future. Here, people are busy—too busy bringing home stale bread to their empty tables, trying to fill the stomachs that wait all day for the breadwinner to return. The city buzzes with life. Shopkeepers haggle, street vendors try to attract customers, and people rush to buy their daily needs. But hunger and empty bellies have made many forget that in this country, girls like me, thousands of us, stand on the margins, watching a scene we are no longer part of. We have been stripped of education, work, and freedom.
What I fear most is the day when the deprivation of women and girls becomes normal, when no one asks what grade their daughter is in, what major she has been accepted into, or where she used to work. When success stories about girls and women disappear from conversations, that nightmare is slowly becoming a reality. Fewer and fewer people talk about the girls who’ve been cut off from education, jobs, and liberty. Just like the city and the marketplace have gotten used to the black coverings of women—so much so that if a girl wears something bright or slightly shorter, everyone stares in shock—it’s not hard to imagine a day when girls going to school, university, or work will also become something to gawk at.
In this very city, in these same streets, I’ve seen firsthand how people—especially men—have accepted and adjusted to this new reality. If they hadn’t, they would have stood up to the Taliban, who’ve insulted, humiliated, and dragged away women and girls in plain view of them. They wouldn’t have let innocent girls be swallowed by the prisons of this group. Just a few weeks ago, the Taliban’s Morality Police publicly humiliated a young girl, barely thirteen or fourteen, simply because a few strands of her hair were visible. They shamed her so cruelly that she was crushed under their words and trembled in fear. And while this happened, everyone stood by, silently blaming the girl instead. I was just as terrified that day, not only of the Taliban, but of the people who excused their cruelty and said it was the girl’s fault for not observing proper hijab.
That fear opened my eyes to how confined we really are. My heart pounded and my body shook with rage, but all I could think was how powerless we’ve become as girls. We live every moment in fear. We’re afraid to go outside, and when we do, it feels like we’re fugitives, constantly dodging the gaze of the Taliban. Can this really be called life? Can we even say we’re living? We’re not free—not even in our own country. We can’t go to school or university, we can’t work, we can’t walk freely, and we can’t wear what we want. Maybe the world has gotten used to it, but for me—and hundreds of other girls—coping with all these restrictions remains painfully difficult.
They always said we’re a resilient people, unbent by hardship. Yes, but I don’t admire this trait in us. We may not break, but we adapt too quickly—even to girls being banned from school. These people grow used to everything: sorrow, helplessness, restrictions, exile, and countless other struggles. Almost four years have passed, and yet no one asks why the doors of schools and universities remain closed. Maybe the people have grown used to it, but we girls are still waiting. If someone asked me how I’ve endured all this, I’d say I dream. I dream of a day when I can celebrate freedom with all my heart. Because freedom means being your true self, not lost under black fabric, not living to please others or obey the Taliban’s rules.
You can read the Persian version of this Afghan woman’s story here:
